Surrender The Night (13 page)

He quirked an innocent eyebrow. ‘ ‘Am I?’ ’

Her eyes widened. As clearly as chalk against slate, he saw reason triumph over ardor. “No, perhaps not. Rather you’re true to form.” She eased away from him.

A smile playing about his lips, he caught her waist. “You’ve many sterling qualities, my love, but this one I admire most: your ability to think under fire. It shall be interesting to see how long you can persist.” He set her upright and unlaced her petticoats.

She didn’t move, even when he slipped both straps off her shoulders. He saw her nibble at her lip and felt her tension when he bent to kiss those strong but graceful shoulders. “Relax, Katrina mina. We’ve a bargain, and I don’t intend to break it. Only a few more hours, then you’re free.”

She sighed, shoulders lifting beneath his lips. When he reached for her chemise, she didn’t protest. As her garments slipped to her waist he drew back to look at her. Firelight played over her skin, tinging her with a rosy glow that was only partially due to warmth. He tenderly brushed his lips against her red cheeks as he lifted his hands to cup those full, blushing breasts. He trailed his nails ever so lightly around each globe, then tested his effect upon her. When hard nipples stabbed his palms, he sighed his pleasure and bent to bestow his praise with lips. Her breasts trembled beneath his mouth with her struggle against herself.

His own hand shook a bit when he reached for the decanter on the table an arm’s length away. This silky mouthful warmed him far more than the now roaring fire. He glanced up at her. Her eyes were closed, her mouth lax and full with passion. But still her hands stayed clasped in her lap. Not this time, my love.

he silently vowed. He unstoppered the brandy, dribbled some into his palm, set the decanter down, then warmed the drops in his hands and rubbed them along her arms and shoulders.

She gasped at the tingling warmth and jerked upright, her eyes snapping open to stare at his bent head. Warm lips followed the trail the brandy had blazed, tugging at her skin with suction and occasional nibbles. She blinked in shock. He saw her mouth open to protest and splashed more brandy against her already sensitive breasts. Protests segued into moans as he again bent his head. Never had brandy tasted sweeter, nor woman-flesh more arousing. Her pleasured sighs thrilled more than his body, however. Hope beat an exultant tempo at his temples. When she tugged weakly at his clothes, he decided to test her.

He eased her down, smiling at her protests as he left her, and hurried over to the cheval glass. He dragged it next to the rug, tilted it down, and pulled her onto his lap before it. He splashed more brandy onto her gleaming, trembling torso. As he licked up the glistening drops he whispered, “Look, my love. Into the mirror.”

Her eyes flickered open. Her dilated pupils contracted with shock as she stared at the hands molding her breasts, the lips outlining every lush curve with a cartographer’s care. He lifted his head to meet her eyes in the mirror.

“Has life ever been sweeter? Tell me what else you want.” She glanced ait him, then looked away. She tried to squirm off his lap, but he only dragged her loose garments the rest of the way off and left her, nude, vulnerable before him and, more devastatingly, before herself.

She looked from her nudity to his clothing and shook her head. “No,” she croaked.

“Yes,” he insisted. “You are naked here in my arms. My woman. And you’re enjoying every minute of it.”

“No!” She tried to bring her feet beneath her, but he bore her back on the rug. The brandy trickled from shoulders to navel this time, and it took many a kiss to lap the residue away. He made every one of them count. Some were soft, some were hard, but all were arousing. Her stiffness relaxed even as she moaned her self-disgust. She began to squirm and pull at his clothes.

“Off,” she commanded hoarsely.

“In a moment.” He sucked the last drop from her navel, then bent to lick along the vulnerable crease of her upper leg. She gasped. He laughed joyously and rose above her to fling his clothes off.

Her eyes fluttered open to watch. He savored her hunger as her gaze wandered from his shoulders, to his chest, to his widespread legs, to the point between. He stayed still and let her look her fill. When finally her eyes met his, he frowned at the myriad feelings there. Some he could read, some he couldn’t, but one was blatant: sadness. She tried to turn on her shoulder away from him, but he pushed her onto her back and knelt between her legs.

His elation had ebbed as her resistance grew. He stroked her thighs, but they were tense under his hands. Only after many more patient minutes did she relax under him again. But when he smeared brandy about her loins, then shared a sip with her, trickling it from his mouth into hers, she rubbed herself against his caressing hand. Only when that little nubbin stood taut did he withdraw his hand to trail his fingertips over her from belly to knees. He touched but didn’t satisfy, brushing over the flesh yearning for a deeper caress.

Sweat stood out on his forehead, but he gritted his teeth. Now, or never. This was his last chance. He pushed her legs widely apart to tongue the swollen flesh moist with brandy and something else. When she was rigid, expectant, he pulled away. Panting, he sat back on his heels.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasped.

She shook her head, though her neck strained with effort. He turned her over and pooled some brandy in the indentation of her spine, then lapped it away. All the while his hands were wedged beneath her, fingers and thumbs worrying at her hard nipples. She tried to rise up to give him better leverage, but he pulled his hands away with a hoarse laugh.

“Beg, and I’ll do whatever you like.”

“No, damn you!” Her voice was muffled by the hair shielding her face, and the denial sounded weak.

That weakness was conveyed by the trembling of her limbs as he once more turned her to face him. He brought her hand to his pulsing shaft. “Bring me into you.”

Her hand caught him hungrily, but then she pulled away. His eyes glowing with determined arousal, he pushed her legs widely apart and sank into her in one long, slow slide. They both groaned, but she’d scarcely drawn a relieved breath before he’d slipped out again. She waited, her posture still, submis
sive, but he didn’t return. He paused, kneeling between her thighs, until her dazed eyes opened.

“Tell me what you want, Kat, or I swear I’ll leave you to bu
rn.” The words were soft with threat, but his eyes pleaded with her. When she swallowed hard, he inserted the swollen tip of his manhood into her and rubbed around. That eager little button, he knew of a surety, was impatient of her scruples.

This time, when he withdrew and demanded through his teeth, “Ask me to stay,” the words seemed torn from her.

“Come into me, please. I want you.” Her voice faded into shamed silence.

He closed his eyes in relief, and when he opened them again, the light of love gleamed from their molten gold depths. Her own eyes were closed, however, so she didn’t see.

Still he stayed motionless, his hips poised over hers. In another moment his victory would be complete. She’d be truly his. He whispered, “Pull me in, Katrina mina. Put me where I belong.”

With an impatient groan she latched onto his aching arousal. They both watched her dainty fingers pull the blood-engorged member to the dark blond mound. They both watched as it slowly, inch by inch, disappeared from view. Then they both watched their pleasure reflected in the other’s face.

“Oh Devon,” she sighed as he probed high, pulled back, then reached higher still.

The long prelude had aroused Devon to a quick release, but the happiness filling him as he watched her lose herself in the moment was too poignant to be merely physical. He could admit it now. Now when, at the eleventh hour, the passion she felt for him had granted him a reprieve. She was his, well and truly his. He slowed his urgent thrusts, feeling his member swell in the tight, moist confines of her flesh. He wanted this moment, the apogee of his love life, to last. . . .

The taste of her in his mouth, the feel of her unbound flesh against him, the scent of the brandy all redefined his existence. Life was suddenly rife with joy. At last he was complete: he loved her. This act, vulgar and expedient with others, was a celebration of life with Katrina. She appealed to the best of him, at the same time challenging the beliefs he’d held steadfast so long.

Independence was loneliness; pride was weakness; prejudice was poison. Only here, with a woman worthy of the name, was a man able to achieve his full potential. As he felt her stiffen beneath him his control was shattered. Gladly he ceded all he had been as he reached for the lip of her womb. But as he shared with her the seeds of life, he knew that it was he, not she, who was reborn.

“My love, my only love,” he whispered soundlessly, collapsing upon her. He was limp with euphoria, and her tears took a moment to penetrate his haze. Only when he felt wetness against his cheek did he understand. He lifted his head. “Katrina, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t reply, though her eyes, welling with misery, did open to meet his. He brushed the tears away with his thumbs, but more replaced them. “Surely I didn’t hurt you?” he asked huskily.

Her voice was so soft he barely heard it. “Yes, you did. I feel wounded unto death.”

Alarmed, he pulled her upright and ran his hands over her. Finding nothing but perfect skin, he sat back on his heels. “What nonsense is this?”

“I hate myself. Oh yes. I’m so very moral.
...”

He relaxed. ‘ ‘Is that all? Pride is a cold comfort, my love. As you’ve made me realize.” He caught her hands, willing her eyes to look into his eager ones, but she pulled away and stared at her hands rubbing her knees.

“You’ll never understand, will you? Do you refuse to grant me the luxury of pride because I’m a woman, or because I’m of common birth?”

His boyish gladness faded. Devon the rake responded coolly, “Neither. Because you’re a fool.” Her eyes flashed angrily up to his.

He met them unflinchingly, the last of his pleasure spoiled. How could he mean so little to her after such . . . sharing? Their loving had apparently meant naught to her. She still regarded him as her jailer and resented her body’s need for his. Obviously she needed nothing else. No woman with one tender feeling—and Katrina had many, he knew—could look with such hatred upon the man who’d worshiped her as if she were a shrine. Before he stopped to think, he leaped up and went to pull a long box from beneath the armoire. Uncaring of his nudity, he carried it over to her and flung it on the settee, then opened the lid.

He pulled out a full erm
ine cloak. The fur of royalty, and rightfully so, the delicate white pelts glistened in the firelight. The contrasting black spots shone with an even deeper luster. He snapped it out one way to show her the fineness of the skins, then whirled it around to display the red velvet lining. He saw the reluctant appreciation in her eyes, and his mouth turned down at the comers. Was she really so different, after all, or did she only hold her worth more highly? He’d never offered another woman a fur so fine. And more was to come. ...

He bent, caught her wrist, and jerked her up. He turned her to face the mirror. Briskly he dropped a necklace over her head and pushed her hair away from her neck to clasp it.

Her lips made an awed
O
as she stared at her throat. A huge deep blue teardrop-shaped stone, the size of a pigeon’s egg, was surrounded by round diamonds. More diamonds formed a scallop pattern around each side all the way to the clasp.

“The stone doesn’t exactly match your eyes, but I thought the piece too fine to reject it for such a reason. By the by, the central stone is a diamond. Of the first water. To match its wearer.”

He watched her look from the necklace, to him, then back again. She touched the stone as if she couldn’t believe its rarity and value. He took advantage of her shock and whirled the cape about her nudity. Then he stood behind her and clasped her shoulders.

“Look well, Katrina mina. This is the regard I hold for you. I paid more for this necklace than I have for all my other mistresses’ gifts combined. Doesn’t that tell you something?” She watched him intently, as if trying to understand. He could have kicked himself for the comparison when her face changed at that hated word.

“Yes indeed, it tells me much. That I’m only the fanciest whore you’ve ever kept.” She tried to pull away, but his hands crushed the fragile fur as he forced her to stand in front of him.

He twitched the cape to the sides and glared at her, his temples pulsing with anger. “Demean yourself if you must, but know this: My whore or no, I have won our bargain. You not only begged for me verbally this night, you made your desire known in the most explicit way.” He caught her jaw in his hands and forced her bent head up to look into the mirror.

They stared at the picture they made. His tall body was Man personified, and his stirring maleness magnified his virility. In contrast she was Woman, elemental, wanton, prideful. The twinkling jewels and lustrous fur enhanced the richness of her natural beauty. Lower, the glistening beads of moisture evidenced how thoroughly they’d explored their contrasts.

Devon pushed his hand down over her belly to curl it in the damp tendrils of dark blond hair. Gently he stroked her, murmuring, “You can deny your feelings to yourself, but your body, at least, knows the truth. You bear physical evidence of your weakness.”