Bloody hell. What did a man do with an attractive and apparently willing woman, when his only aim was to make her admit she was wrong? He would not go through with this; of course he would not. But neither would he give in first. That was what mattered most: to watch her famous composure crumble, to compel her to scuttle away and never make demands of him again.
He was on the right track: Her shoulders were stiff, her muscles tense.
If her own nudity did not frighten her, then surely his would.
“Have you ever seen a naked man, Arabella, a virile young man? You may find it a fearsome sight to behold.”
“I shall make every effort to be impressed.”
Chuckling at her nonsense, watching her watching him, Guy slowly slipped his dressing gown off his shoulders, the silk and velvet pooling on the floor. Next was his shirt, tugged over his head and tossed at her. Impatiently, she flung it aside, and watched as he dispensed with his remaining clothes and presented himself.
Her gaze roamed over him; he fancied it a hot blue like the center of a flame, singeing his chest, his waist, his hips. With surprising boldness, her eyes lingered on his cock, which preened under the attention. Desire spread helplessly through his blood. He was vain enough to hope he impressed her, with this body forged by years of adventure, long marches and short skirmishes and heavy lifting. He had worked his body hard, and it had served him well, and if any women enjoyed the result, he would not object.
“You’re all muscle.” Her breathiness rippled over his skin.
“That’s not what I call it,” he said, and, with deliberate crudeness, wrapped one hand around his eager, upright cock.
A small mewl escaped her mouth. He took one step toward her, and another. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. Her breath caught.
She was troubled, unquiet. Good.
“Lie down,” he said.
She didn’t move.
“So you’ll be leaving, then.”
Her shoulders flinched, and she slid up the daybed with sinuous grace. Guy placed his knees on either side of hers and crawled over her length until their faces were level. He moved slowly, to give her time to escape. Time, too, for her scent and warmth to curl over his skin and take possession of his senses. Stars above, but she was lovely, her body a carnival of angles and curves that his fingers and mouth longed to explore.
He would not. He could see to himself later, after she had fled.
“Now,” he murmured, his mouth inches from her own, “are you ready to be ravished?”
One of her legs knocked against his own and bounced away. She would not last long, if she could not bear to be touched.
“No need for a ravishing.” Breathiness undermined her attempt at hauteur. “If you would simply proceed to—”
“Oh, Arabella, sweetheart, have you learned nothing about seduction? No, no, no.”
Shifting his weight to one arm, he splayed his other hand over her chest. His fingers nudged her collarbones, and the heel of his hand savored the warm swell of her breasts. The incongruous sight of his rough, tanned fingers against her delicate skin and fine bones was unexpectedly arousing, and he fought the urge to traverse those few desperate inches and palm her soft breasts. She trailed her eyes along the length of this arm. He shifted so his cock brushed against her. She gasped, jerked, lay still. He nipped her ear; again she jerked and gasped.
“I don’t think you’re ready yet.” He traced lazy patterns over the no-man’s land between her throat and breasts. “Whatever shall I do?”
She reared up slightly. “You can stop toying with me, for one.”
“You started it,” he growled. Fighting his own desire became harder with every second he hovered over her. “You came here to play with me, but this is a dangerous game—a game you are guaranteed to lose. Admit you were wrong, that this was a mistake, and go.”
A rueful expression crossed her face, chased away by what he might have called amusement, were it not for her lack of mirth.
Then she sighed, sounding impatient and bored. “I had not expected this to involve so much talking. Do hurry up, Guy. I don’t have all night.”
A fine performance, but her muscles were tight and her heart pounded under his hand. Any moment now, she would realize her mistake and flee, proving to them both that she could not make him obey.
Speaking of obeying…
“Touch me,” he ordered.
Her eyes roamed over him, burning his skin.
“Your shoulders…” she murmured. “They’re very…”
Her expression was fleeting, but he saw it: hunger. Arabella, who had been trained to show no enthusiasm or passion, suffered not from anxiety but desire. The knowledge acted like oil on the fire of his lust. Damn her. He did not need another aphrodisiac.
He had misjudged. He should stop this. Now.
And give in before Arabella admitted defeat? Never!
Soon. She would find an excuse to go soon, spout some nonsense to salvage her pride.
Her hand fluttered onto his upper arm, danced upward to his shoulder. Guy turned his head and watched, as she reverently traced the indent between his muscles.
Yet she had flinched under his touch; touch would be her undoing.
He shifted beside her on the daybed. Barely leashing his lust, he trailed his hands over her: along her throat, into the dip above her collarbone, across her shoulders and down her arms, over her belly, her waist, lingering on the crests of her hips. He stroked her thighs to her knees and back again, his eyes seeking her reactions. She withheld them all.
He was determined to coax them from her.
Where his fingers failed, his mouth would succeed. He nibbled the smooth, warm curves of her shoulder, dragged his lips back to her throat, nipped at her ear, and then—
She moaned. The sound shot straight to his groin. He jerked up as she slapped a hand over her traitorous mouth. Aha! She was embarrassed. Almost there.
“What on earth are you doing?” she said. “Why don’t you…”
Laughing raggedly at this self-inflicted agony, Guy tangled his fingers in hers and pressed her hand over her head. She licked her lips. Swallowed hard. Breathed out. Their eyes met, hers as potent as the desert sky. Fierce, unbounded, bold.
He fell. He fell into those fathomless eyes, until some part of him was lost, as if in the desert, as if under the night sky. This woman’s fierceness and vastness and vulnerability—they merged and mingled, like a heavenly blanket woven around him. The sensation was humbling and inspiring, diminishing and enlarging. He tried to shake it off, because he knew—he knew!—he was just a man and she was just a woman and this act was nothing extraordinary and yet— It possessed him, this fantastic conviction that there was so much more, that she held infinite possibilities, this maddening, demanding, vibrant woman.
And something new entered her eyes, a touch of confusion, but something more, something beautiful and vivifying. Her free hand feathered over his face, as if checking he was real. He was real. Never had he been more real.
No longer could he bear to look at her, for fear he might see the heavens, so he closed his eyes and kissed her lips, because it seemed the only thing left to do.
When their mouths met, delight struck him like a dizzy spell. Like a goddess she rose into him, pushed her mouth fiercely into his, dueled with his tongue. She wound an arm around his neck, melded him to her as she crushed her breasts to his chest. A soft sound escaped her; he tried to capture it with his tongue, plundering her mouth as she plundered his. He planted a knee between her thighs, and she wrapped a leg around him like a vine.