Fantasy 02 - Forbidden Fantasy (16 page)

Finally, it crested and he tumbled down, joyous and laughing and happier than he could ever remember being. He landed in her arms, so glad to be with her, so glad he'd taken the chance.

As he struggled to slow his frantic pulse, she chuckled and said, "What on earth was that?"

"That, my darling, Caro, was a very dramatic example of male sexual ecstasy."

"Dramatic, was it?"

"Oh, yes."

"And what is this?" She dabbed at the spot on her abdomen where he'd spewed himself with such relish. "My seed." "What is it for?"

"It's a sign that I was pushed beyond my limit."

"It erupts from the tip every time?"

"Only when I'm very satisfied."

"So I take it that you were?"

"Yes, you minx. But it can also plant a babe."

She scowled. "How?"

He slipped his fingers into her sheath. "When my rod is very erect, I can shove it inside you—here." "Inside?"

"Yes, and if I would spill myself while I was there, I could leave you with child." "You're joking." "No."

"What happens when you simply discharge it on my stomach?"

"Nothing. It's very pleasurable."

She appeared very smug. "Can we do it again?"

"If you give me a minute to catch my breath."

"But I'm ready now."

"A man needs a bit of a break in between." "Spoilsport," she pouted. She fondled his cock, which was sated and half-erect. "You're not very hard." "But I will be very soon. Just you watch." He rolled her onto her back and started in again.

Chapter
Eleven

Y
ou lousy bastard." "What? What did I do?" Rebecca stormed into Jack's bedchamber and slammed the door. He'd just bathed, so his hair was damp and swept off his forehead. He was attired solely in a pair of tight-fitting trousers that delineated every muscle on his fabulous body, but she refused to be distracted by how marvelous he looked. "You tattled to Ian," she seethed. "Yes, I did." "I told you not to."

"I couldn't keep such a terrible secret," he piously declared. "It was eating away at me."

"What about what I wanted?"

"What about it? Ian is my brother, and you are ... are..."

"What am I?" she demanded when he couldn't finish. "And I must warn you that if you're about to refer to me in a derogatory fashion, you might wish to reconsider. I'm very, very angry."

She reached into her reticule to retrieve a small pistol, and she aimed the short barrel right at the center of his black heart.

"Are you mad?" he snapped.

Not intimidated in the least, he stomped over, stopping directly in front of her. He didn't grab for the weapon, nor did she lower it. A stony, awkward impasse ensued.

"I take it the rumors are true," he taunted.

"What rumors?"

"You're a man-killer."

"Only when the man in question needs killing. Then, I don't have the slightest qualms." "Really?"

"Yes, really. Take another step and you'll see what I mean."

She didn't want to murder him, but after the humiliating encounter she'd just endured with Ian, she'd decided that Jack should pay for the damage he'd wrought. At that moment, death seemed like a dandy price to extract.

She hadn't visited Ian in days, hadn't had sex with him in weeks, when she was supposed to be his devoted mistress. Their separation unnerved her, had her fretting over whether his attention was waning.

She'd come to his home, dressed for seduction, but she'd been rebuffed. Not only had he been uninterested in a tryst, but he'd claimed that they should break off for a bit and let their ardor cool. He'd even hinted that perhaps they should split for good.

When she'd pressed him as to why, he'd informed her of Jack's confession, but she hadn't felt he was being entirely candid. There were other issues driving him, issues that had nothing to do with Jack. Ian had changed, was happier and more content than he'd ever been. Something had happened that went beyond her misbehavior, and she had to learn what it was, but in the interim, she had to deal with Jack.

He was such an insolent, imperious creature, and he needed to be put in his place. Hence, the pistol.

She waved it at him. "I'd like to hear one reason why I shouldn't kill you."

"Because I'm awfully partial to living?"

"You'd best think up a better response."

"Do you actually expect me to believe you'd shoot me?"

His disdain made her even more irate. "Yes, that's precisely what I expect you to believe."

"Give me that thing before you hurt yourself."

He laughed! The bastard laughed as if she were some wee bug who wouldn't harm a fly.

Didn't he understand anything about her? She had to marry Ian. She wouldn't be poor, wouldn't be forced into another violent marriage. When she was a girl, her cousins had wed her to the first reprobate who'd asked. They'd treated her as if she were a prized cow, and they'd received a pretty penny for their efforts, too. Then she'd been sold again, and a third time, until she'd grown old enough to avoid their machinations.

She would never again be in a position where her finances and physical safety were at risk, yet he stood there chortling as if her problems were a joke.

Her fury spiked.

"Shut up, Jack."

"I'm sorry, but I can't help myself. You humor me in too many ways to count." "Shut up!"

He lunged, and without thought or deliberation, she squeezed the trigger just as he knocked her to the floor. They both landed with a painful thud, and she tried to crawl away, but he stretched out and pinned her down.

The room was filled with smoke, the smell of gunpowder heavy in the air, the loud explosion making her ears ring. She gaped about, hoping to discover that she'd hit him, but with how tightly he was restraining her, she was fairly sure she'd missed.

Wasn't that just her luck! She'd fired at point-blank range, and the arrogant ass was still breathing!

Over his shoulder, she could see where the ball had struck the plaster. He stared at it, too, aghast at the damage.

"You've blasted a hole in Ian's wall."

"Yes, I have, and if I had a second round, I'd shoot another—only I'd aim more carefully."

"But you've wrecked his wall," he stupidly repeated.

"You ought to be glad."

"Glad!"

"If you hadn't tackled me, I'd have shot you instead. Which was definitely my intent." She struggled against him, wanting to escape his annoying presence. "Let me go."

"No, you crazed vixen. Hold still."

He clasped her wrists over her head, and suddenly every intimate spot was joined, chests, bellies, thighs forged fast. Down below, his cock had swelled in size. He smirked and took a naughty, delicious flex, his gaze metamorphosing from anger to desire in the beat of a heart.

He bent down and kissed her, and before she could command her traitorous body to ignore him, she was kissing him back.

Like two carnal savages, they were wild for each other. They clawed and bit, yanked and pulled, rolling about on the rug and fighting as if they were in a tavern brawl.

He jerked at her skirt, pushed her legs apart, and began unbuttoning his trousers.

"Don't you dare!" she warned. "I won't have sex with you. Not ever again."

"Won't you?"

He'd freed himself from the confines of his pants, and he wedged the blunt crown into her sheath. "You could have killed me."

"I wish I had!"

"You deserve a spanking."

"Hah! I'm trembling in my slippers."

"What you're going to get—is this!"

In a smooth thrust, he was impaled to the hilt, and the feel of him, so hot and virile, sent her into an immediate orgasm.

The pleasure was too extreme, like nothing she'd ever experienced prior, and she screamed in ecstasy. He clamped a hand over her mouth, as he found his own potent end. They came and came, spiraling up, then plummeting down together.

The instant it was concluded, his penetrations ceased, his livid look returning, as if she'd bewitched him against his will.

Footsteps hurried down the hall, as a servant approached to see what the racket had been.

Jack drew away and adjusted his trousers, while she lay there, gawking at the ceiling. He'd tumbled her as if she were a cheap harlot. Her dress was rucked up, her thighs bruised from his forceful incursion, her feminine regions wet and sticky with his seed. She'd never previously participated in such a shocking fornication, and all in all, she felt quite grand. Not that she'd admit it to the conceited oaf.

Across the room, he opened the door a crack and peeked out.

"Yes?" His voice was amazingly calm.

"I heard a loud bang, sir," the butler said.

"A bang?" He was innocence, itself.

"I thought I should check. It sounded like a gunshot."

"Oh, that!"

"There was screaming, too. A woman. Screaming." Jack leaned nearer and whispered, "Mrs. Blake was here. She was upset. We quarreled." "So she shot at you?" "No, no. She threw a ... a ... lamp." "And the scream?" "She has a temper."

"That she does," the butler agreed. "I've brought a broom. Should I clean the mess?" "The mess?" "From the lamp." "I tidied up myself."

"I see." There was a pause, the butler clearly incredulous; then he bowed. "Very good, sir."

He left, and Jack closed the door with a determined click. He whipped around, as she scrambled to her feet. She spun away, showing him her back as she straightened herself and pretended she hadn't been affected in the slightest.

"A lamp?" she chided, stifling a laugh.

"It was the best I could do on short notice."

He marched over to her, and he stood, fists on hips, glaring down his haughty nose. She wasn't sure what he wanted, what he expected, but she couldn't give it

to him. She continued ignoring him as she fussed with her clothes.

Out of the blue, he said, "Will you marry me?"

She froze, panicked; then she shifted away, acting as if the words hadn't been uttered. She strolled about, picking up her belongings.

"Have you seen my earring? It seems to have fallen off. I can't find it anywhere."

"Marry me," he said again.

"No."

"Why?"

She scoffed. "Because I don't like you."

"Yes, you do. You're wild for me."

"I am not. I think you're a horse's ass."

"Are you in the habit," he crudely asked, "of fucking men you don't like on the middle of the floor in their bedchambers? Does it happen often?"

"It was another moment of temporary insanity."

"We keep having a lot of those."

"It doesn't mean anything," she insisted.

"Doesn't it?"

"No."

"What is the real reason? "For what?"

She turned away, feigning nonchalance, even though her insides were churning, her fingers shaking. His proposal had rattled loose emotions she'd buried. She'd once been a female who'd harbored silly romantic notions about love and marriage, but they'd been extinguished with liberal doses of reality.

Wealth was the only thing that mattered, the only genuine security. If a woman had enough money, she could take care of herself. She didn't have to depend on tepid assistance from an unreliable man.

He laid a hand on her arm, the gesture stopping her in her tracks. "Rebecca!" "What?"

"Why won't you have me?" "Leave it be, Jack." "I deserve to know." "You won't like my answer." "Tell me anyway."

She shrugged him off. "All right. You're poor as a church mouse. As far as I can see, that fact will never change."

She grabbed her purse and started out, eager to be away and wanting the horrid scene to end. He foiled her by beating her to the door and bracing his palm on it.

"Let me out," she fumed.

"We have to talk about this."

"We just did. You didn't like my response—as I warned you wouldn't—so I can't imagine what else needs to be said."

"Hove you."

Her stupid heart fluttered. "You do not." "I do."

"Don't be ridiculous."

He absolutely could not be in love with her! If he persisted with his ludicrous assertion, she might begin to believe him, might assume they could have a future, when she knew how fickle strong sentiment could be. A man's affection never lasted. Jack could declare himself till doomsday, and she wouldn't listen.

She peered up at him. He looked so young, so handsome and confused, and she was overcome by the worst maternal instinct—when she had no maternal instinct, at all—to hug him and tell him that everything would be fine.

At experiencing the impulse, which was so foreign to her character, she was alarmed. He had an odd ability to stimulate her in ways she didn't like, to goad her into doing things she didn't wish to do. Like shooting at him, or having torrid sex on the rug.