Fiery Possession (31 page)

“You can leave now.” She snatched the baby out of Luke’s arms.

As she loosened her bodice to give the baby access to her breast rampant desire flared in Luke's eyes. “I don't want you here.”

“Too bad, when you've seen to his needs, you can satisfy mine.”  He lounged on the bed as she sat in the armchair to feed Mark.

“You're all hot from crying.”  She patted his cheek, as he sucked greedily, with one hand opening and shutting against her breast, his little toes curling up with satisfaction. After finishing one side, she changed him on the bed under Luke’s intent scrutiny. The baby fell asleep halfway through the second side. She eased his mouth from her nipple and wrapped him up.

“Put him in his bed,” Luke growled. “I've waited too long as it is.”

“You can wait until the oceans dry up for all I care.”

“My patience is wearing thin. Don't try denying me.”

She straightened up from the cradle. “I told you to leave my room.”

“Did you?”  He didn't move so much as an inch.

“If you won't leave, I will.”

Before she had taken a couple of steps, he bounded across the room and locked the door.

“Want it?” He dangled the key right under her nose, pulling back before she could snatch it.

“Give it to me.”

He slipped it into his pocket. “Come and get it,” he taunted.

She advanced, and then came to an abrupt halt. The rampaging hunger blazing in his eyes made her tremble from anger, or was it desire? She hated herself for wanting him, needing him.

“Don't fight me,” he lowered his voice. “It can be good between us.”

He dragged her into his arms, and his mouth against hers effectively smothered her angry reply. He molded her body close, and she wriggled and twisted to get free, causing his arms to tighten even more.

She hated him. It was hard to believe this when his lips and hands were on her body and she could smell his musky male scent. That special Luke smell that filled her nostrils to overflowing, making it difficult to breathe. I can't give into him, the voice inside her head insisted. I can’t. Not after all he's done to me. I must keep on fighting. She kicked out at him, and by the snarl of pain her foot made contact with his shin. He let her go so suddenly she tumbled on to the bed.

“I want you, Jo, and you want me.”

“I don't.”

“Be honest, admit it.”

“I hate your very touch.”

“We'll see.”  His lips thinned. “You're going to beg me to take you tonight, Yankee woman.  Beg, do you hear?”

“Never! I'd rather die first.”

In a slow, unhurried movement he stripped off his shirt. Shocked, she watched him remove first his boots, then his trousers. He stood naked, a perfect specimen of aroused manhood. She tried to drag her gaze away, yet of their own volition her eyes focused on his long, powerful shaft. A single crystal droplet trembled on the smooth pink tip and she had an overwhelming urge to lift it away with her tongue. Was she mad?

He reached out for her. She tried to avoid him, but it proved impossible. A lunge, a twist, she fell flat on her back with him on top. He ripped off her clothes and she fought and struggled until his sheer brute strength held her down.

The seduction began. His lips closed over hers, soft, persuasive. His hands and fingers caressed every inch of her, a thorough, gentle exploration that she couldn’t ignore. Against her will, she responded. Easy to fight his cruelty, but this gentle mastery proved to be another thing.

She hated herself for needing him, but desire invaded her limbs, seared her body, until her nerve endings sizzled with passionate heat. Her breath came out in short, moaning gasps as her body writhed under his. Rock hard, throbbing with desire, yet he still managed to hold back. Her fingers clawed frantically at the skin of his damp, slippery shoulders.

It was agony to want him so badly, yet be denied. She felt as if a giant fist pounded against her womb. Her whole body caught fire, like it was roasting on an open flame. Firecrackers exploded inside her head. She gasped for breath as his fingers and mouth worked her into a frenzy. She sobbed, pleaded and hated him all at the one time.

Suddenly his control snapped and he speared into her with a primitive savagery. Harder, frantic, his burning shaft thrust and parried until its entire length became buried inside her womanhood, so deep did it penetrate she felt as if it had touched her womb itself. After they reached their blazing climax, they flopped exhausted on to the pillows.

She slept for a time. Luke's lips hot and urgent on her throat, and his fingers stroking her breasts woke her up.

“I'm tired, leave me alone.” She tried to hunch away from him.

“I can't leave you alone,” he growled. “Damn it, I only wish I could.”

His hand moved to cup her breast, and she winced with pain as his fingers started to work her nipple.

“Your breasts are painful?”

His solicitude surprised her. “Yes, when I get too much milk.” 

Her breasts felt hard and sore now, and she was shocked when they started leaking. He slowly spread the milk across her stomach then licked the excess moisture off his fingers. He rolled over on to his back bringing her over on top of him. He gently pushed her breasts together until the nipples almost touched and took them into his mouth.

He could feel himself trembling with emotion as he suckled her breasts. He had never known anything as sensual as the feel of Jo's warm milk trickling down his throat.

“Oh God,” he groaned, dragging his mouth away. “What the hell are we going to do?”

“I don't know,” she whispered.

“I want all of you,” he said in a raw whisper. “I want to fall asleep each night with the taste of your lips on mine. I need to feel your body trembling beneath me as I bury myself in your hot moistness. I want to feel you shuddering against me when I release my seed. To wake up in the morning and find you pressed up hard against my body.” He stopped his impassioned confession when he realized she had drifted off to sleep. He closed his eyes, buried his face in the perfumed softness of her throat and slept.

The baby's crying woke him. He cursed under his breath as he carefully extracted himself from the bed and went to the cradle.

“Cut out the bawling.”  You're as greedy and demanding for Jo's body as I am. He lifted the baby up. The infant was soaking wet, but he laid him against his shoulder and patted his back.

He fumbled for the lamp, making sure he kept the flame turned low. In the dim light, Jo's hair was a flaming cascade across the whiteness of the pillow, her face so pale as to be almost transparent, and only the dark smudges beneath her eyes marred the perfection of her flawless skin.

When the crying started up again, he crooked his forefinger and pushed it into the hungry little mouth. “For Christ's sake,” he muttered. “Couldn't you sleep through for one night?”

He sat on the bed cradling the baby and watched Jo as she slept. She looked so young and vulnerable, and his heart constricted with remorse and a sudden feeling of hopelessness for the predicament they were in. She was so beautiful, his proud, willful Jo.

He had humiliated, hurt and degraded her, yet she still defied him. She inflamed his passion. He felt more than mere lust for her and was honest enough to admit it, but only to himself.

The drumming of angry little feet against his chest and a clenched baby fist beating at his neck intruded on his thoughts. If he moved his finger he knew a full-throated roar would follow it.

The sheet slipped down leaving Jo's bare breasts exposed. He positioned Mark across her body, maneuvering the baby’s head so his mouth could clamp around one rosy nipple. She stirred, but did not wake.

He heard the child gulping greedily. “You're as determined to have your own way as I am, my son,” he whispered, “and to hell with anyone else. I'll make a man out of you, but I won't thrash the spirit out of you as my father tried to do with me.”

When the baby fell asleep, he eased the tiny mouth from Jo's nipple. He wrapped him up in a blanket to keep warm, then put him back in his cradle and tucked the covers around him.

One he got dressed he leaned over and kissed Jo's slightly parted lips. As he left the room he felt despicable for having to slink away like a thief in the dark.

***

When Mark's crying woke her up in the morning, only the imprint of Luke’s head remained visible on the pillow, as did his special male scent. Her breasts felt hard and sore with milk and even after the baby suckled they were still tender.

After she had bathed and dressed, she made her way down to breakfast. Would the others notice that her lips were swollen and tremulous, her cheeks pink and slightly grazed from Luke's beard stubble?

Glory, heavily made up even at this hour, kept staring at her. Was that pity in her eyes?

“Jo, why don't you stay here for a few days?  With Fiona away, it must be lonely on the farm.”

“I don't know,” Jo murmured. “It's good of you to offer, but there's the stock.”

“I'll send someone out each day. What about Benny?  He's always after a bit of extra cash.”

The offer tempted her. She felt desperately in need of company, especially as it might stop her thinking about Luke's behavior in the early hours of the morning. She had been half awake when he’d picked Mark up, but her mother’s instinct knew the moment her child started suckling. She pretended to be asleep, but was surprised by Luke’s gentleness and concern for both her and their son. It made her want to like him, more than like, to be brutally honest, love him, a hopeless emotion. He was tied, however unwillingly, to another woman.

“Why don't we have a picnic?” Katie suggested.

“A picnic, why not?  I haven't been on one for over forty years,” Glory chortled.

Once the decision was made, Glory could not be held back. Francy greeted the idea with disdain. Yasmin and Vickie, who had started up a guarded friendship wanted to rest, but Rosa and Katie enthusiastically endorsed the idea.

“We can fish in the river, a nice trout for dinner.”  The Irish girl laughed.

They were ready within the hour. George, recovered from last night's indisposition, staggered under the weight of the picnic hamper.

Rosa insisted on driving the buggy. Francy's sneer about her being old enough to have driven a chariot in the coliseum had the Italian letting fly with a string of virulent curses.

What a memorable ride. The buggy swayed from side to side because Rosa's driving bordered on the suicidal. She used no whip, only the reins and a shrill “giddy uppey, giddy uppey.”

Jo clutched Mark in the back of the buggy and gritted her teeth to stop herself from screaming. Glory and Katie clung to the front seat. “Bloody hell,” Glory yelled, “You’ll bloody kill us all.”

Even when the horses slowed down, Rosa’s driving remained erratic and half the time they went completely off the road.

On such a fine warm day, the air hung heavy with the perfume of the eucalypts and Jo's spirits lifted. Futile worrying herself into an early grave because of Luke. Had he not been so hot tempered, so hell bent on revenge and retribution, they would not be in this untenable situation. The girls started singing and she joined in. Rosa's songs were Italian, Katie's Irish, while she and Glory sung Australian bush ballads and Negro spirituals. Glory was tone deaf, her singing voice rough as gravel, but her enthusiasm never waned.

They found a small stretch of golden sand near a willow-lined curve in the river. Jo glanced around appreciatively; what a perfect setting for their lunch. Glory parked herself under the shade of a violet parasol, while the rest of them took off their hats to let the sun’s rays drift through their hair.

Cold chicken, ham, little pots of jam and honey, freshly baked bread from the bakery, a banquet indeed. Mark slept peacefully in the empty picnic basket, shaded by a canary-yellow parasol.

Katie started fishing, while Jo sat chatting to Glory, watching the comings and goings of an army of giant ants busy carrying off all the crumbs. Rosa wandered off searching for colored river pebbles out of which she fashioned jewelry.

“A fish!  A fish!” Katie's excited screams had Jo rushing to the water’s edge to help her land a large red fin. “It weighs four pounds, at least,” the Irish girl exaggerated. It was a beauty, though. As fast as they baited their hooks and cast their lines, the fish would bite.

“Something fishy on the menu tonight, Glory.”  Jo laughed.

Even Glory caught the enthusiasm and cast a line, but when she did catch a small fish she threw it back.

“What did you do that for?” Katie asked.

“I felt sorry for it, poor thing.”

Yet another facet of Glory's personality, thought Jo.

A bedraggled Rosa staggered up to them. Her eyes looked wild, her hair falling about her shoulders in dark disarray, her gown wet and torn in places.

“What happened?”  They all asked at once.

The excited Italian and English mixed together meant little to them, river and prickles were all Jo could make out. Obviously Rosa had been amongst thorns as several nasty scratches showed on her hands.