Star Crossed Seduction (13 page)

Chapter 11

S
he must have dozed off, for the candle he’d left her with had burnt down to a flickering stub in its brass holder when the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside her chamber brought her fully awake. Temperance dismissed them as belonging to another lodger returning from a late-night ramble, until a rap on the door made her sit bolt upright in the bed.

“Let me in.”
His voice
.

So he had changed his mind, after all, and returned to complete what he’d begun. It didn’t surprise her, considering how she’d spent the hours since he’d left her alone so unexpectedly. For she’d tossed and turned, burning with the unsatisfied longing he’d aroused in her at Rajiv’s, telling herself it was all for the best that he’d not taken what she’d offered but unable to believe it. And now he was back.

At least she had recovered herself in his absence, here in this simple room away from the intoxicating scents and luxuriant furnishings of that Indian bower. It would be easier for her to keep from being swept away as she had been when he’d shown such unexpected curiosity about who she was and why she was giving herself to him.

His compassion had tempted her to open her heart to him, which would have been a grave mistake. She was glad he’d ended things before that could happen. Now she must take care to give him only what she could afford to give and nothing else.

She bade him enter, realizing as she did so how she must look to him, lying in bed, dressed only in her shift, in the room that he had paid for. Her tresses, unbound for sleep, tumbled down her shoulders, still clean and shining from the Refuge’s luxurious baths. Earlier, she had dabbed on her favorite orange scent, but now she wished she hadn’t. Whores wore scent. He might be leaving in a matter of weeks, but for those few weeks she wanted to be more than that to him.

As he entered, she reached instinctively for the counterpane, feeling defenseless in her nakedness. He closed the door and paused, taking in her dishabille. He looked strained.

Perhaps he was tired. It had been a long day, but whatever the explanation, like herself, he seemed to have recovered something he’d lost in the perfumed cloud of sensuality that had enveloped them at Rajiv’s. His guard was back up.

“Did I wake you?” he asked. His deep voice was harsher than she remembered it.

For a moment, she thought he might turn on his heel and leave. There was no trace now of the anticipation that had brought such fire to his eye when they had dined together. He looked stern and disciplined. Whatever had happened during the time they had spent apart tonight had brought out the soldier in him. This was not the man who had charmed her but a few hours before, whose curry-tinged kisses had been so enticing.

He hesitated at the doorway, looking as if he was going to turn on his heel and leave her again. The gust of disappointment that swept through her as he did told her how much she had been deluding herself that she had regained her self-possession.

But he did not leave. Instead, he took a step toward the bed. She tensed, but the bed was not his destination. Instead, he stopped and grasped a battered chair that stood against the wall and dragged it to the middle of the room. Seating himself on it, he pointed to his boot saying, “I’ll need your assistance.”

She clambered out of the bed, knelt before him, and grasped the heavy boot—carefully, to avoid the sharp spurs. As he towered over her, she tugged at it. It resisted. The posture made her feel small and vulnerable, and very much like a servant. But it was also strangely exciting. He was her master. Things would go as he wished.

There was something indomitable about him now that was new to her. Something that terrified her and attracted her at the same time.

All at once, his boot slipped off. The recoil sent her rocking backward, and her shift flew up. She was naked beneath it and she felt herself redden as he took in the view. But his face remained impassive, and he made no response but to present her with his other booted leg. She tucked her shift beneath her knees to secure it before she grasped it, overcome by a burst of modesty. When his second boot was off, he set them both to the side, stood, and replaced the chair by the wall, still silent.

She retreated to the bed and seated herself on the edge. He didn’t follow her. He lifted one hand to the white leather belt that crossed his tunic from shoulder to waist before stopping with his hand poised in the air, as if once again he was fighting against taking the next step. Then, again, he took it. Slowly—very slowly—he undid the fastenings of the belt, removed it, and hung it carefully over the back of the chair, keeping his eye on her the whole time. His fingers moved next to the front of his officer’s tunic, drifting past the gleaming bars of gold braid that spanned his broad chest until they settled on the topmost button.

Languidly, he pushed it through its hole, pausing before he advanced to the next. As each successive button was undone, the tunic dropped away, revealing the waistcoat beneath. When he had finished with the last button, he shrugged his way out of the garment and hung it neatly on the back of the chair.

As he removed these outward symbols of his profession, every gesture made his discipline more apparent. He was a soldier through and through. Not even passion could make him hurry. It was as if he knew, even now, that what was about to happen would eventually be over and that, when it was, he would need to don once again this coat and waistcoat and that, when he did, they must be flawless.

He did not undress like a man overcome with lust, yet the relentless control he displayed as he slowly revealed his body excited her. She had never sensed such animal strength in a man. Her breathing quickened as she sniffed the faint hint of male musk he gave off.

His waistcoat joined the tunic on the chair. He wore only a thin linen shirt beneath it. As he unwound the black neckcloth wrapped around his collar, its color echoed the darkness of his indigo eyes. The neckcloth had hidden the thick tuft of curling black fur at the base of the deep slit V at his shirt’s neck. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

He stopped, and she realized he was watching her watching him. His lips tightened, and the scar above them grew whiter. Employing the same exaggerated slowness with which he had removed his tunic, he reached for the hem of his shirt and stripped it off, revealing knotted arm muscles that gleamed in the candlelight as if oiled, each one distinct and corded with thick veins.

She had seen arms like that on the men who worked in the blacksmith’s shop attached to her father’s factory and on men who labored in his fields at harvesttime. His arms rippled as he flung the shirt on the chair.

How had she dared to flirt with such a man? How had she managed to elude him so long when all along this steel had been hidden at his core? Now he would take from her what he wanted. She no longer had any choice about it. But though this should have terrified her, the sheer power of his body still drew her to him. She longed to feel those arms crush her against his chest, longed to feel herself at his mercy, longed for him to possess her.

What was wrong with her
?

This was not the charming man whose eyes had sparkled as he had flirted with her before. This was not the man she had felt safe with, whom she could control with the tools that had always worked for her before: her beauty and her willingness to take risks.

She didn’t feel safe with him. She didn’t understand what he was doing now, or why it was having such a strong effect on her. There was no need for him to tease her like this. Had he not already learned he could reduce her to a quivering mass of longing with just a single kiss? She had nearly given herself to him at Rajiv’s. He didn’t need to draw this out so slowly.

And yet he did. Something was making him move at this determined pace. What was he about to do to her that required him to find such strength within himself?

His hand dropped to the button that fastened one corner of his buckskin britches. With thumb and two fingers, he grasped it, the thick muscle of his forearm tightening as he pressed against it, and it gave way. Again he paused, watching her once more. She took a deep breath. The glint in his eye told her he was fully aware of the effect he was having on her. He knew how his infuriating slowness was tempting her—and the knowledge only spurred him to torment her further.

As his fingers lazily undid another button, his straining prick bulged against the leather of his breeches. A gush of warmth flowed into the place between her thighs. Despite the coldness coming from him now. Despite the sense of wrongness that grew greater with every passing moment. Could he pick up the faint scent of her arousal as she did the animal vapor that rose from him?

If he could, he gave no sign of it as he continued on, revealing himself to her so slowly, it was almost as if he were fighting against taking her with the same ferocity with which she should have been resisting him had she not been so paralyzed by the desire she couldn’t stop herself from feeling.

Why? Why was he delaying the inevitable? It couldn’t be due to fear of not performing. The firm bulge that strained against his pale breeches showed that his body was more than ready for her. Was he trying to make her a liar for having told him it was his kindness that had attracted her?

He was no longer kind.

The warmth and concern she had felt emanating from him just a few hours ago at Rajiv’s must have been a trick of the Indian spice. It had kept him from taking what she had offered him, then. But it was gone. He’d sheathed his soul in steel and ice, and she knew without question that this time he would finally take her, using every bit of his animal strength to make her do his will.

What a fool she’d been to think that coupling with this man would be any better than coupling with Randall. At least Randall hadn’t played with her this way or stolen her dignity by bringing her to such a shameful pitch of desire, as this man did now, using not charm but his raw power to call out from her a response so strong it terrified her.

Trev’s fingers undid that last button of his breeches, and the front panel dropped down, letting his penis spring free. It jutted out of the slit in his drawers, as huge as she remembered its being that night in the alleyway when she’d used how caught up he’d been in his passion to trick him and escape. But he was not caught up in his passion now. He was firmly in control. She would not escape him. Not this time.

The candlelight picked out the copper glints of his eyes, narrowed now—by desire, or something else—as he favored her with a look that seemed to dare her to take him on, as if he, too, was remembering what had happened in the alleyway and letting her know that this time it would be different.

It would be. Her body shook now with the pounding of her heart. The hot blood throbbed in her privates. She was in far more danger than she had been in the alley, but she couldn’t stop herself from welcoming it. All she could do was drink in the graceful way he worked the clinging leather off each well-muscled leg, peeling it off one leg at a time, as if he were stimulating himself as he did so.

When his breeches had fallen to the floor, he picked them up, folded them carefully, and placed them neatly on the seat of the chair, as if readying them for inspection. Only then did he untie the string that held up his drawers and allow them to fall to the floor, where he kicked them to one side.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he took a step toward where she sat at the edge of the bed, placed his hands on her shoulders, and pushed her back onto the bed, making her legs splay out wide as her feet reached for the floor. He grasped the hem of her shift and pulled it up, revealing her hungry notch.

He gazed at it for a moment—his eyes opened wider and his nostrils quivered. His penis tightened and stood even taller than before. He reached down and stroked the moist and swollen flesh he found there, his fingers sliding on the slippery evidence of the arousal she couldn’t prevent.

She knew what came next. It would be just like it had been with Randall. Fast and painful, then over, leaving her so humiliatingly empty and needy. And with this man, she would not even have the satisfaction of knowing that by rousing his lust, she had strengthened her hold over him.

She had wanted so much more, misled by those searing kisses of his, by the sparkle in his eye, and the way he had engaged her in talk. He’d drawn her out and given her the illusion that he saw into her and knew who she was, that they were akin.

She wouldn’t get more. His fingers found her swollen nub, which he pinched once, brutally, between his fingers. He raised those fingers to his face and sniffed deeply, taking in the evidence of her body’s traitorous response to him. Then he reached over and snuffed out the candle.

S
he was hot for him, brazen. Trev marveled at the extent of her duplicity. To simulate such desire must take something he had never met before. Even the Nizam’s slave girls had needed to be stroked and teased before they were ready to welcome him. They oiled themselves to hide their lack of desire; but because he knew the feel of a truly hungry woman, he hadn’t been taken in by their harem tricks. He’d taken what they’d been forced to offer him, but only after using what he knew, the subtle arts of fingers, tongue, and cock, to change the desire they feigned into the real thing.

But this woman was not a slave. She was not oiled. And he had done nothing to excite her. Yet still she could barely contain herself. Even after he’d extinguished the light, he couldn’t get the image of her swollen rosy slit out of his mind. She was so ready for him. Her lust was as strong as his. Was her desire to serve her masters so strong it could bring her to that kind of frenzy?