The Bane Affair Page 7

  She continued kissing her way over his neck, nibbling her way to his collarbone and then to his shoulder until he let her go and jerked out of his shirt. The slip in his control encour­aged her; the feel of his body taut beneath her hands spurred her on.

  He was a beautiful man, leanly muscled, his strength obvi­ous but understated. He would not be the sort to flaunt his physical power; as secure as he was, he had no need. It was his sexual power, however, holding her in its spell, enchanting her, intoxicating her, rendering her incapable of even putting one foot in front of the other should she change her mind and de­cide to run. As if. She couldn't get to enough of him, taste enough of him. Thinking of the night that lay ahead left her breathless.

  And then his hands were on her shoulders, wickedly knead­ing for a moment before he set her away, his chest rising and falling in perfect sync with hers. His silence continued, the mo­ment suspended, his eyes sharply hot, alert, engaged. He had her full attention; she couldn't possibly look away.

  He was the only thing in the room she wanted to see as he ran his fingers into her hair, his thumb along her cheekbone. His palm cupped the side of her face with a rare tenderness. God, but she was lost.

  "You are a beautiful woman, Natasha Gaudet." He leaned forward, brushed his lips along her brow. And then he whis­pered, "I'm going to enjoy you in ways you've never thought to imagine."

  She shivered. "I certainly hope that works both ways. It's been awhile since I've taken the time I like to take with a man."

  "It's nice to know your curiosity extends into the bed­room," he said once he'd wiped a look from his face that she swore spoke of pain.

  "And, lucky you"—she turned her lips toward his wrist, wet his skin with the tip of her tongue—"I haven't used up but one or two of my bedroom lives."

  This time it took him longer to recover. She curled her bare toes in the plush mauve carpet to wait, dropping her gaze to the flat of his stomach, threading her fingers through the line of silky hair that grew there, scraping her fingernails along his skin just above his fly.

  It would be so easy. His belt buckle hung open, after all. So easy to unhook and unzip and slip her fingers inside and take him into her hand. But she never had a chance.

  He returned his hand to her shoulder, slowly slid his palms down her arms until he once again cupped her breasts. Cup­ped and kneaded, circling her nipples with the pads of his thumbs, sending her into a realm of heightened impulses. Arousal swept through her like a raging wildfire, leaving noth­ing but the ashes of her old self behind.

  Eyes closed, she arched her neck and pressed herself more fully into his palms. Her hands sought out his biceps, her hard grip encountering even harder muscle. And then she felt his mouth seeking hers, his tongue pressing for entry as she parted her lips.

  The kiss was amazingly tender, in perfect symphony with the sweeping brush of his thumbs. His tongue darted in and out, teasing hers with short light strokes before sliding long and deep. She whimpered, caught the lower edge of his lip with her teeth, swearing this kiss alone was enough to make her come. Swearing she wasn't going to last out the night.

  She wasn't used to her knees being so weak, her thighs trembling so noticeably, her sex pulsing with the same beat as her heart while desire pooled between her legs. She needed re­lief from the heaviness, and wanted his hands on her hips, his mouth on her belly, his lips whispering kisses over the burning surface of her skin, his tongue lapping between her legs like a cat's questing for cream.

  His hands left her breasts, moved to her waist, his fingers digging in and holding on. As if he was no longer able to breathe, he pulled his mouth from hers, his chest heaving. She spent an­other tense moment shuddering with Peter cursing under his breath, before he turned them both around, walking her in re­verse until she felt the edge of the room's Queen Anne desk bite into the backs of her thighs.

  When she'd gone as far as she could go, he reached behind her, pushed aside his laptop, and lifted her onto the cool pol­ished surface, prying apart her thighs with his and wedging himself between.

  "How do you want this?" he asked, dipping down and flicking his tongue over one nipple, sucking both her flesh and the silk fabric of her shawl into his mouth.

  She gasped, locked her feet behind his legs and braced her weight in her palms at her hips. "That's definitely good for starters."

  He chuckled, suckled one breast, moved to the other and continued to drive her insane, nipping at her full flesh, lapping at her areola, drawing her nipple between his lips, using teeth and tongue to torture. The added friction of the wet silk bor­dered on unbearable, and it was all she could do not to reach a hand between her legs and bring herself off. She was so ready for him, so open, her sex weeping with need.

  Leaving her achingly, wonderfully abraded and sore, he re­leased her nipple and kissed his way along the shawl's fringed hem toward her throat. She hated the material, wanted his mouth on her skin, and shrugged; the fabric slid from her shoulders, baring her to his gaze.

  He took her in his hands, pressed her breasts together, cre­ating a deep valley between. His gaze sparkled, his nostrils flared, his pulse beat visibly at the base of his neck. Beat as well at his temple, the hard tic pulsing as he ground his jaw.

  "I know," she said on a strangled whisper as he stared. "I want you there, too." Silently, he raised his eyes to hers, and she nodded. "I can almost feel you thrusting."

  He rolled her breasts together again. "Be careful," he said, a low growl humming in his throat. "Or this is going to be over before it begins."

  "Would that necessarily be a bad thing?" God, she wanted him, wanted to feel him slide inside her, wanted to come around him. "I'm not going anywhere, and we have all night."

  "Greedy wench." He stepped closer, but still not close enough. She desperately longed for him to grind himself against her, to ease the ache between her legs that had her squirming where she sat.

  He chuckled again. "It's like that, is it?"

  "Oh, yeah." She shivered. She sighed. "It's very much like that."

  "What do you want me to do, Natasha?" He slid his palms to her shoulders then down her arms to her wrists, trailing heated damp kisses over the swells of both breasts as he did. "Tell me what you want me to do."

  She wanted all of him everywhere, doing anything he wanted to. And she told him exactly that.

  He rubbed his face to hers, whispered into her ear. "I don't know if you're ready for that. You wouldn't be able to walk for days."

  She couldn't even breathe. Couldn't even think. Couldn't imagine wanting anything more. "Show me."

  He continued to nuzzle the skin between her neck and her shoulder, returning to her ear to softly ask, "Do you like toys?"

  She barely managed a nod, thinking of sharing such an ex­perience with this man she barely knew, this man whose touch she wanted so very much, whose scent she would never forget. He smelled of warmth and clean air and the woods beyond the window.

  "Good. That's good." He nipped at her hard enough that she jumped. "And we know you like danger."

  Another nod. Another shiver as he tasted his way down her arm, his tongue swirling over the skin inside her elbow. Anticipation held her immobile when she ached more than anything to move, to strip off her own clothes then go to work on his. That he'd made no move to undress either of them . . . Where in the world had he learned such control?

  "You'll do what I say?" he asked, his voice ragged and raw and telling.

  "You promise not to hurt me? To stop if I ask?" He nod­ded, brushed against her roughly, his beard leaving marks on her skin. "Then, yes. Anything." Anything. What she was giv­ing away was nothing compared to the control she had gained, to the feeling of power now soaring through her on freedom's wings.

  Peter stepped back, helped her down from the desk, set his hands on his hips. He stood and he stared and he made her shiver and sweat. When he finally twirled one finger, gestured for her to turn around, she did, holding her breath, her finger
s laced tightly at her waist while she waited. And waited.

  Waited until he moved to hover at her back. He never touched her, simply reached for the zipper at her waist and eased it down. Her dress fell to the floor, a puddle of paisley pooling at her ankles.

  "Put on your shoes," he ordered, and she did, slipping her feet into the strappy black sandals while he picked up her shawl and turned off the lights. He made his way unerringly through the dark to the room's window, shutting the drapes and plunging the room into blackness.

  "Come here," he said, opening the balcony's French doors. The moonlight shining through lighted her way. When she reached him, he draped the shawl over her shoulders, leaving her standing in nothing but the sheer silk, her lace panties, and her three-inch heels.

  It was when he motioned for her to step outside that she had her first doubts. Uncertainty tiptoed down her spine on spider's feet, tickling and frightening and wickedly sexy as she thought of baring her body to the great outdoors. The hour was late, and she knew the habits of everyone on the estate.

  And so she did as she was told, expecting him to follow her. He did, but not before she heard the slide of his zipper, the rus­tle of fabric as his pants hit the floor.

  More compelling than the view of the lake in the distance was that of the man behind her, yet she didn't turn back. Instinctively, she knew he hadn't undressed until the lights were out and she had walked through the doors for a reason. A reason she would discover if not tonight, then by morning, unless she died of pure pleasure before dawn.

  As cool as the breeze was, she felt little chill as he moved to stand behind her. The lift of her heels caused her hips to fit to his perfectly, allowed the prodding head of his erection to slip easily between her legs. She shuddered, feeling the bulbous tip weep against her inner thigh with wanting her. He was so warm, so hard, so thick and full.

  Oh, God. What was she thinking? "Please tell me you have a condom."

  "Neither one of us would be here if I didn't," he said, reaching back for one of the balcony's padded chairs before ordering, "Hold onto the railing."

  She did, curling her fingers around the cold metal. He leaned over her then, his chest warm on her back, his arms cir­cling around her. While she looked on, he wound the tie he'd been wearing at dinner between her wrists and the railing's bars, binding her tight.

  Her breathing suddenly seemed just as confined. Her lungs refused to expand. She was naked, out of doors, and caught in a trap of her own making like a not so cunning fox. Oh, boy. She glanced from the bond to his profile. "Is this what you meant when you asked me about toys?"

  "No. But it's all I have with me," he said, making a final tug to secure the knot, his expression fierce but his gaze avoiding hers.

  Ob, boy—again, she mused and breathed deeply, staring off into the distance, toward the lake of her freedom, beyond the prison fence of her fanciful childhood imaginings.

  All these years later, she stood here truly bound. The irony was strangely unnerving, as was the reality when the legs of the chair scraped the balcony's surface and he sat. She didn't have long to wonder what he had in mind.

  "Back up."

  She took a step in reverse; her upper body leaned forward, a move that she knew raised her backside and put it level with his eyes. The thought of him looking his fill from a distance that was no distance at all. . . She thanked her lucky stars for the canopy of darkness above.

  Her luck, however, quickly ran out as he grasped the tops of her thighs and spread her apart. She closed her eyes, opened them just as swiftly—and widely—caught off guard by the tip of his tongue running along the elastic of her panties, as far be­tween her legs as he could reach.

  It wasn't far enough. He was barely able to tongue the crease separating her sex and her thigh. She wanted more, wanted him deeper, and told him so with a whimper that sounded more like a cry.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, knowing how stupid she sounded because the answer was beyond obvious.

  He moved his mouth, replaced his tongue with roaming, probing fingers. "Tasting you."

  Torturing her was more like it.

  "You're not having a good time?" he asked when she squirmed away from his hand.

  If by good he meant she was about to crawl out of her skin, then yes. Yes. Oh, yes. She nodded, gasping when he slid a fin­ger deep between her legs and hooked it around the crotch of her panties. He pressed a knuckle upward. She pushed down, grinding hard, but he was already gone, leaving nothing be­hind but frustration. So much so that she felt the childish urge to kick him with one of her heels.

  She was obviously out of her mind. This was only playtime; she shouldn't ache and want this fiercely. Shouldn't feel as if he was the first man to touch her, to truly touch her, a touch that brought her to life. Such a ridiculous thought when in reality he had hardly yet touched her at all.

  He spread his hands, one over the back of each of her thighs, and massaged her, moving up over the cheeks of her bottom to the small of her back. It felt so good. He felt so good. The strength in his hands, the magic, the warmth of his fingers as he took hold of her panties by the waistband and peeled them all the way down, baring her completely except for the shoes and the shawl.

  At his insistence, she stepped out of the scrap of stretchy black lace and looked down to see it lying on the balcony be­tween her feet. Taunting her. Mocking her. The evidence of her indiscretion. She wanted to laugh. This wasn't her. This wasn't her at all. A silk shawl and stilettos and bound with a lover's tie. Yet at no other moment in her life had she felt more alive.

  He cupped her bare bottom, his thumbs slipping between her legs and opening her. The night air blew over her intimately, cooling her heat with her own moisture, drying her out until Peter leaned forward and stroked his tongue the length of her slit. She cried out, a loud, desperate, wanton sound she tried to cut off but couldn't, and then it no longer mattered.

  Her moans drifted into the night air as he licked her again, from her clitoris through her folds, spearing his tongue into her core, swirling and lapping, in and out, pulling back and pushing in. She sobbed from the pleasure that bordered on pain. Sobbed from the need to come.

  "Are you having a good time now, Natasha?" he asked, his voice deep and raw and telling of his arousal.

  She'd be having a much better time if they were in his bed, their bodies locked together. She so wanted to dig her fingers into his very fine glutes and pull him inside, to lose herself with him, to share instead of take. But she told him none of that. He was her captor, she was his slave. She wanted to live the fantasy, and so did no more than dutifully nod. .

  "Good. I want you to enjoy this as much as I do."

  And then his hand was between her legs, his thumb inside her, oh god, oh god, two fingers sliding through her slick folds to squeeze the hard knot of nerves above. She thrust against him. Again he pulled away. She strained at her bonds, wanting to scratch and claw until he stopped with the teasing, but stomped one foot instead.

  Behind her, he chuckled, and she felt the heat of his warm breath on her bottom. Apparently, they didn't share the same definition of enjoyment because his seemed to be coming at her expense . . . or so she thought until he sighed.

  "Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?" His whis­per was ragged, harsh, sounding of pain. "Do you know how few women are this comfortable with their bodies? To be this uninhibited?"

  "I'm not so sure that I'm either," she admitted softly. She loved sex, yes, but this was more about her fascination with him, and wanting him in ways she wasn't sure she would ever understand. Being here with him like this made no sense, which only caused her to want him even more.

  "You should see the moonlight on your skin. Like alabaster. Like ivory." He rubbed both palms down the outside curve of her hips then over the round of both cheeks before pressing his thumbs into the cleft between and pulling her apart.

  "And your cunt is absolutely exquisite." He sighed, leaned forward to breathe her
in, to taste her with a long hard lap from the flat of his tongue that had her beating her forehead against her bound fists.

  "You glisten. Like petals dripping with nectar. I can't get enough. You're so intoxicating. So sweet." Again he slid his tongue so deeply inside her she felt the bristle of beard scrape her flesh. He ate, he drank, he feasted from the rosebud of her bottom to that of her clit.

  She was going to die. She wanted him, needed him, ached for his hard driving thrust, was insane with it all. Mad to get her hands on his body. Crazy to take his cock into her mouth and learn his texture and taste.

  "Peter?" she began, hating the kitten-soft plea. She wasn't the least bit weak, simply out of her sexual league.

  "Hmm?" he hummed in answer, leaving a trail of love bites along her plump lips.

  She clenched her inner muscles, wanting the freedom to play herself into orgasm, to finger herself through the spasms. She had no patience to wait for him to take her there, yet in­stinctively knew the wait would be worth everything.

  "I need you. Inside me. I can't wait anymore." Even the fringe of her shawl dangling and blowing in the night breeze was too much sensation for her live-wire skin. So when he got to his feet behind her, she swore her revenge.

  Let him see what it was like to want this way for no reason, to be caught tight and unable to reach for what he wanted, to have his satisfaction, his desire, his completion held in another's hands. Her hands. Her mercy. She couldn't wait to have him there.

  Neither could she wait to appease her curiosity as to how he would feel, how he would taste, how he had managed to make her feel as if she'd never known a man before . . .

  The sound of a condom packet tearing brought her back to the present and into anticipation's clutches. Hurry, please. She didn't know how close she was to losing what remained of her mind.

  He stepped toward her, his thighs aligning, his hips fitting, and finally, finally, finally the tip of his penis sought entry, rub­bing through the sticky slick moisture coating her sex.