Succumb to Me (10 page)

She felt the rough touch of his palm on her
thigh, pushing her dress higher. Her legs spread for him as he
supported her, until her sex was horribly vulnerable to his
penetration, covered only by the thin cotton of her chemise. No
armor to protect her from the sensation of his hardened manhood
nudging against her woman’s flesh.

She moaned into his mouth, clutching his
shoulders as he thrust once against her, driving a wedge of need
deep within her belly.

Abruptly, he pulled away, breathing raggedly,
his chest heaving as he struggled for control.

It felt like he’d taken a piece of her with
him when he withdrew, like he’d ripped a wound in her that would
never heal. And she was afraid he had. Winter was cold, colder than
she’d ever felt in her life. If he hadn’t stopped, would she?
Shivering, she rubbed a hand across her mouth, feeling miserable,
tainted. She should never have agreed to his conditions.

He wouldn’t look at her as he urged her away
from the door and opened it. “Go now, while you still can. I expect
you to come tomorrow. I will send a coach for you at the park. The
same time you held your appointment with Vincent Giovanni. Do
nothing to arouse your mother’s suspicions if you value your
reputation.”

Winter nodded, torn between an urge to deny
his wants and risk the public’s censure ... and an equal urge to
embrace what he desired. She fled the room before she could do
anything irreversible. She felt drained, emotionally as much as
physically. He’d stolen something from her. Her respect for her
life, for her position as a lady. How would she ever get through
this and remain Winter Stevens?

CHAPTER NINE

Winter left early the next day to visit
“Sarah.” Her mother suspected nothing, since she’d long since
established this pattern of behavior with her. Indeed, she was
happy for her daughter to have a social life when times seemed so
dismal.

Winter felt lower than low for her deception.
It had all started with her damnable pride, but the deception to
have her way paled beside the deception she now practiced. She knew
she didn’t deserve to be happy—she deserved punishment for her
wrong-doing. Logan Cordell was her punishment ... and it was
fitting.

It made her want to scream and rage at the
role she’d been dealt in life.

She wished she was someone who could do
whatever she liked, to live each day with freedom from society’s
dictates. But she couldn’t change who she was, any more than he
could. He would never believe she was sorry for what she’d done,
that the instant she had struck him, she’d regretted it. He would
think her apology only a ruse to have her way without paying. Had
their places been reversed, she would not believe it herself.

An extorted apology wasn’t remorse. It was
self-preservation and that was the only way he would see it.

If she had only sought him out
then
and humbled herself with an
apology none of this would ever have happened. He might have
accepted her apology then, would at least have seen it as
voluntary.

She damned her prideful ways yet again.

No, she had no choice now but to go through
with this, whether she liked it or not. She would keep her promise
to him, as she knew she must. Whatever else she was, she always
kept her promises.

A black coach arrived at the park and picked
her up at the appointed hour. It bore no signs of distinction, so
she would not be noticed riding in a peer of the city’s conveyance.
Or at least, she hoped not. One could never tell if a gossip monger
was on one’s tail.

She nervously twirled a tendril of hair in
one hand during the ride, wondering if Logan would keep his vow not
to betray her. He had no honor—that much was apparent. But could
she trust him in this? It was moot even questioning the
possibility, either he would or wouldn’t. Logan had given her no
choice but to play along and trust the outcome would be something
she could live with.

The carriage pulled to a stop behind his
lordship’s sprawling mansion, one of the oldest townhouses in the
city. It had long stood empty, until the earl’s return with riches
enough to restore it to its former glory. And he’d done so without
her ever having known it. The city had grown too much, too fast,
when one couldn’t keep up with her citizens’ progress.

Winter kept her head cloaked until she was
safely inside and was ushered immediately to Logan’s study, where
he awaited her arrival.

Entering the room, she was struck momentarily
dumb when she saw him—a different side than she’d seen before ...
and far more desirable. She sucked in a deep breath, her inner calm
felled immediately. She felt like a blithering idiot every time she
looked at him, and wondered if her advancing age had something to
do with the raging emotions he continued to evoke within her. She
certainly wasn’t behaving as she normally did.

She felt like some rutting beast in heat when
around him. And that loss of control was dangerous to her.

One brow arched, he seemed to realize his
effect on her ... and he enjoyed it. Maintaining his casual stance,
he leaned a hip on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over
his chest, tightening the fine fabric over his wide chest until she
expected it to rip. His cravat lay in a rumpled heap on the desk,
and the white silk shirt he wore slashed open at the neck,
revealing sun bronzed skin sprinkled with dark hair. She wondered
if he’d acquired his unusual coloring and impressive physique
working on the docks....

Black breeches covered his legs like a second
skin, every muscle clearly delineated. He looked every inch a
pirate ... a rogue ... and she knew quite suddenly that she was in
trouble ... and that she couldn’t stop looking at him, no matter
how hard she tried to look away.

“Sit down.” He gestured toward the chair
sitting directly before his desk.

It was a simple command and she obeyed
without questioning. Her knees brushed his legs, and the point of
contact seemed to burn like fire through the thin cotton gown she
wore. Winter looked at her hands clasped in her lap, but her eyes
kept straying to his legs, studying him in the silence that
swallowed the room.

“You like the way I look, don’t you?”

She would never admit something so crude. It
would please him too much, that she was not the perfect lady she
pretended to be. Her head snapped up, blood rushing to her cheeks.
“No. I find you utterly detestable.” The fairness of her skin had
been forever her enemy, and she wished yet again that she was not
so easily embarrassed. And that he could not read every thought on
her face. He was a wicked rogue to state the obvious with the
intention of upsetting her calm ... and she was weakening if such
simple words affected her thus.

He smiled knowingly. “It’s time we began your
first lesson.”

She glared at him. “I am no child.”

“In this, you are.” Watching her steadily, he
said, “I want to see your hair unbound. Take it down.”

When she did nothing, he said, “Do you enjoy
making this harder on yourself than need be? It is a simple enough
request.”

She remained unmoving.

“Would you prefer
I
do it?” he asked, a devilish gleam in his
eyes.

Resisting the defiance raging inside her
mind, Winter stood, her face flaming, and pulled the pins from her
hair. The heavy mass fell in abundance down her back and over her
shoulders, the curling tendrils brushing against the top of her
buttocks. Her hair was a constant source of discomfiture to her. It
was, and had always been, the color of white gold, so pale the
color was often mistaken for that of an older woman’s hair, and she
resented the label of spinster before her time.

Logan nodded in satisfaction and walked
around her, splaying the ends of her hair in his palms, feeling its
silkiness. Her hair had fascinated him from the first with its
unusual color, and he’d often imagined her draping the snowy locks
around him in their lovemaking. He grabbed her shoulders, ignoring
her small gasp of surprise, and buried his face in her curls,
breathing in her intoxicating, fresh scent. She smelled like
honeysuckle on a spring day. He longed to run his tongue over her
skin to find if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.

A knock sounded softly on the door, and she
jerked away from him, smoothing her hands over her hair nervously,
looking incredibly guilty and desirable.

“Enter,” Logan said, irritated at the
interruption. He’d forgotten he’d ordered the tea service. It
wasn’t like him to forget anything. Winter Stevens was proving
ample distraction. The butler entered bearing tea, iced cakes, and
sandwiches. He left as silently as he’d come in, closing the door
behind him.

As the servant departed, an idea occurred to
Logan, one that would set her at ease and still satisfy his need to
touch and taste her.

“Come, pour the tea,” he said, gesturing
toward the tray as he sat behind his desk. He enjoyed watching her,
her nervous movements, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear.
She was incredibly sensual in her innocence, lovely beyond words,
and yet she did not realize it. Her own doubts of her desirability
made him want her that much more, for she was unable to hide her
flaws from him as so many women did.

Winter managed to pour without spilling it
everywhere, preparing the tea according to his directions and
setting it before him. “Would you like cake or sandwiches?”

“I’d like you to serve me cake.”

She selected a slice and set the plate in
front of him. He caught her wrist before she could retreat. “From
here,” he said, watching her as if she were a tasty morsel he would
devour.

She tugged at her arm, to no avail, already
uncomfortable being alone in the room with him. When he touched
her, her nervousness threatened to spiral out of control. “I don’t
understand.”

“Come, I will cause you no harm.” He patted
his lap.

Winter looked at him in dawning horror, knew
her face had gone white. The very idea caused her heart to skip a
beat. “I can’t do that.”

“But you will.” Giving her no choice, he
pulled her down until she was compelled to sit on his lap or fall
on top of him. She squirmed on his lap, unable to be comfortable in
the intimacy of her position. Their forced nearness made her feel
something entirely different from hatred, and she liked not the
feeling one iota.

Logan watched her profile, waiting in
expectation, enjoying every minute of her rounded bottom pressed
against his thighs. Only extreme will power kept him from pressing
his advantage over her. Hesitantly, she picked up a fork and he
shook his head. “I want you to serve it to me ... with your
hands.”

Winter bit her bottom lip, forcing back the
retort stinging her tongue. Angrily, she removed her gloves and
tore off a piece of cake with her fingers.

She shoved it at him and he grabbed her
wrist, preventing her from shoving it down his throat. Winter
gasped as his lips closed around her fingers. She tried to pull
away, but he held her trapped—one hand curled around her hips and
the other manacling her wrist. There was nothing to do but allow
him his way. Watching her steadily, he sucked the bite of cake from
her lax grip.

Her eyes transfixed by the movement of his
mouth, his nibbling lips, Winter watched, mesmerized, as he flicked
his tongue over her fingers, nipping the tips as he sucked the
icing off. Her fingertips tingled as he suckled and rubbed his
tongue over them.

Her breathing grew ragged watching him bent
over her hand, worshipping her with his mouth. It sparked a frisson
of energy to dance across her nerves.

He kissed each tip when he finished and then
awaited another piece. Riveted and unwilling now to resist, she
pulled off another section and offered it to him like a supplicant.
He locked his gaze with hers, tilting his head, almost smiling as
he repeated the ritual.

There was something incredibly erotic having
him watch her while he sucked her fingers. It was unforgivably
naughty, and yet she couldn’t help the thrill it gave her. She’d
never thought her fingers could be a source of carnality—he had
proven her wrong.

She wondered briefly what other sources of
pleasure could be evoked in the most innocent of ways, for she’d
never thought food could be used to invoke desire.

Unable to look away, she gave him another
piece, slowly feeding him in that manner until the slice was
gone—and her skin prickled with his branding.

When he finished, he released her. She moved
quickly away, wondering at the strange feeling of trust burgeoning
in her breast. He’d not done what she’d anticipated him to do
today, not that she could name her expectations in words. She
watched him warily, unsure if this was the extent of his demands,
and if so, why he’d gone to such trouble to intimidate her.

“That was not so difficult, was it?”

Winter’s first instinct was to flatly refute
his statement, to tell him she had loathed every moment of it, but
she could see that he knew very well that she had found it far from
repugnant. “No,” she said, and flushed at the huskiness of her
voice.