My Only Love (27 page)

Warmly I felt her bosom
thrill,

I pressed it closer,
closer still,

Though gently bid not;

Till—oh! the world hath
seldom heard

Of lovers, who so nearly
erred,

 And yet, who did not.

—Thomas Moore

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Miles
moved toward her like some deity of Greek mythology, perfect in form—far more
perfect than she had ever imagined—his body slick'and wet and aroused.

"So
tell me, wife .. ." His hand slid around the back of her neck. "What
name or names will you cry out when I make love to you? Hmm? Don't look so
shocked. The consummation was inevitable. We both want it and, of course, it's
necessary. If you wish, you can close your eyes and pretend that I'm someone
else." Tipping back her chin, he smiled down into her upturned face.
"That's why you really came here, isn't it? You thought to play coy on our
wedding night, then, when you realized that I may or may not be satisfying my
basic urges with another woman, you realized that you had better take what you
can get before it's too late. I simply haven't met a woman yet who, once having
tasted the nectar of forbidden fruit, didn't ache to sample the sweetness
again. It's nothing to be ashamed of, love. Whether you like to admit it or
not, you're human. Your son is proof of that."

Her
knees trembling, Olivia did her best to make sense of this sudden turn of
events. What, exactly, was he doing?

His
fingers moved to the buttons on her blouse, and he plucked at them playfully,
his eyes never once straying from hers as she felt the steamy air grow hotter
and too unbearably thick to breathe. She suddenly felt as if she were drowning.

"Take
it off," he commanded softly, meaning her blouse as he peeled back the
damp drab fabric to reveal the transparent chemise beneath. "I want to see
what I've purchased with my desperation. I've been curious ever since our
wedding night, when I saw you running like a child down the hallway in your flannel
nightgown. You're a study in contradictions, Mrs. Warwick. One moment you're
some iron maiden, the next a wanton with passion aflame in her face. Yet, the
wanton trembles in consternation when she's touched by a man. Are you afraid,
pet? You speak to me of the fear of loving when it isn't I who begs shallow
vows of devotion."

She
tried to turn her face away. He would not allow it, but, with a firm grip on
her jaw, forced her to look up into his dark features and falconlike eyes. He
watched her with an intensity that frightened her. Her every instinct cried out
in alarm, yet she forced herself to remain steady and call his bluff, for
surely he only meant to frighten her as he had at the inn.

He
forced the blouse down over her shoulders and tossed it away, then he pointed
to her skirt. "Remove it," he ordered.

"And
if I don't?"

"Then
I'll rip it off you."

Olivia
removed the skirt and stood before him in her underthings, stockings, and
shoes. Miles smiled and caught her arm, ushering her to the pillows where he ordered
her to lie down. Then he poured her another drink and offered it to her.

Unable
to think coherently, Olivia settled into the pillows and continued to numbly
watch her husband move around the steamy room, his body flexing and rippling
with each lithe, graceful movement. Remotely, she wondered if she were lost in
some erotic dream. In truth, the sudden disquieting turmoil in her own body
shocked her. Left her breathless and light-headed.

The
smell of burning oil from the sconces on the walls stirred in her nostrils, and
the yellow light reflected from the marble floors like fire. The bed of pillows
around her cast a hazy glow of colors: gold, purple, red— slick silk and nubby
weaves that both embraced her and repelled her—heaps of cushions and enameled
and filigreed screens depicting Orientals in explicit acts of copulation lined
the walls. She wasn't shocked. She'd seen similar likenesses before.

Still,
she hadn't come here to seduce, or be seduced. A tiny voice in the back of her
mind cried out to flee—she wasn't prepared for this no matter what her
heart—and body—felt.

Miles
waded into the pool, little by little sinking to his hard thighs in the
crystal-clear water while condensation dripped from the ceiling and made tiny
circles upon the surface. "Olivia," he said, and the sound echoed in
the cavernous room. "Join me."

"I.
.. think not."

"But
I insist."

"You
cannot force me."

"Think
again." He splashed the water with his fingertips.

The
realization swept her then, just what this domination meant to him. Carefully,
she put down her drink and unlaced her shoes, refusing to look at Miles again,
but concentrating on calming the unreasonable anxiety that made her hands
shake. Her husband had been right. The moment was inevitable. She had put it
from her mind by convincing herself that Miles Kemball Warwick wanted nothing
more from her than financial security. Emily had known. Emily had warned her.
Deep in the night she had awakened with anticipation and fear and Emily's
admonitions making her heart pound and her body burn.

Tossing
her stockings and shoes aside, Olivia stood and moved toward the pool, vaguely
aware that the cotton of her chemise and drawers had become transparent as it
clung to her moist skin. She eased into the hot water, gradually sinking into
its steaming midst, softly gasping at the heat as it climbed her ankles,
calves, and thighs, and crept like liquid fire between her legs.

Standing
in the center of the pool, steam swirling around him, Miles regarded her with
glittering eyes. His black hair was swept back, curling behind his ears. Olivia
stared at the black curly hair between his legs, and the organ curving up out
of the dense thatch and thought it more beautiful and frightening than she had
imagined.

He
pointed to her hair and said, "Let it down."

She
raised her arms and her fingers fumbled with the combs. At last, her hair
tumbled, heavy and damp over her shoulders, and clung to her rapidly rising and
falling breasts.

Miles
lowered his head and regarded her with an intensity that made her quiver.

"Beautiful,"
he said softly, yet the very faintness of it made her jump and look about for
some easy way of escape. "Come here," he commanded her.

She
moved, feeling the water lap at her buttocks until she stood before him not
unlike some slave before her master—despising this sense of control, and loving
it too. She felt weakened, yet exhilarated. Unmistakably alive but sensing that
at any moment she would find herself hurtling into some abyss from which she
could never return.

He
reached out and placed his hand upon her breast, brushing her nipple with one
knuckle, causing her to inwardly groan and close her eyes as a lightning-hot
spear of desire sluiced to every throbbing nerve in her body. She thought she
might swoon. She wouldn't, she told herself. She couldn't. To lose control now
...

Then
his fingertips lightly touched the colorful flower on her skin. "Are there
others?" he asked.

With
great effort, she slowly shook her head. "No."

"Turn
around and let me see."

Slowly,
as the water swirled about her hips, she circled, allowing him an unobstructed
view of all sides of her. Dear God, but the heat of the water, the humidity,
the flushed surface of her skin made her feel as if she were engulfed in wet
fire. If he touched her again . ..

When
she faced him, he smiled and said softly, a bit drunkenly, "No
dragons."

"Sir?"

"They
say you have dragons on your backside." "I'm certain they say a great
many things about me. Do you believe them all?"

"They
appear to know you better than I." "They think they do."

"Do
you like this?" he asked, gently squeezing her breast.

244
Katherine Sutcliffe

She
swallowed. Or attempted to. Lowering her gaze, she watched his big hand gently
massage her. How dark his hand was against her white flesh. The image made her breathless.
She felt dangerously careless. "Would you stop if I say no?" she
murmured.

"Do
you like this?" he said more firmly.

Olivia
nodded and gasped and, placing her hand over his, pressed it harder against
her, until her nipple drew up tight and hard and tingled with feeling.
"Yes," she finally replied.

"Then
why are you shaking? Do you want me to make love to you so badly?"

She
did not respond, but watched a drop of water bead upon his neck and drop into
the soft, fine hair on his chest. He looked as if his hazel eyes actually held
some form of affection. Or was it simply —as he had earlier termed it— the base
urges that made men so often indiscriminate in their choice of lovers.

Oh,
how she ached to touch him —but dare she? To feel, even for an instant, her
hand upon his hard, smooth flesh. He was her husband, after all. Yet...

Catching
her hand, he put it on his sex. His eyes narrowed. His breathing quickened. The
powerful organ stirred in her fingers and a low growl emanated from his chest.
"Nice," he whispered and moved her hand gently forward and back,
until the rhythm turned her warm inside and as liquid as the water softly
lapping at her hips.

Someone
groaned. Perhaps herself. She couldn't be certain. The heat, the steam, the dim
sconce light flickering erratically in the mist made the responses of her body
and mind too confusing. Control was slipping through her resolve as easily as
the water through her fingers. If she didn't stop now she would surely regret
it. Her past would be laid before him as shockingly conspicuous as his body's
hunger.

Still,
she couldn't move, and when he suddenly slid his arms around her and lifted her
onto the hard marble edge of the pool she could do little but close her eyes
and futile-iy shake her head in resistance. "Please." She groaned.

"Please,"
he repeated softly. "Please what, love? Make you feel like a woman for a
change?" He laid her back on the tile and she stared up through the
ghostly condensation at the dim skylight overhead, feeling the warm water drip
like rain onto her face, hearing the water stir with his every movement, her
heart pound with his every touch.

His
touch—oh God—his touch was everywhere at once. His hands on her breasts, her
thighs, and in between, making her gasp and jump and quiver—her mind whirling,
her senses reeling with unrecognizable feelings.

"Look
at me," he commanded her, and she forced open her eyes to find him over
her, half in, half out of the water like a sea god seducing some earthbound
mortal, biack hair coiling around his temples, ears, and neck, «ooce-light
reflecting like fire from his wet face and shoulders. With his knees, he eased
open her thighs, and us fingers slid through the slit in her drawers, causing
her to cry aloud from the sudden, startling awakening there.

"Tell
me what you like," came his voice through her mental fog.
"This?" His fingers tugged at the ribbons on her chemise, and nudged
aside the wet, filmy material mtil her breasts were exposed completely to his
eyes. Lowering his dark head, he closed his lips around one mpple, then the
other, drawing the high, hard, and rosy points into his mouth, between his
teeth until she arched her back and breathed sharply, haltingly, and prayed
that this was no fantasy—like the fantasies that had so often plagued her since
their wedding night.

But
it was real. So real. The reality came in the delicious wash of his tongue
over her sensitive nipples, the scattering of tender love bites along her
stomach, the hot breath he breathed against the transparent cotton covering her
womanhood.

Then—dear
Lord.

She
wanted to scream. To cry. To laugh. How sinfully, deliciously wicked, this
intimate kiss.

She
rolled her head from side to side. She buried her fingers in his wet, black
hair and felt her hips tip up, inviting him nearer, deeper—yes, oh yes—this was
much better than fantasy. Never in her wildest imaginings had she ever
fantasized this—

He
raised up and his eyes regarded her with something like flames dancrng in them.
He must be the devil, she thought, for making her feel so wicked and wanton.
She wanted to cover herself. She wanted to spread her legs wider and beg him to
continue.

The
water stirred as he moved his hips up between hers. Then came the pressure, the
shocking nudging, searching, exploration of his being against her wet, aching
threshold, and, for an instant, the idea of succumbing to the moment made her
eyes meet his in blatant need, and invitation.