You Belong to My Heart

by Nan Ryan

  After all, it would only be her body he toyed with, not her heart.

  The Captain read the indecision in her expressive dark eyes and again lifted his hand, extended it to her.

  “No,” Mary Ellen said, barely above a whisper, knowing as well as he did that she really meant yes.

  “Mary,” he said quietly in his most even, self-assured voice. “Come to me, Mary.”

  Still she hesitated.

  If she took his outstretched hand and went inside his suite, she would be spending the rest of her nights with him for as long as he wanted her. Until he tired of her and tossed her aside as he’d done once before.

  But, Lord, she was so very tired of fighting her intense attraction for this coldhearted, hotblooded man. His chilling indifference could inflict great pain. But his warm touch could afford unbelievable ecstasy.

  “Give me your hand, Mary,” he commanded, his voice remaining low, soft.

  Mary Ellen laid her fingers atop his warm palm and said inanely, “I…I…need a bath.”

  “I know,” he said, and gently drew her to him. “And I’m going to give you one.”

  31

  AND SO HE DID.

  The bare-chested, white-trousered Captain ushered Mary Ellen into the master suite and locked the heavy door behind them. His hand enclosing hers warmly, he led her through the shadowy sitting room to the bedroom and dressing room/bath beyond. In the marble-walled bath lighted only by tall white candles in gleaming silver candlesticks, the white marble tub was brim full with steaming water and rich perfumed suds.

  “My lady’s bath awaits,” he said, and tossed the black silk robe on a long velvet chaise.

  He slid the white towel from his neck, looped it around Mary Ellen’s waist, and pulled her to him. He sat down on a tufted velvet vanity stool. With the towel he reeled in the unresisting Mary Ellen to stand between his spread knees, facing him.

  He released the towel, let it drop to the plush white rug.

  With the easy deftness of a man who had undressed his share of beautiful women, the Captain leisurely disrobed Mary Ellen, refusing to let her help. As he removed each article of clothing, he kissed the pale flesh he’d exposed. And as he undressed her and kissed her, he told her he’d do everything he could to make the evening a pleasant one for her.

  Mary Ellen had no reason to doubt him. The cruel things they had said to each other were forgotten as she surrendered to the sensual pleasure this man so effortlessly provided.

  When she was totally naked, Mary Ellen made a move toward the waiting tub and he said, “No, wait, Mary. Just for a moment.”

  Mary Ellen felt the heat of his silver gaze as he held her at arm’s length and studied her intensely as if she were some interesting work of art.

  The man staring fixedly at her was thinking that the Almighty had surely fashioned no more perfect female than the one standing before him. At least physically. Mary was tall for a woman, but she wasn’t large. She was appealingly slender, and the long, clean lines of her pale body spoke of both strength and grace. Her breasts were not heavy, but pleasingly full and well-shaped, the nipples still the shy pink hue of a young virgin’s. The arch of her hips was ideal in their sheer physical beauty, and while neither hips nor pelvis was wide and generous like those of some of her more voluptuous sisters, she was clearly fashioned for fucking.

  He knew how perfectly their bodies fit together, remembered with vivid clarity how tight she was, how sweet and hot. Recalling the smallness, the snugness, of her gripping him, he was struck by the idea that she’d have a hard time delivering a child.

  The senseless thought was gone as soon as it came, and Captain Knight rose to his feet, gently cupped Mary Ellen’s face with his hands, and kissed her. Then he lifted her up into his arms and carried her to the tub. Mary Ellen clung to his neck as he leaned down, dipped his fingers to check the water’s temperature, then lowered her slowly into the sudsy depths.

  “Mmmmmm.” She sighed with pleasure and leaned her head back against the tub’s small cushioning pillow. “Wonderful,” she murmured.

  Standing above, looking down at her, he said, “Stay just as you are; I’ll be right back.”

  Nodding, Mary Ellen closed her eyes, felt her tense, tired muscles starting to relax beneath the surface of the hot, bubbly water.

  When he returned from the bedroom, Mary Ellen’s eyes were closed and she was almost dozing. He spoke her name softly. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He held a clean white washcloth in one hand, a couple of white towels in the other. She lifted her arm, reached for the washcloth.

  “Allow me,” he said, and laying aside the towels, he knelt beside the tub.

  Supposing he must surely be teasing, she nonetheless said, “No, I…Really, no…I can—”

  “Shhh,” the Captain warned as he dipped the cloth into the water and reached for the new bar of perfumed soap.

  Mary Ellen lunged up anxiously when he pressed the soapy cloth to the base of her throat. But she sank back against the tub rim’s cushioning pillow when his lips covered hers and he whispered into her mouth, “Mind me now, Mary.”

  In no mood to argue, Mary Ellen minded him. She was as submissive as a small child being bathed by a parent. But she was no child and he was no parent, and soon she was experiencing the most memorable bath of her entire life.

  He started with her shoulders, then had her sit forward while he washed her slender back. It was wonderfully sensuous to have him guide the soapy cloth gently up and down her spine as if she were made of priceless porcelain. Mary Ellen bent her head, put her face on her raised knees, and sighed with the enjoyment of it. When her back was clean and fragrant from the perfumed soap, he instructed her to raise her head and lean back again.

  She did.

  And she felt her face flush with heat when his strong brown hand generously soaped her slippery breasts. The wet nipples instantly became taut under his gentle touch and hot silver gaze. He reached in the tub, scooped up rich bubbles, and deposited them on her tingling nipples. Then he bent his dark head and blew them away.

  He bathed every inch of her body, touching her in ways that thrilled and excited her. And when she sighed and gasped and arched up to meet his cloth-covered hand, he looked at her with those smoldering slate eyes and asked, “Does that feel good? Is this better? Or this?”

  By the time the erotic exercise in cleansing was over, Mary Ellen was so aroused, she could hardly wait for him to make love to her. She was sure he felt the same because his dark, naked chest was rising and falling heavily and the fabric of his crisp white trousers strained across his swollen groin.

  When he drew her up out of the tub and began toweling her off, Mary Ellen trembled with rising anticipation. When she was dry at last, he picked up the black silk robe from the chaise and held it out for her. Her back to him, she slipped her arms into the long sleeves, then sighed and leaned back against him while he reached around her and tied the robe’s sash at her waist. He turned her to face him, rolled up the sleeves over her hands, and pulled the slick lapels together over her naked breasts.

  His attention shifted to her hair, which was twisted into a severe knot at the back of her head. He reached up and, seemingly in no particular hurry, slipped the pins from the tresses and watched, fascinated, as they spilled down around her black-robed shoulders. He combed his fingers through the long pale hair, lifted a lock, and pressed it to his nose and mouth, inhaling deeply.

  “I washed it last night,” Mary Ellen said anxiously, “but it’s been so hot today that—”

  “Smells good,” he reassured her, lifted his dark head, and drew the lock of hair down to his naked chest, tickling his flat brown nipple with the wispy white ends before he released it.

  He then took her into the bedroom, and Mary Ellen looked about in stunned surprise. The only illumination in the large room was romantic candlelight. The French gold-framed mirrors reflected the tiny flames from dozens of tall white candles in ornate candelabra. On
the floor before the cold marble fireplace, a snowy white damask tablecloth was spread on the plush wool rug. Champagne was chilling in a silver bucket, and a pair of sparkling crystal flutes awaited the splash of the cold bubbly.

  A crystal vase at one corner of the white cloth held a fragrant bouquet of velvety ivory roses. A tempting spread had been laid out on porcelain dishes: cheeses and cold meats and breads and nuts and figs. Plump purple grapes spilled from a silver bowl, and an array of sweet confections graced a porcelain platter.

  Mary Ellen was both pleased and perplexed.

  She was pleased that he had gone to so much trouble to make the evening a special one, but perplexed that he obviously intended them to dine before making love. The stimulating bath had left her weak with wanting. It wasn’t for food that she hungered.

  “I thought we’d have a little repast first,” he said, and Mary Ellen had no choice but to agree.

  They sat on the rug beside the spread feast. The Captain poured the chilled champagne and handed a glass to Mary Ellen. They nibbled on nuts and figs, then dined on the cheeses and meats and breads. On another occasion Mary Ellen would have relished these delicious delicacies, foods she hadn’t tasted in ages. But not now.

  It seemed to Mary Ellen that the meal lasted forever, and she wondered at him. He ate slowly, leisurely, as if in no hurry at all. Surely he knew that he had awakened her passions with the arousing bath; that she was excited, would stay excited until he made love to her.

  Wearing only his oversize black silk robe, Mary Ellen was seated on the soft rug with her slender legs curled to one side, sipping her champagne and gazing at him, feeling as if she couldn’t stand it one more minute. That she would die if he didn’t take her straight to bed.

  She wasn’t sure what was most responsible for keeping her so aroused. The lingering effects of the bath. Or the chilled champagne lowering her inhibitions. Or the provocative touch of the slick black silk on her naked flesh. Or the sight of him stretched out on his side, weight supported on an elbow, a knee bent and raised, his awesome erection straining the white fabric of his tight trousers.

  As if he had read her mind, he rolled into a sitting position, reached for the sash of the robe, and gave it a gentle but decisive tug.

  “If you’re too warm,” he said, “why not take off the robe.”

  Her breath caught. Any second now he would strip it from her body, carry her to the bed, and make love to her.

  He didn’t.

  He took a long swallow of champagne, looked at her with hooded gray eyes, languidly pushed the opened robe apart so that she was naked to his scrutinizing gaze. Then, to her surprised dismay, he stretched back out on his side, reached over, and plucked a purple grape from the silver bowl.

  Mary Ellen thought she would explode.

  The dark man calmly eating grapes knew the state she was in. He knew very well that she was so hot and eager, she could hardly stand it. So was he. But he made her wait, made himself wait. He had a reason. He wanted her to be so hot, to want him so much, that when finally he took her, she’d agree to be his for as long as he was at Longwood.

  So, ignoring his aching groin, his thick hot blood, he bided his time. He offered her the various rich pastries, telling her how good they were, insisting she sample some of each. He fed her the sweet confections, then leaned over and licked the powdered sugar from her lips.

  He poured her more champagne. He plied her with the chilled wine until she was light-headed and tipsy.

  And hotter than ever.

  All her inhibitions washed away in the chilled champagne and hot bath, Mary Ellen melted against him when finally he eased the black silk robe from her shoulders and down her arms. He kissed her. While his lips moved warmly on hers, his hand caressed her breasts, teased the stinging nipples.

  Their lips finally separated, but his hand stayed on her tingling flesh. The candlelight reflected in the depths of his smoky eyes, he looked at her, unblinking, and said, “Mary, rise up onto your knees.”

  Without questioning him, she rose to her knees, knelt there naked before him. His hand swept over her ribs, stroked her contracting stomach. Mary Ellen’s breath came out in a rush, her eyes closed, and she heard him say, “Sit back on your heels, Mary.”

  Eyes still closed, she sighed and eased back onto her bare heels. His hands went to her knees; gently he urged them apart, spreading them. Mary Ellen trembled when his hand went between her parted legs, touched her in that spot where she burned so hot.

  “Open your eyes, Mary,” he commanded softly.

  She opened her eyes, looked at him. His fingers caressed her while he gazed into her dark eyes. Then, abruptly, his hand left her flesh, and he lifted it up before her face, showed her his glistening dark fingers. He said, “See how ready you are for me.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, on fire, hurting, praying he’d lift her into his powerful arms and carry her to the bed.

  “You’re hot and wet.”

  “Mmmmm,” she murmured, licking her dry lips.

  “Say it, Mary.”

  Mary Ellen shook her head, turned it away. He caught her chin, turned her face back to his.

  “Say it. Say ‘I’m hot and wet and ready for you, my Captain.’”

  Mary Ellen looked into his icy-hot charcoal eyes and knew she’d say anything, do anything. Her words coming out in a rush, she said, “I’m hot and wet and ready for you, my Captain.” She paused, held her breath, then pleaded, “Please…please…”

  “Yes, baby,” he said, and in an instant he swept the dishes out of the way and Mary Ellen found herself lying flat on her back on the damask tablecloth.

  “The bed,” she murmured.

  “No,” he told her, anxiously peeling off his tight white trousers, “here. Here on the floor where we can see better.”

  “See?” she asked breathlessly.

  “In the mirrors. Look, Mary,” he urged, parting her long, slender legs and moving between, “everywhere you look you see the two of us naked.”

  Mary Ellen turned her head to the side, glanced directly at one of the many tall, gold-framed mirrors. There they were, naked on the floor in the flickering candlelight. Entranced, she watched boldly as her dark lover lowered his lean body to hers. She flung her arms above her head and stared in wonder as his gleaming brown body met, then became a part of hers.

  It was shocking.

  It was beautiful.

  It was highly erotic.

  “Now look into my eyes,” he instructed, and Mary Ellen, sighing, turned her head and looked at him.

  His handsome face loomed just above hers, the candlelight casting shadows beneath the high, slanting cheekbones. The muscles in his wide, sleek shoulders bulged as he balanced his weight on stiffened arms and stared fixedly down at her.

  He had eased into her as she’d watched, and now he flexed his firm buttocks and implanted himself more deeply, causing her to gasp and clasp his rigid biceps.

  “Feel me, Mary,” he said, expecting no answer. “This is all of me you need, but you need this. Say you need this.”

  “I do,” she admitted, so dazzled, so aroused, she would have said anything, done anything. “I need this.”

  “You need this from me?”

  “Yes, yes, from you. You and nobody else.”

  He began the slow, sensuous movements of loving as he told her, “You’ll deny me no longer. You’ll share my bed whenever I want you. When I come upstairs each night, I’ll come to you and you’ll be waiting. You will no longer lock your door against me.”

  “No, never,” she whispered, feeling him fill and stretch her. “I won’t lock my door.”

  “There are no locks that can keep me out of your room or out of your body, Mary. Do you understand?”

  Nodding, she sighed with the ecstasy of having him moving inside her and with the excitement of seeing their blended naked bodies from every angle in the spacious, candlelit bedroom. Reflected in the many mirrors were dozens of hims and hers, and
all of them moved together so perfectly, so provocatively.

  All the naked hims were so dark, so masculine, so masterful. All the bare hers were so pale, so feminine, so receptive. It was like watching an entire group of exquisitely beautiful men and women making love, and the seductive sight of it made the hot blood race through Mary Ellen’s veins.

  Burying himself deeply within her, the Captain again asked, “Do you understand?”

  Her pelvis rising to meet the driving thrust of his, she said breathlessly, “I understand. There will be no locks between us.”

  She moaned with rising pleasure and added in a whisper, “And you will love me like this every night. Every night.”

  “I will,” he whispered, and kissed her.

  32

  AFTER A NIGHT OF unforgettable lovemaking before the gold-framed mirrors, Mary Ellen awakened in the big mahogany four-poster bed alone.

  The high, hot sun streaming in through the open French doors reached the oversize four-poster and fell across her face. The morning light was so strong, it shone through her closed eyelids.

  Her sleepy eyes opened and she turned her head slowly. The pillow was empty beside her, but it still bore the indentation of Captain Knight’s dark head. Mary Ellen sat up, pushed her tousled hair from her eyes, and saw her naked reflection in the French gold-framed mirrors.

  She immediately reached for the covering sheet as her face pinkened and she recalled how brazenly she had watched herself in the mirrors making love with Captain Knight. Her bare stomach fluttered at the recollection, and her face flushed with embarrassment.

  But she no longer kidded herself that she was sorry it had happened. If he were here right now, she’d gladly get back down on the floor with him. She’d make love to him all day if he wanted her.

  It shamed her to realize what a wanton she was with him, but the days of denying it were over. She’d made her decision last night, and she wouldn’t change her mind now, even in the harsh light of day. Right or wrong, foolish or wise, she couldn’t resist him physically. Didn’t really want to resist him.