It seemed to startle him. She didn’t know whether it was her lack of expertise, or the very fact that she was responding. If he was bent on hurting her, punishing her, he would have pulled away.
But he didn’t. His kiss gentled, teased at her lips, teaching her, kissing her with slow, deliberate delight that sent waves of pleasure through her body. There was no longer any question as to what was going to happen, and she wondered if she should tell him the truth. Tell him to be gentle, to go slow, to seduce her, love her.
She said nothing. If he left her now he would never come back, and she had no doubt whatsoever that he would leave. Abandon her to her unwanted purity.
She could feel him, hard against her belly. She could taste the desire and reluctant passion in his kiss, and all she could think was, at least he wants this much from me. And there was no way she was going to keep him from it.
He reached down and fumbled with his belt, one strong hand more than enough to keep her captive in a prison she didn’t want to escape. He moved her unresisting legs apart, and then paused, staring down at her from his dark, stormy eyes.
“Tell me to go away,” he said, and it was a plea, a dare, a taunt. “Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me no.”
He was resting against the center of her, and she’d never felt such heat, such longing, such emptiness in her life. “Yes,” she said, clutching at his shoulders, pulling him to her, over her, into her.
He filled her, sinking in deep, and she cried out with the sharp pain of it and then was silent. She thought she could feel the start of surprise in his body, and for a moment he was still. She could hear his breath rasping above her in the darkness, and she was terrified that now he’d pull away. Leave her.
But he didn’t. His hands loosed their bruising hold on her wrists and reached up to frame her face, and his mouth gently, lovingly kissed away the tears from her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth. Tears she hadn’t even known she’d shed.
Those kisses were a blessing, an apology, a promise, and she could feel the initial panic begin to fade. Heat returned, as he began to move, slowly at first, coaxing her along, bringing her with him, until she was clinging to him, desperately, as he thrust faster, deeper, carrying her to a place of darkness and delight. Everything became lost in a swirl of dizziness, a dizziness that was bringing her closer and closer to something she couldn’t quite comprehend. She moved with him, instinctively, and she held him fiercely, wrapping her arms and legs around him as they climbed higher and higher. Until the world and Patrick exploded within her.
When he finally moved she made a soft sound of protest. He left the bed and walked out of the room, and she closed her eyes to let the tears pour down her face, no longer fighting them back.
And then he was back, drawing her trembling, unresisting body into his suddenly tender arms and holding her close against the warmth and strength of him. It felt safe, it felt indelibly right. This was where she’d always wanted to be. This was where she belonged.
When her crying finally halted, he pulled back slightly, just far enough to see her face. “What the hell is going on, Molly?” he asked quietly.
She concentrated with deep interest at his muscled shoulder, too shy to meet his fierce blue gaze. He put one hand under her chin and drew her head up. “I said, what’s going on?”
She tried to shrug, but his body was wrapped so tightly, securely around hers that she couldn’t. “It seems obvious enough,” she answered in a low voice. “I was a virgin.”
His other hand moved the curtain of tangled hair from her face. “And all those men, all those stories—they were lies?”
“I suppose they would have to be. I don’t remember.” She shut her eyes in exhaustion and moved closer still, pressing her body against his, instinctively, as if searching for warmth and comfort.
“Don’t do that,” he said sharply, making no effort to move away. She laid her head against his chest, aware of the sudden response in him, exulting in it. She moved her face, pressing her mouth against his shoulder, and the pulse seemed to jump beneath his smooth flesh.
As if against his will his hands moved over her body, caressing her, healing her, soothing away the battered and bruised feelings and replacing them with rapidly escalating need. He ducked his head down, and almost involuntarily, his mouth found hers, and she came alive under his skillful touch. She lay beneath him, trembling with delight as his hungry mouth covered her breasts, his hands inciting feelings she had never imagined she could possess.
And when he entered her this time she couldn’t restrain a sigh of pleasure, holding him fiercely, arching against him. And this time it was so beautiful she wept. And this time, when he exploded within her, she was ready too, and through a daze she heard their voices cry out together.
When Molly awoke he was gone, and she was alone among the tumbled and stained sheets. Sunlight was pouring in the windows, and she could hear Aunt Ermy’s magnificent bellow through the thick stone walls. She must have returned early, Molly thought, reaching out for the discarded blankets and covering her pleasured body lazily. And not a minute too soon.
“Why are you still in bed?” Aunt Ermy demanded from the doorway. She was a symphony in peach crepe. It wasn’t her color.
“Don’t you knock?” Molly countered mildly, snuggling down into the bed, in the meantime taking a surreptitious glance around the room to see if there was any telltale evidence of Patrick’s presence last night. Except for the condition of the sheets there was none, and she almost wondered if she had dreamed it. Dreamed the feel of his warm, smooth skin beneath her hands. His mouth on her breast, his body, thrusting, pulsing....
She turned back to Aunt Ermy’s suspicious gaze. “I was tired,” she said vaguely.
Aunt Ermy edged into the room, her steely eyes raking over the disordered condition of the covers. Molly was obsessed with the atmosphere of passionate lovemaking that permeated the room, and she wondered that Aunt Ermy could be impervious to it. She obviously could tell something was different but she couldn’t quite tell what. She watched Molly out of uncertain little eyes, moving closer, and it took all Molly’s strength of will not to scramble away from her.
“Are you all right, my dear?” she inquired in an oozing tone. “You look overwrought. Are you sure you had enough sleep? You might even be a bit feverish. Your eyes are bright and your cheeks are flushed.”
No wonder, Molly thought, feeling the color deepen on her exposed skin. She kept her expression determinedly vague. “I’m fine, Aunt Ermy. If anything, I’ve had too much sleep.”
“Well, you needn’t be afraid your husband’s going to bother you.” She sniffed in distaste at the mention of Patrick. “He went off early this morning, leaving absolutely no word with either Willy or me. According to his beloved Mrs. Morse he won’t be back for a day or two.”
Molly grew cold inside. “How nice,” she said woodenly. She felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. Aunt Ermy’s next malicious words made it even worse.
“I thought you should know. And apparently Lisa Canning’s gone visiting.” She moved a little further into the room, her massive front heaving with spurious indignation, her nose wrinkled in rage. “I think it’s a shame and a scandal, the way that man treats you. After all, he should leave you with some pride.” A sly smile cracked her powdered and rouged face. “But then,” she cast a speaking glance around the room, “you at least have been able to find your own sources of entertainment, haven’t you, my dear?”
