Virgin Seduction

by Kathleen Creighton

  Except that when she did, she heard the gasp of Cade's indrawn breath. "What?" she whispered, afraid that she had hurt him. Already! She had not even begun to pull out the cactus!

  "You're all wet," he mumbled. "You'll catch cold."

  Yes, she was. Strange, but she had not thought about her wet clothes at all. Leila was quite certain she would not catch cold-she was never ill-but clearly she could not proceed with this delicate business dressed as she was.

  There was only one thing to be done. One by one she pulled off her riding boots and dropped them on the floor beside Cade's. Then she stood up. "I will only be a moment," she whispered, and sternly added, when he raised himself on his elbows to try and see what she was doing, "No-you must lie still. And…close your eyes."

  Then, as quickly as she could manage with nerveless, shaking fingers, she peeled off her blouse and jodhpurs and let them fall to the floor along with the rest of the wet clothing.

  Her flesh cringed with goose bumps as she sat once more on the bed, taking care this time not to let her clammy skin touch Cade's. Her breasts felt hard as marble, and hurt where they brushed the inside of her bra. She drew yet another deep breath-why could she not seem to get enough air?

  "I am ready," she whispered. Cade's only reply was a mutter she could not understand.

  She picked up the flashlight and switched it on-caught her lower lip between her teeth and exhaled carefully through her nose. She had seen men's naked bodies before in pictures, of course, and in Rome and Paris, and in the British Museum there had been statues. But there was a great difference, she was discovering, between flat paintings and cold bronze or stone, and a warm, vital male body. What astonished her most was an almost overwhelming desire to touch. That little valley low on his back, just above the waistband of his underwear, dark with a furring of golden brown hair. The longing to bury her nose and mouth in that valley, to feel the softness of his hair on her face…it was so intense it made her head swim. Even as a small child Leila had liked to explore with her nose and mouth, lips and tongue, smelling and tasting as well as touching.

  And she would-she silently promised herself that. But first there was the impediment of the cactus spines to deal with…

  They did not look like much, really, just a scattering of prickles not very different in color from his skin, and a few drops of blood. Some of the prickles had already come away with his clothing. There were a few on his shoulders and elbows and thighs, more on his lower back, and quite a few more, she was certain, imbedded in the white cotton that covered his backside. Her hand shook as she picked up the pliers. She set them back down on the bed and picked up the bottle of bourbon instead.

  "Well?" Cade's voice sounded muffled. "What's the holdup? Let's get this over with."

  "Be still," she said. Her voice sounded cracked and strange. Balancing the flashlight across her lap, she unscrewed the top of the bottle. The flashlight teetered as she pulled up one leg and turned herself toward him. Carefully, she poured a tiny amount of the liquid in the bottle into that golden nest of hair.

  His muscles contracted and his spine arched. He muttered something she could not hear.

  "What?" Breathless, she held the bottle poised…motionless.

  "I said, "That's a helluva waste of good bourbon.'"

  "Do you think so?" Leila tilted her head and regarded the bottle thoughtfully. Then she sniffed it again. It did smell good. Perhaps…She lifted the bottle to her lips and took a very large swallow.

  What the hell-?Cade pushed himself up on one elbow to stare at Leila, who all of a sudden had begun to gasp and choke and wheeze as if she were dying. It took him about half a second to figure out that it wasn't lighter fluid she'd swallowed, but only a pretty good slug of his bourbon. He snaked out a hand and rescued both the bottle and the flashlight while he waited for her to get her breath back.

  "But-it tastes terrible," she croaked when she could speak again, glaring at him accusingly, as if it were somehow Cade's fault. "How can you drink this?"

  "It grows on you," he said, and automatically, because of his father, added, "Too much, if you let it." But his mind wasn't on bourbon, or the words coming out of his mouth.

  Because he'd just realized what he was looking at, pinioned in the yellow circlet of the flashlight beam. Something that up to now he'd only dreamed about. Leila…wearing bikini panties and a lacy white bra and absolutely nothing else. It was a sight to fill a man's dreams…an athlete's thighs, smooth and sleek… womanly flare of hips… The waist he'd held in his hands up there on the hilltop seemed even more slender than he'd imagined, contrasted with the lush femininity above and below. And her breasts…It was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out, pulling those bra straps down over her shoulders.

  Then, for an instant he wondered if she'd somehow guessed his thoughts, when she pressed a hand to her chest and her skin seemed to darken to a dusky rose. But he realized that she was stroking, not hiding, and making an odd little pleasure-sound, like a large cat purring.

  "Mmm…oh," she murmured. "Yes, I see what you mean. It feels very nice, now. Nice and warm…all over inside me." She gave herself a shake and added with delightful primness, "Well-it is a pity that something that smells so nice and feels so good must taste so awful. But, perhaps it is just as well, since I do not believe it is very good for you." She plucked the bottle and the flashlight from his hands. "Now you must lie down and let me finish," she said, and gave him a severe look that had the opposite effect on him than she probably intended.

  He obeyed her with a groan, somehow managing to quell the impulse he'd just had, which was to just say the hell with the cactus, and roll her under him and kiss her breathless.

  He never knew how he got through the next hour, quite possibly the most intense pleasure and the most exquisite agony he could ever have imagined. And the cactus spines had very little to do with it.

  Lying there on his belly with his mind full of the last image he'd had of her-lush, curving flesh and taunting strips of lacy white-first he'd feel a tiny zzt of pain, then the sweet burn of the bourbon, and then the far sweeter warmth of her mouth…gentle heat and drawing pressure…and sometimes, when she forgot to hold it back out of the way, the cool silky kiss of her hair. Between times, she sang to him in a sweet, soft voice, in a language he didn't know. And when she had cleared an area of spines large enough, she would pour more bourbon into her hands and rub him all over with it…stroking, massaging…kneading the sting and the ache away. That was the pleasure.

  The agony was elsewhere. In his groin, of course, but in his belly, too, and the muscles of his arms and legs, his neck and jaws. Desire had taken over his body; it was a white-hot starburst in his brain. He was being consumed by desire. Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to do something about it, and when he did, he was desperately afraid he wouldn't be able to control the monster that was eating him alive.

  And he knew the worst was yet to come. She'd worked her way down his back to the elastic waistband of his shorts. She'd plucked the last of the spines from the backs of his arms and legs. When he felt her fingers slip under that elastic he knew he'd endured all he could. He made a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan and tried to turn.

  "No, no," she said softly, "you must let me finish." Gently but firmly she pushed him down. Even more gently she lifted his shorts away from his pricked backside, drew them over his legs and tossed them away.

  And he found there was more he could endure, after all.

  But just barely. He'd never felt so vulnerable. The cool air stirring over exposed skin, like a touch that never quite came, the cold wet tickle of alcohol between his legs and down his sides, and then-with all his strength he braced for it-her mouth. Yes, even there, laving, sucking… soothing away the sting. He could hear her quick, shallow breathing above the labored pounding of his own heart-for some reason, she'd stopped singing.

  He knew when she'd pulled the last of the spines. He heard her take in a breath and l
et it out in a soft and oddly replete little sigh. He felt her weight shift as she set the bottle of bourbon on the nightstand. Then shift again. He felt the cushiony weight of her breasts as she bent over him. Relief and alarm slammed into him and his heart skidded and lurched out of rhythm. No.

  Had he spoken? What did it matter? His body shuddered and shivered with adrenaline as he caught her around her waist. In an instant he'd pinned her, flat on her back, to the mattress.

  The flashlight rolled away somewhere, but it spilled enough light across the bed that he could see her face staring up at him… the dark enigma of her eyes, utterly without fear, just tiny lines of puzzlement between them.

  Her breasts heaved beneath his arm as she whispered, "You do not wish me to continue?"

  "No." This time he knew he'd spoken, but it was in a voice he didn't recognize. "And it's not a matter of wishing. I can't let you."

  "Why? I do not understand. Do you not like it?"

  Looking up and away from her, he gave a soft, croaking laugh. Then he brought his eyes back to her, and was caught off guard by a treacherous, shimmering fog of overwhelming tenderness. Like that strange, protective tenderness he'd felt for her before, only this was much, much worse. He couldn't speak, but had to look away again, and take deep breaths and laugh a little the way men do when they dare not humiliate themselves with symptoms of emotion.

  When he was able to look at her again, he lifted a hand to touch her face. Softly, with wondering fingers he traced the ink-black line of her eyebrow, the clean, pure sweep of her cheek and jaw.

  "Don't you know?" He shrugged one shoulder and said it with aching simplicity. "You're a virgin."

  Chapter 12

  She didn't say anything for several seconds, while her heartbeat fluttered against the barricade of his arm like a captive bird struggling to free itself. Then she made a sound, a perplexed and impatient little sigh.

  "In my culture," she whispered, and her frown deepened as she searched his face, "a man would consider a woman's virginity a treasure…a gift. I think that for you this is not true. I think…for you it is only a burden."

  "Not so much a burden…" He considered, his voice gravelly and soft. "More like…a responsibility."

  "But…why?" She gave a hopeless little sigh and said again, "I do not understand."

  And again Cade had to gaze into the shadows beyond the light while he gathered his courage. She couldn't know, could she, how hard it was for him to talk about such intimate things? "I'm too full…too hard…right now. Too…aroused." He took a breath, but the words wouldn't come, and finally he whispered it brokenly, "I don't think I could stand it if I hurt you."

  "Oh," she cried, "is that all?" Her eager innocence nearly shattered him. Her fingers closed around his wrist. She turned her lips into his palm like a bird snuggling into its nest, and he could feel them form a smile against his skin. She closed her eyes, and something glimmered like tiny diamonds in her lashes. She whispered, "I thought…it was because you did not want me."

  He was too precarious; he dared not laugh. With a soft groan he lowered his forehead until it touched hers. "Not want you? No, no, it's that I want you too much."

  Her fingers left his wrist and wove themselves into his hair. Her face tilted and her lips touched searchingly here and there on his face…his chin, the edges of his jaws, the corners of his mouth. Between touches, in breathless little puffs he heard words. "But I am…your wife. How…is it possible…to want…your wife…too much?"

  Your wife. He replayed the words in his head and his heart shuddered as if from a violent collision. In a sense it was-a collision between heart and head…between reason and emotion. If you do this, his head reminded him, it can't be undone.

  To which his heart responded, I don't care!

  In slow, sighing surrender he brought his mouth into alignment with hers…barely touching…brushing her breath with his. He felt her go motionless with wonder. Her lips opened in a blissful, waiting smile. She moved her head slowly back and forth, caressing his lips with hers, mercilessly teasing nerve-endings already honed to needle points. He felt the caress in his temples and breastbone, in the soles of his feet and the backs of his knees, in the pit of his stomach…and with a deep, burning ache in his groin.

  If I kiss her now, he thought-he absolutely knew-I won't be able to stop.

  "It is all right," she murmured, as if she'd heard his thought, her words tickling his lips. "I have been told it is normal for there to be pain the first time. I do not mind."

  With a quick, violent motion he caught her wrist and held it pressed against the bedspread while he drew back to look at her. Her breasts rose and fell in uneven rhythm, brushing against his arm. He frowned down at them and muttered groggily, "Who told you that?" Whoever it had been, in his heart he was vowing there and then to make that person a liar.

  "Salma. When I was very small she was my nanny. Now she is my very dear friend. And she gave me something to help soothe the pain…a special recipe of herbs and oils. She said it is from her grandmother."

  Herbs and oils? He was beginning to get The Arabian Nights feeling again. That sense of unreality grew more encompassing as he listened to the muffled thump of his heart…heard his own voice as if through layers of wool. Carefully, trying not to smile, he said, "And you… brought this magic stuff with you?"

  "Yes, of course-I have it right here, in my bag." And lithe as an otter she twisted under him, rolling onto her stomach as she stretched an arm to reach for her overnighter.

  He barely knew when she opened it and began to rummage through its contents. Raised on one elbow, he gazed at her body…the pale, curving shape of it against the darker bedspread…and paler still the narrow stripe across her back…the triangle that barely succeeded in covering the rounded mounds of her bottom. He was thinking about himself in just that position, the treatment she'd put him through…his terrifying vulnerability, the exquisite sensations…his overwhelming arousal.

  She gave a soft "Hah!" of triumph and held up a bottle, graceful in shape and iridescent in color. But before she could roll back to him, he growled, "Not so fast," and with a hand on the small of her back, pinned her there on her belly. In a moment he was kneeling astride her thighs, bending over to whisper in her ear, "Now it's my turn…"

  Though the pain of desire, the pressure of his arousal as merciless as before, now his mind, at least, was clear. He felt in control again, of himself and of circumstances. Confidence surged like a drug through his veins. He felt light-headed with his power over her, and at the same time he quivered inside with tenderness.

  Oh, so gently, because he knew from firsthand experience how helpless and vulnerable she must be feeling, he drew the silken skein of her hair away from her face and neck, pausing to trace, with a delicacy he'd never known he possessed, the outline of her ear. He heard her exhale as he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and felt the tickle of her lashes as she closed her eyes.

  He straightened, then, and deftly unhooked the fastening of her bra, and with his fingers fanned outward like a moth's wings drew his thumbs downward along her spine, acquainting her with his touch. Her skin felt hot and smooth, as if she had a fever.

  He eased the bottle from her curled fingers and opened it, then held the bottle to his nose. The fragrance was exotic…mysterious…intoxicating…all the things he associated with her. It filled his head with images… impressions…memories…of sun-drenched gardens heavy with the scent of roses, of laughing fountains and brightly colored birds, and of a black-haired princess with a winsome, dimpled smile.

  Setting aside the cap, he poured a small pool of oil into the valley between her shoulderblades. He began to spread it over her body, working like a master sculptor, kneading and molding, sometimes with his fingers, sometimes with his whole hands, utterly engrossed in the artistry of her body, the utter perfection of her muscles, the way they arranged themselves so beautifully over her bones. The clever symmetry of her spine…


  She wasn't as relaxed as she seemed. She stirred when he eased himself backward, fingers reaching under the lacy top of her underpants.

  "Fair's fair," he whispered as very slowly he peeled them over the rise of her bottom, and forgot to breathe as he watched with a schoolboy's fascination this final unveiling of her nakedness. He moved to her side at last in order to shuck her panties the rest of the way off, and felt her spine contract when he leaned over to kiss, like one bestowing a benediction, the matched set of indentations just where the firm resilience of muscle began.

  With upmost care, and marshaling all the self-control he had left, he poured oil into the gentle valley at her waist. Then began to spread it downward…down her sides, over the smooth mounds of her buttocks to the backs of her thighs. He poured more oil and with it slipped his fingers into the cleft between her buttocks, gauging minutely her response to this first invasion of her body's most private places.

  Her breathing grew quick and distressed. She stirred again, and it was instinct, perhaps, that made her move her legs a little apart. He lay beside her, then, stretching his body all along hers and raising himself on one elbow so he could murmur assurances to her as he caressed her. She tried to turn her face toward him, searching…seeking…but he pressed his face against the side of hers to keep her still and kissed her ear, and then her neck. She gasped and squirmed closer to him, but didn't try again to turn.

  And then he soothed her with kisses and wordless sounds while he slipped his oiled fingers between her thighs and penetrated for the first time her virgin softness.

  She was tight…so tight…breathing in little pants and whimpers, but not, he knew, with pain. Gently, he withdrew, then penetrated once again, then again, easing farther into her body each time. The oil and her own moisture made it easy. Her skin was hot where it lay along his, her hair damp with sweat and musky with her own unique, exotic scent. His heart pounded wildly, giddily, as he brought his open mouth to her nape and immersed himself in the heat and smell of her…as he pushed deeper, and yet deeper into her body. And when he had penetrated her as far as he could in that way, he heard her give a sharp little cry-more surprised than frightened-and felt her flesh contract and pulse around his finger. He held her so gently, housing her safely in his hand, soaking himself in her heat, and his own body was shot through with ripples and shudders-of pleasure, and other emotions even more bewildering.