Free Cheryl Holt by Deeper than Desire Page B

from behind.”
    “I don’t know what that means.”
    “He’s raping her.” With a flick of his wrist, he slammed the book shut and tossed it on the floor. “That’s what I want to do to you. I want you—even if you don’tagree. I want to hold you down and pilfer all that I can never have. What if I did, you reckless girl?”
    “I told you: I’m not afraid of you. You’d never hurt me.”
    He tightened his grip, making it explicit that she couldn’t escape unless he allowed her to. “What if you’re mistaken? What if I proceeded? Right here. Right now. How could you stop me?”
    “I wouldn’t want you to stop.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t, either, you little fool. So where does that leave us?”
    For another agonized moment, they stared each other down, lovers in a fierce quarrel, when she wasn’t even sure about what they were arguing. Then, he narrowed the distance between them, his mouth capturing hers in a torrid kiss.
    For a brief, idiotic instant, she resisted, but she promptly recovered and relented. She’d trekked to the library, praying that something of this magnitude would occur, and now that it had, she didn’t want him to think she wasn’t receptive.
    His lips were warm, his breath sweet, and he tasted of the brandy he’d been drinking. Though he was tense, and seemed to be angry, he was cradling her gently, prudently, as if she were made of fine porcelain and should be handled delicately.
    Her hands rose to slip around his neck, her fingers going to the queue that bound his hair so that she could explore the lush, dark locks. Shiny and luxurious, it descended past his shoulders, and she reveled in the palpable delight of sifting through the strands. The simple gesture was decadent, thrilling.
    His own hands were never stationary. They were everywhere—her shoulders, arms, back, thighs—running up and down, stroking in languid circles.
    A zealous pupil, she followed his lead, wanting and needing to caress him as he was caressing her. Tentative, then bolder, she investigated, letting her palms rove over muscle and bone.
    Their lips parted, and he kissed across her cheek, her brow.
    “I’ve been longing to do this since I first laid eyes on you,” he claimed.
    “You couldn’t have.”
    “There’s something about you, something that I . . .” He couldn’t complete the sentence. Did he not wish to tell her what it was? Did he not know? Was he incapable of describing his feelings?
    She hoped his sentiments matched her own, that he was grappling with an impression of unreality, as if they’d leapt through a magical window to a place where no one had ever gone before, that they had found the perfect opportunity to wallow in felicity and bliss.
    She wanted him bothered and perplexed, just as she was, herself.
    “I saw you today,” she blurted. “From out in the garden. You were behind the stables, rinsing in the trough.”
    “You minx! You were spying on me through the hedges!”
    “Yes,” she admitted.
    “Were you shocked?”
    “I’d never seen a man without his shirt before,” she confessed. “But I wasn’t shocked!”
    He chuckled and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, undoing it to the waistband of his trousers, then he yanked the lapels aside. The curly matting of hair tempted and amazed her.
    “Touch me,” he directed. “Touch me all over.”
    Nervous and puzzled, she sat motionless, so he clasped her hands and rested them—palms down—on the centerof his chest, guiding her until she joined in, then he left her to her own devices.
    With great relish, she learned his shape and build. Throughout, he watched her, his discomfiture increasing.
    Inhaling, she exulted in his smell, his heat, as she pressed her ear over where his racing heart pounded. It was the most extraordinary, most enchanting sound she’d ever heard, and she could have lain there all night, listening to the steady tempo.
    He was kissing her once more, her forehead, her cheek, her nose, moving