Once Upon a Kiss (12 page)

“Nay?”

“Nay,” she exclaimed breathlessly, and lapped at
her lips with her pink little tongue.

He wanted to feel that breath upon his skin,
suckle that tongue with his own, wanted to lure her into the tub atop him and
crush her over his painful arousal, relieve himself of the pressure that was
fast becoming insurmountable.

“Dominique,” he croaked.

God save him, he had no will left.

No will left at all.

He was weak. Despicable. And worse, without
honor— his father had been right all those years ago. Every muscle in his
body was tightly coiled, to the point of snapping. He meant to command her to
go, but all at once her hands began to move upon his chest and he was as lost
as the angel Lucifer himself.

“Dominique” The single word was a plea that she
see the beast within him, that she recognize it and flee in terror, for he
could do nothing but sit in the steamy water and relish the feel of her hand
upon him, stroking his chest, brushing at his nipples with the soap.

“Christ.” Another plea. She affected him too
deeply for rational thought. She should go, he knew, but he closed his eyes and
laid his head back against the rim of the tub, releasing her hand at last.

Like a beardless youth, he groaned, and shuddered
in raw, naked pleasure when she continued.

She was her mother’s daughter.

God have mercy upon her soul.

The truth horrified Dominique, for despite that
she despised this man, she secretly thrilled to the feel of his body beneath
her trembling fingers, his reaction to her touch. She had never truly
understood how her mother could risk so much for the attentions of a
stranger... until now.
And now she understood everything.
However, her mother had been
driven into the arms of another man, and Dominique had not even that excuse,
for she’d only been here at Drakewich for a single day, and had certainly not
endured the suffering her mother had.

This was by far worse than her mother had done.

He lay back within the tub, his brawny chest
revealed to her fully, magnificently sculptured from years of battle training.
And the way that his muscles quivered at her merest touch... it gave her a
heady sense of power, even as it dismayed her, for how could Graeham test her
so? She didn’t understand.

Was it his intent to share her with his brother?
Were they so depraved?

Something fluttered deep in the pit of her belly
at the question, and she shook her head, for it was she who was
depraved—she, when the merest thought of this man excited her like no
other. Graeham, after all, had but sent her to honor his brother.

Blaec was merely enjoying his bath.

And she?

His eyes, glittering with jewel-hard brilliance,
pierced her composure.

Did he suspect her thoughts?

Her heart pummeled wildly against her ribs as she
dared to explore his shoulders, mindful not to glimpse down into the murky
depths of the water. She dared not, for she didn’t wish to know that he shared
her depravity. Jesu, what would she do then?

Lie with her enemy?

She was not so ignorant that she didn’t comprehend
what her body was feeling; awakened, titillated... tempted... She closed her
eyes, warding away the images that rose up like Eve’s serpent to seduce her.

But nay, he was not her enemy, but her betrothed.
Oh, God, but not so either... it was his brother. Merciful Christ, but she was
so confused. And she was trembling. She must gather herself at once. Stop
thinking such thoughts.

She must not dishonor herself as her mother had.

Aye, she must simply do her duty and be done.

More than anything, Dominique wanted to leap to
her feet and bolt for the door, but she settled fully upon her knees instead,
her hands shaking like leaves before a storm. She cried out as she dropped the
soap into the water and squeezed her eyes shut, thrusting her hand down at once
to retrieve it, groping frantically.

Like a bolt of lightning from the darkness, his
hand snaked out to seize her by the wrist, halting her search. Dominique cried
out at the painful grip upon her wrist. Her eyes flew open to meet his; green
and sapphire clashing. For an instant neither spoke, so charged was the air
between them.

When finally he did speak, his voice was both
strained and full of malevolence. “Search no more,” he cautioned her, his eyes
blazing, “or I warrant you’ll not relish what you find.”

Dominique felt as though the breath had been
whisked from her lungs. She caught his meaning and her heart tumbled violently.
She shook her head, averting her eyes. “S-Surely, my lord... I... I’ve no
notion of what you speak..

She felt his eyes upon her, skewering her. So
desperate was she to flee him that had she a blade, she would have gladly
sacrificed her arm.

“My lord!”

He said nothing, but continued to grip her wrist
as though he would snap it in two did she so much as dare to move.

“I-I was merely looking for the soap,” she
explained a little hysterically.

“Were you?”

At his doubtful tone, her gaze flew to his.

His eyes glittered coldly, mocking her. ‘Truly?”

For an instant, Dominique had no notion how to
respond. His gaze accused her. She swallowed convulsively. He had guessed at
her thoughts! The fury in his eyes made her feel as though he had. She began to
pant softly, mentally grasping, her head pounding. What had she done? Merely
search for the soap—naught else. She shook her head. Even if her thoughts
had been wayward, she had done nothing untoward. Of that, she was certain.

And he was hurting her.

“Unhand me,” she demanded suddenly, her eyes
burning with unshed tears. He did not, and Dominique struggled to free herself,
stopping only when it proved futile. She glared at him with unrepressed malice,
her chest heaving with the exertion. “How dare you accuse me!” she cried out.
“How dare you, when ‘tis you that has taken so much joy in this bathing! You,”
she shouted, “and not I!”

His jaw twitched so imperceptibly that if
Dominique had not been watching his granite-like features so intently, she
would have missed it.

Unknowingly, she’d struck at the truth.

He had enjoyed it far too much.

Furious with himself, Blaec released her. She drew
away at once and made to rise. He allowed her to go, saying nothing, thinking
morosely how close he’d come to dishonoring both himself and his brother. So
badly had he wanted to take that fine little fist of hers and wrap its velvety
softness around his shaft. Even now, the mere thought came near to unmanning
him where he sat, and he wasn’t certain whose was the greater sin: Graeham’s
for sending the wench to begin with, hers for tempting him so sorely, or his
own for succumbing so easily.

He didn’t have to think on it long; it was his.

Because even now, he wanted her.

Even now.

It twisted his gut, revolted him.

“Wash yourself and be damned!” she charged him,
hurling the rag at him furiously and turning to flee.

It smacked him full in the face and he reacted
instinctively, surging from the water in a black rage and catching her at once,
jerking her back wrathfully.

Against his better judgment, he held her too
close.

The scent of her tormented him.

The feel of her burned him.

His body reacted violently. Gritting his teeth, he
warned, “’Tis said, demoiselle, that if one plays with fire... one gets burned.
You are straying dangerously close to the flame.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “You do not
frighten me,” she said fiercely, struggling to free herself.

“Nay?”

“Nay. I know you are beholden to your brother. You
would do naught to harm his bride. Now, unhand me,” she demanded. “You are
wet—and you are wetting me!”

He lifted a brow. “You think I would not behave
with dishonor, demoiselle?”

“I
know
you would no—”

He thrust her violently away. She stumbled
backward, tripping upon the bed. “Then you know nothing,” he snarled, following
her and leaping upon her, pinning her to the bed before she could rise.

“You are wet,” she protested, panting, gasping for
breath. “Get off!”

Water dripped from him, soaking her bliaut.
Against his will, his eyes took in the damp fabric at her breast, the way her
nipples strained against it, uplifted, heaving, tempting him, teasing. “I would
venture, demoiselle—” His gaze returned to her face “—a soaking is
the least of your concerns just now.” He met her sapphire gaze with abject
honesty.

“Let me be!”

Let her be?
The bloody seductress. She squirmed and bucked against
him as though she meant to entice him. And she succeeded, for a madness claimed
him in that instant. A madness like never before, too aware was he of the soft
body twisting beneath him. Seizing a handful of her hair, he thrust her head
backward into the bed, forcing her still, and then, unable to help himself, he
covered her mouth with his own, pressing his lips full against hers, his mouth
closed, his lips trembling, some part of him still painfully aware that he
could not give in to his desire.

For the love of Christ, she was his brother’s bride.

He muttered a curse through clenched teeth, but
the word was barely recognizable—more a savage snarl. Quaking, his mouth
covering hers, pressing until his teeth cut against the inside of his own lips,
he saw his brother’s image rear up before him, and he dared not part his
traitorous lips, dared not kiss her intimately. He lay there atop her, instead.
His eyes closing, he shuddered with an impossible determination to restrain
himself. Shuddered with need.

His sex was full between them, evidence neither of
them could deny.

He didn’t bother trying. She whimpered, and he
murmured feverishly against her lips, “Tell me now that you are unafraid,
demoiselle.” How could she not be, when he was suddenly terrified of himself?
His eyes speared her. “Tell me, too, that you are unaffected,” he heard himself
demand, his voice strange to his ears.

She said nothing, merely stared, wide-eyed.

But she didn’t deny him. God...

He prayed she would.

Damn him, but he could not help himself. She
didn’t deny him. His desire too great to withstand, he thrust his tongue into
the depths of her mouth, reveling in the sweet, heady taste of her, if only for
the merest instant... the briefest... most extraordinary instant. He was lost.

It would be so easy to give in to the madness, to
lift up her skirts and bury himself there. It would be so easy. God help him,
he could almost imagine the way it would feel. She tilted her pelvis, and he
groaned with the exquisite pain, following her, too aware of his own nakedness.

Too aware that beneath her dress, there would be
no barriers between them aside from her maidenhood.

And it belonged to his brother.

Dominique could do nothing but cry out.

Even had she not been pinned so ruthlessly to the
bed, the rigidness of him against her was too shocking. Too real. She closed
her eyes, seduced by the feel of his heart pounding against her ribs, tripping
her own, his mouth upon hers. Closing her eyes, she felt every heated, powerful
inch of him. Never before had she experienced such a terrifying, exhilarating
instant of longing.

“In truth,” he rasped, jerking away and turning
his face, as though to gain hold of himself, “though naught has happened here
between us... neither of us can deny what has transpired.” Beads of
perspiration flecked his upper lip. She knew it was the sweat of his body,
because she could taste it still upon her tongue. His eyes, when he faced her
once more, were swirling with torment. She lapped her lips nervously,
swallowing as he stared down at her. “Can we, demoiselle?”

Dominique could not find her voice to deny him,
for he spoke the truth. She was the last to understand what there was between
them, but there was something... something impossible to deny.
Something she
must deny.

“Nay,” he continued scornfully, his body shaking,
his face gone bloodless. “But neither shall we speak of it again,” he
commanded, “for you are correct in one thing, Lady Dominique. I will not
dishonor my brother. This shall not pass again. Stay the hell away from me, for
I am only a man—and you—you are a bloody temptress!” With that he
shoved away from her.

Straightening to his full height, he towered above
her, gloriously naked, the sight of him as shocking as the feel of him had
been.

She had not tempted him, but neither could she
speak to deny it. Nor did she dare move. She could do naught but stare,
wide-eyed, as he proceeded to dress himself, despite that his eyes condemned
her. When she did not look away, he jerked his gaze away suddenly, as though
the sight of her disgusted him, yet she was too aware that his body declared
otherwise.