The Erotic Secrets of a French Maid (14 page)

He could hear her breathing, and her excitement revived his own. He gently massaged his palm over her mound, his fingertip still against her opening, and felt her hips move in response. She made a soft noise
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deep in her throat and then pushed away from him, scampering several feet away.

He pushed up off the bed, grabbing the turban to keep it from falling off, and went after her, as her written instructions had dictated. She dashed away, his fingertips grazing her bare side as she exited the room.

He caught her in the living room, arms coming around her soft waist from behind. She held still for a moment, her breathing rapid, and let him slide his hand up her rib cage to one breast, where he gently pinched her nipple between his fingertips. His other hand slid downward to cup her sex. She leaned back against him, tilting her hips against his hand. He reached inside the slit of her bra and stroked the tender skin of her breast, then pulled down the strap that held it up, baring her breast entirely.

She pulled away from him again, dashing across the small room, freeing her arm from the trapping strap.

She turned around and faced him, one breast bare, then feinted to one side. He went that way, and she switched directions. He let her go by, putting his hand out to brush along her as she passed by and scampered toward the bathroom.

He pursued, grabbing her around the waist before she could reach its sanctuary. She twisted around in his arms and pushed against his chest in a mock struggle to get away. He held her more tightly, one hand going down to cup her buttock and pull her against him. With his other hand he pulled down the remaining strap, then reached behind her and unhooked her bra. It fell free, falling off her arm. She leaned away from him, arching her back, and he saw that the pale skin of her breasts was marked in pink vertical slashes where the lace slits had pressed against her skin. He lowered his mouth to one breast and laved tenderly at its silky surface. She struggled and raised her knee beside his hip as if trying to climb out of his grasp, in the process giving him access to her from below. His fingertips found her dampness, slipping between the strips of lace. This time he plunged an inch of finger inside her.

She went rigid, the hands that had been pushing him now clenching tight in the fabric of his shirt. She raised her veiled face, her dark eyes wide as they sought out his own. He looked into her eyes as he gently thrust his fingertip inside her, in and out, never more than an inch deep. He could feel her heart beating rapidly and watched as her eyes slowly closed. He felt his own arousal building, the exertion of the chase intensifying it.

She released his shirt and, fists clenched hard, shoved him firmly away. They struggled for a moment, but her efforts were harder this time and fear of hurting her made him let her escape.

She darted into the bedroom and started to close the door. He got himself in the path of the door before she could, his turban getting knocked off in the process and thumping to the floor behind him. He reached for her and she dashed away, picking up a scarf from the floor and throwing it at him.

He caught it and advanced on her, both of them breathing heavily now. With her veil, she was almost a creature unknown; a woman he'd never met. With her breasts bare beneath the hem of the veil and that hint of panty her only garb, she was a temptation he had no reason to resist. He'd become absorbed in the game, the primal instinct to hunt and capture fully aroused. Conscious thought was all but erased, the silk scarf in his hand the only reminder of what he must do before he could penetrate her.

Emma felt a flush of adrenaline as Russ stalked her, the silk scarf in his hands. Something near panic rushed in her blood and she felt the instinct to flee—the reflex of the hunted. She knew it would take but a single word to make him stop, but there was something delicious to being chased. She
wanted
to be frightened, overpowered, and taken, all within the safety of this play they had constructed.

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He moved toward her, the intensity of his expression that of a wolf cornering prey. She gasped and darted past him. His arm caught her around the waist and swung her around, lifting her off her feet. She struggled within his grasp, the strength with which he held her sending bolts of alarm through her muscles.

He was so much stronger than her, she couldn't break free unless he allowed it.

The security of his grip pushed her panic too close to the edge and she struggled harder, elbowing him.

He released her and she darted from the room. She stood in the hall, panting, poised for further flight, waiting for him to chase after her and scared that he would. It took a moment for it to sink in that he
had
released her.

When he still didn't emerge from the doorway she crept back toward it, moving silently on the balls of her bare feet. She couldn't see him in the room, and couldn't hear him above the music and her own heavy breathing. She crept closer, leaning forward to peer into the room.

Still no sign of him.

She looked over her shoulder, suddenly certain he'd gotten behind her. As she did, her wrist was grabbed and she shrieked in surprise. He tugged her into the bedroom, and before she knew what he was doing he had bound her wrists together with the scarf. She made a token tug of resistance, and he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. He dropped her onto the pillows and put his hands to work on his belt buckle.

Emma flipped onto her stomach and crawled toward the far corner of the bed, over the mounds of blankets and pillows. She felt his hand on her ankle, pulling her slowly back toward the edge. She reached forward with her bound hands, trying to find something to grab to slow her slide, but the brass bars of the bed were beyond reach.

He pulled until her legs were half off the bed, and with a few quick tugs he stripped her panties off her.

Emma lay still, her cheek against the mattress, her arms stretched out in front of her. Her hair obscured her vision, and all she could see were shadows in the candlelight and the pillows near her.

His hands slid up the backs of her thighs, then up over the mounds of her buttocks. His palms explored her lower back, her hips, the place where her buttocks met her thighs. He brushed his hands along the insides of her thighs, rising up to but not quite touching her sex. He pulled her farther over the edge of the bed, until she had to bend her knees to keep from being unbalanced. The edge of the bed hit her at midthigh now.

She felt him gently parting her legs and obeyed the silent command. Cool air touched her most intimate area and then she felt his hands against her pushing to the sides, causing her flower to unfold and her entrance to part its lips. She closed her eyes, embarrassed, and tucked her nose and chin into the side of her arm.

He released her flesh and a moment later his hands were on her hips, urging her upward. He helped her onto her knees with her legs together, her forearms still on the mattress. She felt the blunt head of his rod against her opening, rubbing back and forth, its path becoming slippery with her moisture. He parted her thighs slightly and slid himself along the folds of her damp sex. His hips came up against her buttocks and he reached around to her front, his hand pressing downward on her mound as he slowly thrust between her slick folds.

She moaned deep in her throat as each thrust brought his head into contact with the nub of her pleasure.

She rocked against him, joining his rhythm. His other hand cupped her breast, massaging it.

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He pulled away, then pushed a big pillow under her and had her lie down on top of it, her hips raised up.

Then he was parting her thighs and she felt him slowly enter her, thrusting in gradual, deepening strokes.

Taking her without words, as if they were strangers.

When he'd made it halfway in he leaned forward, bracing himself on his rigid arms. She could feel the tension in him as he breathed her name and slowly thrust the rest of the way, embedding himself deep within her.

Emma instinctively wrapped her lower legs behind his back, her feet touching each other as she pulled him more securely to her.

"Emma,"

he breathed again, and began to thrust, his angle bringing his rod in contact with that one sensitive spot inside her passage. She mewled in her throat and tried to move with him, but it was nearly impossible.

She could only grip him with her legs and let him take her as he would.

For the first time in her life, she felt an orgasm approaching from penetration alone. She dug her fingernails into the silks, her body clenching and urging the passion upward. She squeezed her inner muscles, wanting to grasp all of him that she could, and a second later felt him slow.

"Oh God, Emma," he said, and grabbed her hip with one hand, pushing her down against him as he slowly completed his final thrust and held motionless. His stillness was followed almost instantly by a pulse she felt at her entrance, and she knew he was done.

She dropped her legs from his back and he eased down on top of her. She could still feel the pulsing expectation of her own desire, of her body seeking its own fulfillment. Russ's breath was warm and heavy against the side of her face, and within a minute it became heavier still.

Emma scowled. He'd fallen
asleep7.

She wiggled slightly. He murmured and lay one arm along her own, gripping her wrist for a moment and then subsiding.

Her unslaked desire roused a flame of annoyance. She'd been so close! This was the second time they'd had sex, and the second time she'd had to go to bed hungry for an orgasm.

She wiggled harder, and then shifted to slide more of his weight off her back.

He came groggily awake. "Oh, sorry." He pulled the pillow out from under her and then turned onto his back. She moved to get up, but he caught her arm. "No, come lie with me."

"I have to get the towel," she said, not wanting to give in to the sleepy comfort of a postcoital snuggle. It wasn't postanything for
her.

His lips tightened, and the sleepiness began to clear from his eyes. "I should go clean up."

Her annoyance warred with her liking of him, and liking won out. She pushed against his chest, making him lie back again. "Don't be silly. I'll be just a moment. Stay here."

She cleaned herself up and removed her veil, then warmed a washcloth in hot water and carried it back
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to him, cleaning him of the vestiges of their lovemaking. She set the cloth aside and climbed up onto the bed with him, letting him settle her against his side. She pulled lengths of silk up over them and then rested her palm and cheek against his chest.

He reached over and stroked his hand down her side. "You need to have your turn."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "That's not what this is about."

His hand moved over her hip and down to the edge of her sex. "I'll enjoy it more if I know that you enjoy it."

It was what she'd wanted five minutes ago, not now. Her mood was gone and some perverse part of her wanted to wallow in the injustice of the orgasm score. "I do enjoy it. Very much," she said, with a hair less conviction than might have been believable.

"Don't do that."

She tucked her face against him, knowing what he meant but asking anyway. "Don't do what?"

"Say things you plainly don't mean. Be honest with me, Emma. You've nothing to lose by telling me the truth."

She opened her eyes, staring at the hairs on his chest, and gathered the courage for honesty. "I do enjoy it. But I was very close to enjoying it a lot more—if you know what I mean."

He squeezed her arm. "Tell me when it's like that, so I can do something about it. Will you tell me?"

She nodded, but it was so much easier to try to please someone else, rather than ask another to please you.

"Promise?" he asked.

"Promise."

It was a promise she didn't know if she could keep.

Russ's world narrowed to the scraping of his skates on the ice and the rasp of his breathing inside his helmet. Skate full-bore to the blue line, stop on the outside edge of his skate, cross his other leg over, skate back to the goal line, stop on outside edge of skate, cross over, skate to red line, stop, cross over, skate, stop. He was doing line drills while his fellow players showered and dressed after the final game.

Skate, stop, cross over, skate.
Stopping on the outside edge of his skate strained the inner muscles of his thighs and the crossover demanded concentration and agility. The sprints from line to line sucked every last dreg of energy from his muscles. It was all he could think to do, to force thoughts of Emma from his mind. Thoughts of her, thoughts of the things they'd done together, thoughts of how he had forgotten who he was as he chased her through the apartment, his only goal to capture her nearly nude body, toss it down, and plunge himself inside it until the steel-hard ache in his loins was eased.

He'd turned into an animal!

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Skate, stop, cross over, skate.

It had been a favorite drill of his coach when he'd first learned to play, and had also been his coach's favorite punishment when he thought his team needed to get their act together.

He needed to get
his
act together. That sexually aggressive side of himself had frightened him afterward, realizing how slim his control was over his baser nature; how thin the wall was between civilized behavior and barbaric.

Worse yet was knowing that last night's escapade was just a mild version of what he would be capable of, given the proper circumstance. If he'd been born a thousand years ago and given a sword and a village to plunder...