Part 7 (1/2)

”Not quite yet?” I work my way back up her legs, making sure that all the strain in them is gone before I settle my palms firmly on the curve of her a.s.s. Slowly, I squeeze, kneading, letting my thumbs slip toward her cleft just barely covered by the rapidly dampening silk of her panties.

”Ian...” The little catch in her voice coupled with her soft gasp do away with any thought I have of being able to draw this out much further.

”It's all right, baby, I've got you.”

With my hands grasping both her hips, I turn her over. She blinks up at me, surprised but, I'm relieved to see, unresisting.

”Show me what you want, sweetheart,” I urge.

This has to be for her, only for her. I owe her that but I owe it to myself as well if I'm to have any hope of holding onto the idea that I really can be a better man.

Her flush deepens and for a moment I think she can't or won't comply. But she surprises me. My breath catches as slowly, hesitantly her fingers begin to trace a path down her torso, below her naval to...

Chapter Nine.

Amelia My fingers, brus.h.i.+ng the lacy edge of my panties, feel scorched by flame. What am I doing?

What I desperately need to do. I can tell myself that I was designed to submit to him and to please him. That would absolve me of all responsibility if not for the inconvenient fact that he asked my permission. I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to touch me. I want us to-- I, Amelia, my mind flooded with impressions, experiences, and sensations from the moment I awoke. Not to mention memories that are not supposed to exist. None of this is what Susannah gave to me. It is my own, shaping the woman I am becoming.

Myself.

Even as I gaze up at Ian, my body still resonating to his touch, I have to acknowledge how much I want him. If I deny that simply for the sake of proving that I am capable of doing so, I'm denying my own deepest yearning. In effect I'm faced with a conundrum--able to prove that I possess my own will and am capable of making my own choices only by rejecting both.

Under other circ.u.mstances, I might find such a quandary intellectually challenging. At the moment, I have no patience for it whatsoever.

Slowly, keeping my gaze locked on his, I slip a finger just inside my panties. My lips press tightly together. If he expects a more articulate invitation, I'm afraid we're both going to be disappointed.

He smiles. Not the wolf's grin I remember so well from the balcony but more open and unguarded, a glimpse of the man I hope he really is. Still, the note of command in his voice is unmistakable.

”Stretch your arms over your head and keep them there.”

I do so with speed that deepens his smile, then am forced to wait and watch as he slowly picks up the bottle of fragrant oil and trickles a stream of it...

Aaaahh.

Drops of oil settle one by one between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, down my torso to my naval. Ian rubs more of it between his hands, gives me a long look, and...

OhmyG.o.d.

My hips rise off the table as his palms cup my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, squeezing firmly, his thumbs rubbing over my hard, sensitive nipples.

A low gurgle of dismay escapes me when he stops. Again! His hand stretches across my abdomen, pressing me back down.

”Be still,” he says.

I obey and he resumes the slow, sensuous ma.s.sage, moving along my body inch by inch, touching me everywhere except where I need him most. Even my toes get his attention, each one stretched and rolled between his fingers as sensations shoot from them directly to my groin. My hips rise helplessly.

He shakes his head in what I hope is mock dismay. ”So disobedient. What shall we do about that?”

I'm desperate enough to at least try to tell him. But before I can gather the breath to do so, he hooks a finger around the narrow edge of my panties and drags them not down as I'd like but up until they are drawn tightly, squeezed between the outer lips of my s.e.x where they apply exquisite pressure.

He pours more of the warm oil directly onto the silk and with a fingertip traces the fabric stretched above my c.l.i.toris. The friction is so intense that I all but come off the table.

”Ian...!”

He ignores my plea and continues the sweet torment until I can do nothing but whimper. Only then does he finally take hold of my panties where they rest against my hips and in a sudden, almost harsh movement, jerks them off.

Before I can even begin to react, he presses his hands against my inner thighs, spreading me wide.

”Like that,” he says, his voice low and husky. ”Stay just like that.”

I struggle to obey. His long, too-skilled fingers begin to tease me intimately, pinching my l.a.b.i.a together before spreading them apart. He repeats the rhythm of constrict and release until, when I think I can't bear it any longer, he runs his oiled thumb and forefinger along the inner sides of my s.e.x.

I feel myself becoming hotter and wetter with each pa.s.sing moment. When he begins a slow, circular motion with his thumb against my swollen c.l.i.toris, I stop breathing entirely. At the same time, he thrusts his fingers into me, unerringly finding that ultrasensitive spot I became so well acquainted with in the golden bed.

A moan breaks from me as he increases the pace, his hand moving up and down rapidly, his eyes locked on mine. Pleasure builds in me, higher and higher, teetering on the edge of becoming exquisite pain.

I gasp, dragging in air, and cry his name. ”Ian!”

My o.r.g.a.s.m is sudden, intense, and merciless. In the throes of it, my entire body bows, the back of my head and the flats of my feet pressing into the table. Even then, he doesn't relent but maintains the pressure, driving me on and on until finally, as tears seep from the corners of my eyes, he gives in and at last lets me subside.

”My G.o.d,” he murmurs, gazing down at me with scorching eyes. ”You are so f.u.c.king hot.”

I am still shaking with the intensity of my release when he lifts me from the ma.s.sage table. My head nestles into the curve of his shoulder and my eyes drift closed, only to open again as he carries me into a room constructed entirely of dark polished stone. Stands of tall ornamental ginger plants heavy with red spiky blossoms spice the air.

He sets me down on a bench of the same polished stone--onyx, I think--and quickly strips off his clothes. I can't take my eyes from him, although to be fair I don't really try. He is the personification of male beauty, broad in the shoulders, his torso tapering to narrow hips and...

The grin he gives me a.s.sures that I have no chance of recovering my composure. I can only go along meekly as he guides me to a wide stone pillar in the center of the room. I have just enough time to wonder what he intends. He wasn't serious about my being disobedient, was he?

At a flick of his hand, water showers out over the top of the pillar and cascades down, running away into a drain set in the floor.

”Better than the tub?” he asks as he steps close beside me under the fall of hot, steaming water.

I manage to nod even as I marvel that my body, so recently sated--or so I thought--can possibly be tightening with need for him again so quickly. Yet it is, so much so that the muscles at my core clench when he takes me by the shoulders and turns me around so that I'm facing the pillar.

”Put your hands flat against the stone and keep them there,” he orders.

I do as he says but reluctantly. I want so much to touch him.

With greater care than he took on the balcony, he takes the pins from my hair and lets it down. It brushes the center of my back just above my waist and falls over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

His voice is husky as he says, ”Tip your head back, baby.”