WinterofThorns (8 page)

“Oh,” she said as he turned to face
her—nothing between his naked body and her staring eyes except air.

“I am told my body isn’t hard to look at,”
he said. “Is that true in your estimation, sweeting?”

She seemed to give in to the inevitable at
that point. He watched the fight, the resistance fade away. He was standing
nude before her and the realization of what was about to happen had finally sunk
in. She looked up at him. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“You are very handsome, milord,” she said
in a strained voice. “But you already know that.”

He smiled then held out his hand to her.
There was only a moment’s hesitation before she laid her palm in his. The slide
of her flesh against his made his cock pulse. When she glanced down at it, he
had the wild urge to throw himself upon her, ravage her until she moaned his
name.

But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—do that to the
lawful wife of a man he had loved since childhood, a man who was his brother in
all but name.

He let go of her hand, framed her beautiful
face. “You are a veritable gift from the goddess, milady.” Drawing her to him,
he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her—plying his lips firmly over hers,
tasting the honeyed sweetness there.

Her arms were hanging loosely at her sides
and he longed to have them wrapped around him. He was aching so badly he
stepped back. Before he could speak, he had to clear his throat.

“Turn,” he managed to say for his mouth had
gone dry as the Diabolusian desert, and when she obeyed, he put his hands to
the buttons at the nape of her neck and began to work them free. He was stunned
to realize his hands were shaking. The long row of buttons from neckline to
waist were tiny pearls that defied his broad fingers but he managed to undo
every last one. The sight of her flawless back, the curve of her hips enticing
him as no other woman’s ever had, the scent of gardenias drifting into his
nostrils made him harder still. He had to clamp down hard on his wayward body
for it longed to push his erection against her.

Licking his lips, he slipped his hands into
the back of the gown and gently slipped it over her shoulders. The lacy
camisole that kept her naked flesh from his view as the gown slid to her waist
was the sexiest garment he had ever seen. Letting the gown tumble from her hips
into a satiny pool at their feet, he felt his palms burning with the need to
rip the flimsy lace from her. He lowered his gaze to her legs and groaned as he
took in the white silk stockings held up by pale-blue garters that circled her
mid-thigh.

“Milord?” she said, her voice raspy.

He tore his gaze from her legs to her
profile for her face was turned to the side. “Nothing is amiss, sweeting. I am
merely in awe of your beauty.”

A dark-rose flush stained her cheeks at his
words and she returned her face to the front. The flush traveled down her neck
and he wondered if it would spread to the rise of her sumptuous breasts.

He bracketed her waist with his hands and
eased her around to face him. Feeling as though every drop of his blood had
pooled in his groin, he flexed his fingers on the lacy sides of the camisole
and stared at her bosom—hypnotized by the deep valley that ran between the
smooth globes. There were twin round shadows beneath the lace that drew his
rapt consideration. Even as he watched, the lace seemed to jut outward as
though his stare had stroked her nipples to attention.

His gaze traveled to the hip-hugging white
lace panties clinging to her shapely hips and he wanted nothing more than to
tear them from her with his teeth.

“By the goddess I am doomed,” he mumbled.
“As surely as any man ever drew breath, I am lost.”

She took a step back, breaking the contact
of his hands, and crossed her arms over her bosom, studiously avoiding looking
at his naked body and especially the jut of his cock.

“Nay, sweeting,” he said, shaking his head.
He took hold of her wrists and gently moved her arms apart. “Your body is much
too beautiful to hide.” With her arms in his grip, he ran his gaze from her
face to the toes of her satin slippers.

He frowned.

“Sit,” he ordered, walking her backward to
the bed. She obeyed and he let go of her wrists, sank to one knee before her
and reached for her foot. He removed her slipper, set it aside. He removed the
other slipper then reached up to unhook each garter in turn, rolling first one
stocking then the other down her leg slowly. He kept glancing up at her as he
worked but she was staring into the distance above his head. Carefully he
folded the stockings and set them on the floor beside her slippers, the garters
cushioned atop.

Returning his attention to her leg, he slid
the palm of his left hand under her right foot to brace her heel. He used his
other hand to gently rotate her foot—three times to the right and then three
times to the left. Using the pads of his thumbs, he made one-inch circles on
the center of her arch. His left thumb ran counterclockwise; the right,
clockwise. As he massaged her, he stared up into her face, holding her gaze. He
told her she had lovely feet.

“Thank you, milord,” she mumbled.

Beginning with her big toe, he pinched the
digit lightly between his thumb and index finger then moved to the next toe
then the next until he took hold of her pinkie. He smiled. “Sweet little
piggy,” he said and arched a brow—expecting a smile from her and getting it.
Once more cupping her heel with his left hand, he began to make tight, firm
little circles on the ball of her foot under each toe. When that was done, he
put both thumbs on the ball of her foot and pressed firm circles from the ball
to her heel. As he worked, he could feel some of the tension leaving her body.
By the time he had finished with her other foot, her shoulders were no longer
rigid or hands gripping the side of the mattress as though it were a lifeline.

Finished with the massage, he continued to
kneel at her feet, looking up at her as if waiting for a command to rise.
Before she could grow nervous at his intense look, he lithely came to his feet.
She jerked her head to the side, for his cock was in a direct line of her
vision.

“No, precious one,” he said and took her
chin in his hand, turned her to face him. “There is nothing shameful about the
human body. Nothing shameful when two lovers share their bodies with one
another.”

She was beginning to shiver again and that
he did not want that. He drew her from the bed and to her feet. Not giving her
time to protest, he hooked his fingers under the shoulder straps of the
camisole and drew it down her body. Exposing her breasts that were heaving from
the fear building within her.

“Oh!” she gasped, her face turning bright
red. She closed her eyes.

He let that pass. Though he wanted to go
slowly with her, ease her gently into his lovemaking, he was on fire with need.
His cock was so hard it was painful.

The camisole fell to the floor and with one
deft movement, her lacy panties followed suit. A hard shudder rippled through
her. A quaking breath left her lungs in a rush. He slipped one arm under her knees,
the other behind her back and lifted her onto the bed—stretching her out as if
she were an offering to some sexual god.

He joined her on the bed, easing his body
beside hers, turning to his side so he could slide his leg over hers. His cock
pressed against her hip and she whimpered. Her stomach muscles quivered.

He smoothed the hair from her forehead,
trailed his fingers to her chin and tilted her head toward him. “Jana, open
your eyes,” he ordered.

She did and yet again he felt a momentary
pang of regret when he saw the fear and shame residing in her tearful gaze.

This is wrong,
his conscience chastised him but he pushed the reprimand firmly
away. Nothing save the sudden explosion of the world around him would stop him
from taking what he so dearly wanted.

“I will not hurt you, milady.”

She nodded, tucked her lip between her
teeth. Her eyes slid from his as though seeking an exit.

He released her chin, put his hand on the
bed beside her head then leaned into her.

What he did next was sheer torture but it
was a torture he would gladly endure time and time again. He did not want her
to view what he was about to do as rape. He wanted her willing and as desperate
for him as he was for her. In order to see that happen, he set out to seduce
her with every skill he’d learned over the years, and those skills were
considerable. He’d been taught by the best courtesans of his father’s court.
His intent was to have Jana writhing upon the bed, aching for him, pleading
with him to take her.

And that meant using restraint.

Lowering his mouth to hers, he tenderly
claimed her mouth. Her eyelids snapped shut and she stiffened against him.

Slowly, he coaxed her into returning the
kiss by gently nibbling her bottom lip, flicking his tongue across her tongue,
placing light forays to the corners of her mouth, deepening the kiss for a
moment before slanting his lips in the opposite direction and making the kiss a
fleeting graze. He took his time—prolonging the kissing—until he felt her begin
to relax. Her death grip on the coverlet eased until her fingers lay still upon
the material.

Slowly, with every new position of his
mouth upon hers, he eased his chest onto first her right arm then partway upon
her breast. He could feel the soft mound give against his chest and his cock
leapt against her hip. Once more she stiffened so he stilled, continuing the
kissing as though nothing else would happen that eve. Moments passed and the
tension eased the stiffness from her body.

He deepened the kiss. Pressed his tongue
fully into her mouth and kept it there for a moment before slowly withdrawing
it then flicking it leisurely across the underside of her upper lip—grazing her
teeth.

He groaned low in his throat and knew she felt
the vibration of the sound upon her lips. Kissing his way down her chin, along
her left jawline, he moved farther over her as he pressed his kisses to the arc
of her earlobe. A single lightening flick of his tongue over that sensitive
little flange of flesh caused her to shudder.

Easing to his back, he drew her with him
until her head lay upon his shoulder. She was lying partially on his left arm
so he inched his hand over until he could twine his fingers with hers—their
arms trapped between them. He used his unencumbered hand to lightly stroke her
arm that was pressed tightly against her left side. Beneath his trailing
fingertips, he could feel the goose bumps rising on her flesh.

Mentally, he began to count as he waited
for her tense body to relax again. The soft brush of her breath against his
neck sent shivers down his side but he forced himself not to move, not to
speak. Just as he reached the magic number of fifty-two, he sensed the rigidity
fading from her limbs. Her fingers laced with his became lax.

Continuing to slide his fingers up and down
her arm, he turned his head so his chin rested atop the sleek silk of her hair.

“Jana?” he queried softly.

“Aye, milord,” she responded, her voice
breathy.

“I want you to move your leg over mine,” he
instructed.

She tensed—her breath hitching—but she
obeyed. The satiny expanse of her leg slid over his and he parted his thighs to
make room for her crooked knee. When he made no more demands, the stiffness
drained away again.

Crooking his fingers, he began to drag his
fingernails lightly up and down her arm. The cadence of her breathing changed
as he moved his fingers so his nails were gliding wisplike along the edge of
her arm where he knew the flesh was very sensitive. A few more passes and then
he insinuated his thumb under her wrist until he could circle it with his hand.
Unhurriedly, he plucked her arm from where it was plastered to her hip and
moved it across his body until it lay over his belly. Pressing her arm firmly
upon him, he began to slide his palm over and back along her arm from wrist to
elbow.

There was method to his madness. He was
gentling her, accustoming her to his touch in a non-threatening way. His touch
was tender, rhythmic and he knew it would lull her into relaxing even more. By
the time took her hand and moved it toward his shoulder—gliding her palm across
the hair on his chest—she did not stiffen.

He gave her fingers a firm squeeze then
removed his hand from hers. He was encouraged when she did not immediately
withdraw her palm from his pec.

“Run your fingers through my chest hair,”
he told her.

Her eyes had been closed but he felt her
lashes flick upward as she snapped them open. For a moment she didn’t move but
then slowly—hesitantly—she drew her hand across his chest.

“Tell me what you feel.”

She cleared her throat before she spoke.
“Softness. The hair is not wiry as I imagined it would be.”

“Think of it as a soft field upon which
your ladies can play,” he said.

Her hand stilled and she lifted her head,
looked up at him with her brows drawn together. “My ladies?” she questioned.

He smiled. “Your breasts.”

Bright red flared in her cheeks and she
lowered her eyes.

“Oh,” she whispered and started to remove
her hand. He laid his atop it to prevent her, pressing her palm tightly to the
center of his chest.

“The hair will tickle your nipples,” he said
and watched the blush deepen.

A soft moan of embarrassment vibrated in
her throat and her hand jumped beneath his.

“Trust me, sweeting. You’ll enjoy it.” He
flexed his fingers around her hand and began to move hers in a slow circle
between his pecs. “Now rub my chest.”

He actually heard her swallow and he
chuckled, coaxing her to do as he bid. He freed her hand.

Slowly at first—and keeping well away from
his nipples, not traveling as far as his navel—she ran her hand hesitantly over
his chest.