Free MM03 - Saturday Mornings by Peggy Webb Page B

Margaret Leigh.”
    She fought with hands and knees, clawing at his back and shoulders. And she was stronger than she looked.
    “Good Lord, woman.” He bowed his back to get out of the way of her lethal knee.
    “Get out of my bed.”
    “It's not your bed, sweetheart. It's mine.”
    She was still for a moment, and he thought she was calming down. Then she started struggling again.
    He was glad. Her limp defeat had been frightening. Her rage would be cathartic.
    “You beast. You blackguard.” Her fists had all the impact of a mosquito battling a tough-skinned rhinoceros, but her fingernails were drawing blood. “What kind of man are you? Refusing the request of a lady?”
    “Ahhh, a lady, are you?” He caught her flailing fists and pinned them to the bed. “No lady I ever knew has a right hook like yours.”
    She jacked her knees up again, and Andrew rolled on top of her. He braced her arms above her head and straddled her hips.
    “Fight, pretty one. Get all that rage out of your system.”
    “Rage is not how I plan to get this out of my system.” She bucked under him. “Let go of me.”
    “How do you plan to get it out?”
    “Sex.”
    “Some other time, pretty lady.”
    “Not with you, you backwoods Romeo.”
    She twisted her head and took a bite out of his upper arm. He felt the pain of her teeth, but he kept his hold. He even managed a chuckle.
    “I am that, my love. And more. Maybe someday I'll show you.”
    “Put your money where your mouth is.”
    She bucked against him again. It was almost more than he could take. Anger was always stimulating, and that natural stimulation combined with the proximity of her body already had him in a state that couldn't be disguised. He was almost tempted to give her what she wanted. But he knew it was an action he'd regret. No, more than regret. If he made love to Margaret Leigh in her condition, he could never again call himself honorable.
    “Not tonight, sweetheart. Tonight, all I want to do is keep you from leaving here and doing something foolish.”
    “A woman on the hunt is foolish? How about a man on the hunt?”
    “Hungry.”
    “Show me.”
    “Dammit, Margaret Leigh.”
    “Show me.”
    His mouth slammed down on hers. And still she fought. They rolled across the bed together, mouths locked and legs entangled. It was a battle of wills. Both were determined to win.
    Margaret Leigh didn't know the first thing about seducing a man, but she gave it her best shot. She pressed herself into Andrew McGill's big muscular body, teasing him with inviting little movements of her hips.
    She was a natural, and just didn't know it. Andrew clamped down on his control, fighting the raging passion that threatened to take them both over the edge. He thought that if he kissed her long enough, she'd settle down and listen to reason.
    She thought if she kissed him long enough, he'd surrender and give her what she wanted. She wanted to have sex. She didn't want love or tenderness or caring or even passion. She wanted pure, unadulterated lust. Any old body would do. But Andrew McGill would do better than most.
    She rubbed herself against him, hating what she was doing but doing it anyhow. When had she crossed the threshold from heart-broken to enraged? And how many times had she crossed it? She was on a merry-go-round and couldn't seem to get off. Nor did she want to. If she got off, she'd have to face the truth. And the truth hurt too much. It was far, far better for her to drown the truth in decadence. Like mother, like daughter.
    Once, when his hands glided tenderly down her back and his mouth promised heaven, she almost backed down, she almost rolled her face into the pillow and let the tears come. Andrew had been good to her, kind, considerate, sweet, generous. And he had taken her in, patched her hands, then undressed her and offered his bed.
    No. She wouldn't let herself get soft and sentimental. From now on she would be as tough as nails. She'd be cynical and hard, and