Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (24 page)

      
This is Alex,
an insistent voice hammered at her.
This is no dream,
her mind cried out as his long powerful frame pressed her into the soft mattress. They were sealed together from head to foot. Through the sheer chemise she felt the crisp abrasion of his body hair. Though she could see nothing in the total darkness, she could feel that he was completely naked! She must stop this before it went any further. Why was he acting as if he desired her? Surely he could tell she was not one of his voluptuous and experienced Cyprians.

      
Her head was spinning as she writhed ineffectually beneath him, pinned helplessly to the bed. Oh, why had she drunk that accursed sherry? She tried to press her hands between them, intending to push him away, but when she touched the sinuous ripple of muscles in his chest, bunching and flexing like satin over steel, her fingers seemed to dig in rather than scratch, to cling rather than repel.

      
Joss whimpered as his mouth relinquished her lips, only to trail fierce, hungry kisses across her face and into her hair, which she had neglected to braid after brushing last night. Taking great fistfuls of her heavy long mane, he held her head immobilized, kissing her temples, her fluttering eyelids, the strong line of her jaw, then her throat, where a pulse thrummed in fear and excitement.

      
Perhaps if she had not drunk the sherry, she would have screamed and kicked until he withdrew, not acquiesced so swiftly. Perhaps if he had not drunk the brandy, he would have sensed her frightened response and known she was no courtesan.

      
"Ah, my lovely, you taste delicious," he whispered as his beard rasped against the delicate skin of her throat. He could feel her slender body writhe beneath him, inflaming his lust. He returned his attention to her mouth, feeling her hot, breathless little pants against his lips. Irresistible! He plunged his tongue into the sherry-sweet cavity.

      
Joss had never imagined such physical intimacy. Through her work in the East End slums she had learned the most basic facts of life. In a vague, shadowy way she knew that men bedded women, but beyond that she had never allowed her mind to consider exactly how they did so. Now, with his tongue thrusting in her mouth and his hips pumping a rhythmic counterpoint below, she was beginning to get a pretty good idea. His male member pressed into her belly. This was not a shapeless flaccid appendage hanging beside his leg like those she had occasionally glimpsed on the men at hospital. No, this was hard as iron, long and thick, standing upright, prodding against her as if... as if. ..

      
She should be repelled by this animalistic roughness ... but it was Alex, her husband. He had a right to her body. Her nails dug into his shoulders as he continued to kiss and caress her. A low, insistent ache was spreading like smoldering tinder from her tender breasts to deep inside her abdomen where his hardness touched her. Something urged her to rub against it, like a cat twining as it is petted.

      
"So, you want more, hmm?" he murmured as he reached up and ripped open the neckline of the filmy garment she wore, exposing those pert, lovely breasts to the cool night air. The tips were pebble hard, ready for his mouth.

      
Joss almost rose off the mattress when he drew a sensitive nipple between his lips, pressing them together and teasing the tip with his tongue, then drawing the whole deep into his mouth to suckle. Her entire body went rigid with sharp pleasure and she dug her fingers into his thick golden hair, urging him to continue. Strange, wonderful sensations seemed to travel from her breasts down to her belly, centering on her most secret place, which mysteriously throbbed. What was happening to her?

      
"So eager, little one?" he said raggedly, switching from one breast to the other as he felt her nails dig into his scalp, urging him on. He raised his knee and pressed it hard against her mound and was rewarded with another startled panting whimper. His staff ached fair to bursting. How could he endure an instant more of waiting? She must be ready. He sat back on his heels, slightly disoriented in the darkness, and reached for the hem of her night rail, which was rucked up about her hips.

      
His hands glided over the satiny curves of her hips as he grasped the soft cotton and pulled it up. Joss knew he was stripping away the last infinitesimal layer of protection she had against him. She should protest. She should move away.

      
She helped him.
 

      
Raising her arms and lifting her heavy hair, she shrugged out of the already ruined chemise. He tossed it aside, then pressed his body against hers once more. She gloried in his heat. It scorched her, hottest of all that hard, throbbing member that prodded insistently in her belly.

      
Should she touch it? Part of her wanted to, yet she was afraid. As she hesitated, his hand slipped between her thighs as his knees spread them wide. When his fingers stroked her intimately a sudden raw jolt of the most excruciating pleasure she had ever felt, ever imagined, radiated through her body.

      
He could feel her wetness, soft, creamy, welcoming, yet his own rampant lust, dulled by drink, kept him from feeling the tiny flinch of apprehension that she gave. "Now," he breathed raggedly, guiding his engorged staff to the gateway of paradise. Just as its scalding heat touched her, she bucked her hips involuntarily. "Yes," he cried out, plunging deep inside in one triumphant thrust, which buried him to the hilt in her silky sheath. She was so incredibly tight, felt so gloriously good that he could not stop himself from thrusting, long, hard strokes, each building to a greater glory.

      
When he first touched her, the sensation was lovely beyond compare. She felt his male part press against her, and its hard heat intensified her craving. But when her body arched into his, the brief moment of bliss was all too quickly finished. Where there had been sweet aching anticipation and exquisite pleasure, now there was a sudden slicing pain, followed by the feeling that she was being stretched, filled, torn apart.

      
So this is how it is
, a tiny kernel of calm deep inside her said as his great hard instrument began a steady rhythm of strokes, withdrawing, then plunging back into her slick flesh. Now she understood what the fierce savage kisses meant... a weak imitation of this primitive mating.

      
The pain quickly subsided once her fright at the way he had stretched her body came under control. She would not tear or break, only endure. In a few moments it became almost pleasant. That earlier low, anticipatory ache of excitement renewed itself once more.

      
Joss could feel her whole body sliding against his, damp with perspiration from his exertions, his muscles sleek and hard as they bunched and flexed over her. His breath came in harsh gasps as if he were in far more desperate pain than she had been earlier. His need seemed to intensify with each powerful thrust of his hips.

      
She raised her thighs, cradling him, drawing him instinctively into her as her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. Her face burrowed against the corded column of his throat and something made her flick out her tongue to taste of him.
Alex is in my arms, making me his wife
. He tasted salty and male and she loved it.

      
He tried to hold off, to make the unbelievable pleasure last. God, if a few weeks of abstinence would make each sexual liaison as incredible as this, he might actually be persuaded to moderation! Then he felt the rasp of her small tongue against his throat, the tip darting out, flicking against his hammering pulse. And he was undone.

      
Joss became frightened when he suddenly stiffened and cried out, his whole body shaking like an ague patient as his male member seemed to swell even more, deep inside her. Then he quieted just as suddenly and she was left with a nagging ache at the place of their joining, something unfulfilled, despite the way his body filled her. She craved more, but it was not to be, whatever the elusive "more" might be.

      
Alex was in her arms. She was truly his wife now. The marriage had been consummated. Glorying in that, she held him tightly, not caring that his far greater weight pressed her deep into the mattress. Placing a soft kiss on his cheek, she closed her eyes and felt the beating of his heart in sync with her own.

      
His release had come in such great shuddering waves, it seemed never to end. When it was finally over, he collapsed on top of the woman, exhausted and replete. His hands tangled in her long mass of hair. So thick and luxurious. He wanted to see what color it was, to see her glorious body, her face. He could imagine her lying naked on the bed with her hair spread across the pillows like a mantle. And then he fell sound asleep.

* * * *

      
Joss awakened to a faint whistling noise. She was being crushed by a great leaden weight. The low rhythmic noise registered as male snoring. Alex! She was asleep in Alex's bed. His body lay half covering her, one thigh thrown possessively across her hip, his arm curving protectively around her ribs, resting just beneath her bare breasts. She was lying against him as if they'd been made to fit as perfectly as two spoons in a drawer.

      
Thinking of what else they'd fitted together in the night brought a scalding flush to her face. Joss turned ever so carefully in his arms, trying to pull free of his grasp. Her hair was caught under his shoulder, but when she pushed gently, he rolled slowly onto his back, freeing her. She sat up, only to feel the loss of his body heat replaced by the chill of spring air.

      
There was not a stitch on her body. Instinctively she groped over to the bedside table and seized her eyeglasses, clamping them on her nose so that she could see. Her eyes flew to the remains of her torn chemise, tossed carelessly onto the floor. She clasped her arms around her breasts, shivering in fright. Her mouth tasted as if she'd chewed on one of Poc's dead rats and her head swam woozily.

      
What have I done?
Looking down at her sleeping husband's face, its bronzed planes gilded in the first narrow shaft of dawn peeking in from between the closed draperies, Joss felt her heart stop beating. He was so splendid while she .. . she perched beside him with her tangled hair and gawky body, like a mud lark next to a nightingale. She remembered the overpowering aroma of brandy. He must have been quite drunk. How appalled he would be to awaken and discover to whom he had made love in the darkness!

      
I've broken our agreement.
Shame coursed through her in punishing waves as she imagined the expression of incredulity, then dawning horror on his face. Joss could not bear to see that. Moving very slowly, she carefully slid from the bed without disturbing the covers, then slipped on her robe and scooped up her torn chemise.

      
Frantically her eyes scanned the big, boldly masculine room for any further incriminating evidence. A pair of her old scruffy slippers peeped from beneath the bed. She stuffed her feet into them. Squinting at the bedcovers and pillows, she saw a long brown hair lying accusingly on the snowy linen. With trembling fingers she plucked it up. The only other evidence of her stay was the sherry glass sitting on the opposite side of the big bed. Did she dare retrieve it?

      
Alex chose that instant to roll toward her, the even sound of his soft snoring broken as he resettled himself in the covers. No, she might do something clumsy and awaken him. The glass could do no harm. After all, the piece of Waterford was from the table in his own sitting room.

      
Quickly she walked to the door, but something made her hesitate on the threshold and turn back for one last glance at his sleeping figure.
Please don’t let this ruin our friendship, Alex.
With that she fled upstairs.

* * * *

      
Alex heard his valet Foxworthy tidying up his dressing room. Blinking, he focused his eyes and peered at the brilliant spring sunlight pouring like warm butterscotch across the bed. It must be close to noon. He sat up, cradling his aching head in his hands. His mouth tasted like the bottom of the spittoon in Polly Bloor's old tavern in the Georgia backwoods.

      
Then the whole incredible night's events replayed in his mind. The fight with Cybill, the ride to the chargd d'affaires's house, the incredible interlude with the woman in his bed... this bed! He looked around him. There was no trace of her except for a glass sitting on the table, one of his heavy Waterford wineglasses. He reached over for it, sniffing the rim, and smiled. He thought she'd tasted of sherry, probably the sweet Portuguese.

      
Was she still about, sitting in the dining room at breakfast? What a lush, passionate piece she had been. If only he could remember the night more clearly. All that remained with him was the impression that making love to her had been the most singular experience of his life. Surely she had not left. Then came a flash of panic. Pray God, she had not collided with an early-rising Joss! He threw aside the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Then he froze. Faint smears of blood stained the snowy white bed sheets. Damn, even his thighs were bloody.

      
"She must have been a virgin," he whispered to himself, aghast at the lusty tumble he'd given her. Now faint memories of her writhing body niggled. In his drunken hunger to ease himself, had he mistaken struggling for ardor? No wonder she had fled!

      
How the devil had she come to him, a virgin, sleeping in his bed? He'd heard rumors of some of the more expensive and perverse bordellos that procured innocents for the jaded tastes of wealthy clientele. Had one of his friends purchased her as a gift for him?