Twenty-two years adrift, helpless, barely enduring. All that time stolen from me. No more! Not a single day, not a moment!
His erection strains against the fine wool of his evening trousers, a thrillingly long, thick, hard bulge that I don’t even think about trying to resist. Our clothes are an intolerable impediment. I reach for the buttons of his fly.
At the brush of my fingers against him, he groans. “Amelia!”
I’m concentrating too intently to heed him. What is this fondness he has for damn buttons? Finally, after nearly intolerable seconds, his hot, engorged cock leaps into my welcoming hands.
I keep one wrapped around him and with the other seize his, drawing it down my thigh and under my billowing skirts. “Touch me…right there… Oh…… yes…! Like that! So good…!”
“This is insane,” he mutters but his tone lacks conviction. His long, skilled fingers stroke up toward my cleft. Finding me hot and wet, he gasps. “Thank fuck!”
I squirm against him, lost in a sensual haze but unable to look away. This is the only place that I want to be--with him, holding him, in my body, in my heart. The circumstances don’t matter; they scarcely register with me. We could be anywhere.
His eyes narrow to gleaming slits. A low, harsh growl breaks from him as he lifts me. As soon as I am positioned, he doesn’t hesitate but impales me with a single deep thrust. With his cock seated to the hilt, he pauses barely an instant to let me adjust before beginning a pounding rhythm, over and over, ramming me against the wall.
I sob not in pain but in ecstatic need, gasping his name into the hard, straining muscles of his throat. He’s splitting me in two and I don’t care. I can’t. I can only come, suddenly and convulsively, my hot sheathe tightening around him, demanding and taking everything he has to give me.
“You are mine,” he gasps as ecstasy crests within me. “Mine. Mine. Mine. No one else’s. Ever.”
With each rasping syllable, he continues driving into me, offering no respite. I can feel myself building toward another climax.
“Oh, god, yes….!”
It tears through me, even more intense than the first. I keep coming as Ian continues driving into me, arching higher and higher. He’s relentless, merciless, as though he’s trying to weld our bodies together now and forever. The world begins to blur at the edges. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel as I clench around him, his release bringing me yet again to my own.
He swallows my scream as he continues to pulse inside me for seemingly endless minutes. He is still in me, the last twitches of his climax sending ripples of pleasure through me, when he suddenly curses. Without warning, he pulls away, leaving me empty and bereft.
Not looking at me, he buttons up, then runs a hand through his hair. His features are taut, his voice low and angry.
“Goddamn it, what am I doing?” he demands.
Abruptly, his gaze pierces me. I am still pressed against the wall, my skirts caught up around my waist and my thighs wet with his come. I can only begin to imagine what a wanton display I make.
A harsh laugh breaks from him. “I have to give you credit, Amelia. You are one incredible piece of ass. But then you were made for fucking, weren’t you?”
A wave of coldness hits me, dragging me under. The contempt in his voice coming on top of the stark reminder of how susceptible I am to him play to my worst fears. Everything about my response to him mocks any hope I have that I truly possess my own will and am capable of making my own choices.
In contrast, the hard truth is that I’m nothing more than a means to an end for him, one he would clearly prefer to do without. That imbalance terrifies me. My anger, ignited by what I perceive as my own weakness, flares outward.
“So glad you enjoyed yourself,” I snarl. “Next time do us both a favor and use your hand!”
He’s gaping at me, his eyes dark with surprise, as I smooth my skirt down. My chest is tight and I am close to tears. The emotional upheaval of the past few days has finally caught up with me. I don’t think I can bear it but I have to, at least until I can crawl off some place where no one will see how he has shattered me.
“Or better yet,” I throw over my shoulder, “find some other woman who’s willing to be a receptacle for you. That shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure they’re lined up. But not me. Not ever again. I. Am. Done.”
Without waiting for a response from him, I retreat to the ladies room where I clean myself up as best I can before returning to the box. I’m so agitated that I’m certain Edward and Adele will realize something is wrong but both just give me a nod as I take my seat.
On the stage a naked Tristan and Isolde are still going at it. I’ve returned just as they are caught in flagrante and torn apart by cruel fate.
To the last notes of Act II, the curtain descends.
The house lights come up, the glow from the immense chandelier splintering the air into glittering shards. The audience rises. After several hours of sitting, they are all eager for the chance that intermission provides to see and be seen.
In the box nearby, Ian stands aside courteously to allow his mother and sister to leave first. He takes the opportunity to shoot me a look that speaks volumes, hinting as it does at a reckoning to come.
With a sense of dread mingling with dark excitement, I realize that notwithstanding my dramatic exit from the alcove, I have not escaped him.
Chapter Seventeen
Ian
She’s driven me insane. Between being with Amelia and being without her, I’ve lost my mind. That’s the only possible explanation for my behavior. I knew she would be at the opera, with the kind of security I have on her how could I not? But I steeled myself to get through the inevitable encounter. I could do it. I was in control. Instead…
I could have sworn that she was as eager as I was in the alcove. No, I know that she was. No other woman has ever responded to me like that, so completely and selflessly, holding nothing back, giving me everything.
Which brings me back to my fear that she can’t say no.
But then…
I could have thought before I talked, maybe chosen my words a little better but ‘receptacle’? Seriously? And other women? What the hell is she thinking? Why is she thinking it?
On the other hand, the fact that Amelia can get spitting, furiously angry at me and tell me off in rare, ripe terms is weirdly reassuring, enough to put a stupid smile on my face. I need a drink, better yet several. But I’m not having any. At least I still retain enough sense to know this isn’t the night for it. More than ever, I need to stay in control.
Who am I kidding? I need to get back the control I lost the moment I forgot all the reasons I sent her away, and instead dragged her into that damn alcove and rutted on her like an animal.
Shit, it felt so good. Her coming on my cock over and over the way she did, screaming my name. I will never have enough of her.
“Ian?”
Marianne is staring at me with an odd expression on her face. Unlike me, she has our mother’s looks, which means she is quite beautiful but right now she’s also clearly worried.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
I take a breath and tell myself to get it together. The last thing I want is for my family to have any inkling of what’s going on.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about a situation I need to deal with.”
My sister frowns. At twenty-two, she’s only six years younger than me but the age difference between us feels like more. I’ve made damn sure that her life has been a whole lot calmer and more sheltered than mine ever was. I know she’s more innocent than a lot of women her age, maybe even a little naïve. All the same, she’s no fool. Not a lot gets past her.
“Nothing serious, I hope?” she says.
Our mother is speaking with a friend nearby and so doesn’t hear the exchange. I want to keep it that way.
“Nothing I can’t handle. Would you like a drink?”
“Just water.” She sm
iles mischievously. “I don’t want to nod off and miss the big finale.”
I stifle a groan. “Please tell me the last act is shorter. They’re obviously both going to die so why can’t they just get on with it?”
Marianne gives me a chiding look. “Don’t be such a cynic. ‘Tristan und Isolde’ is one of the great romances of all time so of course it ends tragically. But first we get to hear Isolde’s magnificent aria to erotic death. It’s really quite extraordinary.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Erotic death. What does that even mean? Erotic I get just fine. When it’s right, it’s life affirming. Death I know all too well. They have nothing to do with each other.
I snag a flute of sparkling water for her off the tray of a passing server. Sipping it, she eyes me over the rim. “Amelia seems very nice. Not at all like Susannah though.”
“You don’t think so?” Marianne tends to have a good take on people. If she’s fooled, it’s a fair bet everyone else will be, too.
She shrugs. “I can see a superficial similarity but it’s clear she’s very different. How did you two meet?”
She got that one in fast but I should have seen it coming.
“Edward introduced us.” I have no compunction about the lie, not on this subject at least. I’ve already gone to great lengths to bury the truth of Amelia’s origins. I’m not about to take any chance of it ever coming out.
“Did he?” Marianne raises an eyebrow. “That’s odd, he didn’t seem happy about the two of you being acquainted. In fact for a moment there, I thought he was going to have to wrestle her away from you.”
I can’t help but grin at the thought of the two of us tussling over Amelia. McClellan is about my size and in good shape. He knows how to handle himself but I have no doubt who would have won. I fight dirty.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “Edward’s a gentleman. He’d never do anything so uncouth.”
“You’re right, of course.” A look of frustration flits across her face. It’s gone before I can even be sure that I saw it.
“Edward is always a perfect gentleman,” she says. Her eyes darken. She’s staring at something behind me. I shift slightly so that I can see what’s got her attention.
My body tightens. Amelia is standing on the other side of the Grand Foyer between Edward and Adele. A steady stream of people--mostly men--are approaching them, seeking introductions. She looks warm and lovely as she greets each. Nothing in her appearance gives a hint that half-an-hour ago she was pressed up against the wall of an alcove with my cock buried deep inside her.
“Do you know how close a cousin Amelia is?”
I’m preoccupied enough that I don’t immediately get what Marianne is asking. “How close?”
With a hint of exasperation, she says, “Is she a first cousin? Second? Third? Eighth twice removed? Cousin covers a lot of territory.”
The penny drops. I stare at my sister in bewilderment as I realize that she’s concerned Edward may be attracted to Amelia.
Hastily, I say, “First cousin, although Edward thinks of her as a sister.”
Marianne nods but not before I see the relief in her eyes. How did I miss this? When did my shy, reserved sister, who so far as I know has never given any man the time of day, develop an interest in Edward McClellan? And why hasn’t he reciprocated?
Edward’s always been discreet about his private life but I know for a fact that he’s a player. Never a shrinking violet, our Edward. More on the precocious side although to his credit he’s always behaved responsibly. Well, except for that time with the circus gymnast…
It occurs to me that he’s known Marianne since she was a little kid. Maybe that’s the hang up? If it is, I have to hope like hell that she isn’t about to get her heart broken.
I’m staring at Amelia, trying to figure out why she got as mad at me as she did and how to get around it, when I notice the tanned, silver-haired man approaching her. A surge of adrenalin goes through me. I loathe Charles Davos and have for years. The idea of him being anywhere near Amelia is a red flare.
“Stay here,” I tell Marianne. Davos within touching distance of my sister is equally unacceptable.
She looks bewildered but she trusts me so she does as I say. Now if I can only convince a certain other female to do the same.
Edward sees me coming and frowns but he doesn’t object when I nod to Adele and ease her behind me a little as I settle in beside Amelia. I can only gather that he’s got his own reservations about Davos.
Amelia glares at me. She isn’t just pissed, she’s flat out furious. And worse. In the depths of those incredible eyes, I see what looks like hurt. That twists my gut but there’s nothing I can do about it, not right then.
I bare my teeth and turn to Davos who is staring at me like something he’s found on the sole of his shoe.
“Ian,” he says, “what a surprise. Not off fighting somewhere for truth, justice and the American way?”
I hate guys who think like he does, I mean really hate them. Privileged bastards with no thought for anything other than themselves. But Davos is special. My hatred for him is in a category all its own.
“We can’t all sit on our asses, Charles,” I say. “But these days most of the fighting I do is from right here.”
“Then you really should get out more,” he says with a tight smile. “Your crudity is an insult to the lady.”
He turns his gaze on Amelia. I really don't like the way he's looking at her. It's too intense, too personal, like he's actually interested in her.
Davos is a handsome guy in a plastic kind of way. He’s pushing seventy but he looks decades younger thanks to surgery, pharmaceuticals, and a complete lack of anything resembling a conscience. He’s tanned and fit under the mane of silver hair. I can see why a certain kind of woman might find him attractive, especially when they factor in his bank account.
But all I can see on Amelia’s face as she looks at him is distaste. She’s trying to mask it but it’s there all the same in the narrowing of her heart-stopping eyes and the little downward curl at the corner of her delectable mouth.
“Please don’t concern yourself,” she tells him. Her usually soft voice suddenly has a note of steel in it. “I’m not that easily offended. Besides, I’m well aware of Ian’s service to our country. I’d say that’s earned him some leeway, wouldn’t you?”
It’s hard to tell who’s more surprised--me or Davos. I’m dealing with the fact that she’s gone from kicking me in the balls, if only verbally, to defending me while he can only frown.
Glancing from one of us to the other, Davos asks, “You two know each other?”
“Very well,” I say.
“Slightly,” she corrects.
I look at her. She looks right back, not giving an inch. The message couldn’t be clearer--however deep inside her I think I’ve gotten, I’ve barely scratched the surface.
So far as I’m concerned, she’s just issued a challenge. I can’t help but smile. If there’s one thing she should have figured out about me by now, it’s that there’s nothing I like better.
Chimes sound. Time for Act III.
When the curtain goes up again, I watch Amelia. She’s leaning forward a little in her seat, fascinated by what’s happening on the stage. As far as I can make out, the guy--Tristan--has gotten stabbed and is taking a long time to die before the love of his life--Isolde--arrives and sings about how great he is now that he’s dead.
Obviously, there’s something I’m missing. While I can admit that the music is good, the story leaves me cold. If Tristan had any real balls, he’d have scooped Isolde up and carried her off somewhere they could screw themselves silly, make babies, and ride off into the sunset together.
What the hell? Where did that thought come from? Babies? Sunsets? What? I have got to get a grip on myself, especially if Davos is in the picture. But that’s easier said than done. Amelia is lapping the whole thing up, I’ve got a hard-on to beat all, and the mu
sic just doesn’t stop, soaring to its conclusion on a note of longing that goes soul deep.
The cast is taking yet another bow when I realize that there’s a reason all great romances end as tragedies. It’s a lot easier to kill everyone off than it is to figure out how two people can overcome their differences and make a life together.
Especially when one of them is clearly hell bent on driving the other crazy.
It’s time to rethink my strategy.
Chapter Eighteen
Amelia
Returning from the opera, I’m overcome by weariness. Adele sees that and sends me off to bed with words of praise for how well it all went and a gentle kiss. I’m glad that my grandmother is happy. I just can’t imagine ever feeling that way myself.
When it comes to Ian, I truly don’t seem to have a will of my own. That terrifies me. But I’m also puzzled by it. More than a few of the people I was introduced to at the opera were attractive young men. I can see myself enjoying becoming better acquainted with some of them. That suggests I’m capable of making a choice at least up to a point. But beyond that? Could I actually give myself to another man? Would I want to? The mere idea feels me with unease.
At least I’m reassured that I’m not likely to see Ian again anytime soon. According to Adele, his presence at the opera was a rare concession to the social niceties. No doubt he has far better things to do.
I sleep poorly and rise too few hours later. Heading directly into the shower, I stand under the hot water until my muscles unclench and I finally feel ready to face the day. As I dry myself, I can’t help but notice the marks on my body. Touching the faint but unmistakable signs of Ian’s possession, I wonder why their presence doesn’t disturb me more. They are, after all, a reminder of just how eager I was to succumb to him.
And of how desolate I felt when he raised the specter of my greatest fear, that whatever else I may aspire to be, I am still a vessel for his pleasure.
Anew: Book One: Awakened Page 18
