by Andie Brock
‘Orlando, put me down.’ Her breath was hot against his neck, the fingers that had found their way beneath his collar digging into the skin of his shoulders with delicious pain.
‘I intend to.’
The white shape was in front of them now—a looming iceberg in the gloom of the room. Releasing one arm from Isobel’s body for long enough to be able to grab at the dust sheet, Orlando watched with satisfaction as it slipped away to reveal the bare posts of a bed, before landing in a crumpled pile at his feet. Kicking it impatiently to one side, he took a step forward, Isobel still pressed to his chest, and lifted them both up on to the mattress, where he immediately straddled her body with his own.
‘There. Is that better?’ His brows quirked with mocking amusement, settling into a dark line above eyes that glittered with both triumph and hunger. ‘Is that what you meant?’
Locking his elbows, he raised his torso off hers in order to be able to look down on his captive.
‘You know it isn’t, Orlando.’
With her lower body pinned beneath his, Isobel raised her arms in what appeared to be an attempt to push him away. But Orlando wasn’t fooled. The feeble shove against his chest was totally unconvincing and did nothing more than heighten the sexual energy between them, expose the weakening of her will. And when Orlando looked deep into her eyes he knew for certain that she was feeling it—she was feeling that raw, intimate, unspent passion every bit as much as him. No matter how much she tried to deny it. And the throbbing erection beneath his trousers, the one that was driving him crazy as it pressed forcibly against her groin, was affecting Isobel one hell of a lot more than she was prepared to say out loud.
‘Tell me that you don’t want this, Isobel.’ Even as he rasped the words Orlando had released one hand to undo the buckle of his belt, his fingers working the buttons of his fly.
There was a sweet silence, broken only by the soft panting of Isobel’s breath.
‘Tell me that you don’t want me to make love to you.’ Buttons undone, Orlando was now trying to tug his jeans down over his hips—frustratingly difficult with one hand.
He watched her swallow hard, her eyes darting to the exposed skin of his lower regions.
‘Say the words, Isobel.’
Sitting upright now, he stifled a groan as his movement ground them together, the intimate contact shooting a bolt of pleasure right through him. He needed to rein himself in. He needed to be sure.
With a scorching glance Orlando shifted his body, lifting himself off Isobel and swinging his legs over the side of the bed—but not before he had caught the gratifying look of disappointment in her eyes. Standing tall now, he looked down on her, lying on the rumpled coverlet, watching him intently and making no attempt to escape.
He started to unbutton his shirt, his eyes never leaving hers as more and more of his broad chest was exposed until the shirt was shrugged over his shoulders and tossed to the ground. When his striptease was met with further silence he started on his jeans, pulling them lower, his boxer shorts coming down with them, until the mighty power of his erection was free from its constraints and stood hard and proud, demanding that Isobel look at it.
And look at it she did. As her eyes widened dramatically a small mew escaped her lips and she gulped, moving the pale skin of her throat.
Pulling off his jeans, Orlando threw them to one side and then straightened up to his full height, placing his hands on his hips in a shameless display of the glorious nakedness of his body.
‘Come on, then, Isobel. I’m waiting.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
OH, DEAR LORD! From her supine position, Isobel stared at the glorious god of a man who stood before her, his feet firmly planted, his hands on his hips, his body gleamingly, throbbingly, totally naked.
And what a body!
All tautly gleaming muscles.
His bunched biceps rippling with barely leashed power, the sculpted pecs with their whorls of close-cropped dark hair leading the eye down to the washboard abs, the rock-hard ridges beneath olive skin shadowed darkly in the dim light.
Unable to stop herself, Isobel let her eyes travel south—how could they not? Past the jut of his hips and the indentation of his navel to where a thin line of dark hair arrowed to the star of the show—the enormous, pulsing, breathtaking erection that held itself strong and proud between Orlando’s parted legs.
A gasp escaped Isobel’s dry lips. What was he trying to do to her?
She blinked furiously, as if she could make Orlando vanish—take away the torment of his image. Here was the perfect specimen of man, every woman’s fantasy. He was utterly irresistible. And he knew it.
Forcing herself to find the will power to drag her eyes away from this vision of virility, before the fire he had ignited deep within her core caused her to spontaneously combust, she raised her eyes to Orlando’s face. Then wished she hadn’t. Because the smug, satisfied, downright cocky expression she met there told her exactly what she knew already. That her pathetic protestations hadn’t fooled him for one moment. That her body was betraying her in the most obvious way, from the rasping breathing that pulled her dress tight across her chest to the curl of her body as she squirmed against his imaginary touch, exposing more and more of her bare legs as the movement raised her hemline—and she was doing nothing to stop it.
It was patently obvious that she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her. Which, judging by the size of the erection that refused to vanish from the periphery of her vision, was quite a lot.
Propping herself up on one elbow, Isobel felt her mouth fall open with longing—a longing that intensified tenfold when Orlando took a step forward so that he was only inches from her parted lips. All she would have to do was lean forward to take him, to curl her lips around the head of his member and wait for him to thrust it into her mouth in a way she knew he wouldn’t be able to resist—the way he had done during one of the many times they had made love during those sultry nights on Jacamar.
God, it was tempting.
Even as she struggled to fight against the tidal wave of longing, the intense sexual need that had invaded every cell of her body, the control freak in Isobel tried to rationalise this action. If she took him in her mouth—something that was looking less and less possible to resist—it wouldn’t technically count as sexual intercourse. She would be in charge. That was the important thing. She could bring him to orgasm.
Oh, God, just the thought of it made dampness pool inside her core.
She would have the all-important control. He would be the one displaying his weakness for her. Which, even though it was obviously nothing more than a carnal animal attraction, still felt pretty darned empowering right now. Yes, she would do it—make him demonstrate his need for her.
But in the feverish split-second it took her to come to this ludicrous decision everything changed. Orlando was back on the bed, straddling her, and one hand was travelling up her thigh, pushing her dress up with it. Arching over her, he dipped his head, seeking her lips, and when he found them his kiss was hot and fervent and full of a need that couldn’t be tamed. A need that had Isobel totally, hopelessly and helplessly under the spell of his command. So much for that control theory.
His hand had reached her panties now, slipping under the scrap of silky fabric, his expert fingers moving unerringly to the swollen nub of her arousal, where his circling, stroking movement, together with the intense heat of his kiss, saw Isobel groan with longing, arching her back and spreading her legs as widely as the dress stretched across her thighs would allow.
The shudder of an orgasm started to build. No, this wasn’t possible—not like this...not so quickly. Releasing her lips, Orlando looked down at her, revelling in his abilities, in the ease with which it happened. His gleam of triumph should have brought her to her senses, made her buck away from him and show that she was stronger than this. But with his head bent, the shadowed light accentuating the hollowed angles of his cheeks and chin, the graze of stubbl
e across his jaw and the untamed lust darkening his eyes to black, he looked so meltingly, groaningly sexy, so utterly irresistible, that she had absolutely no chance.
‘Let’s get rid of these, shall we?’
Pushing himself back on his knees, he knelt before her, unceremoniously pushing up her dress so that it bunched tightly around her waist, his eagerness to get to her panties leaving no time either to remove the dress or worry about what he was doing to it. He tugged the panties down her legs with a couple of forceful yanks. When he got to her wedge-heeled sandals he hesitated for a moment before pulling them off too, tossing them over his shoulder where they fell to the floor with a thud. The panties soon joined them.
‘There. That’s better.’
On top of her again, he angled his naked body sideways to gain perfect access to her once more. Without the restriction of her clothes he was able to push her thighs further apart, so that his fingers could return to where they had left off, and a jolt of electrifying pleasure seared through her with their very first touch.
When he continued his unrelenting torment, increasing the pressure stroke by stroke, Isobel felt the shudder of orgasm start to build again, her body twitching, then bucking beneath his touch, an animal groan of pure pleasure blocking her throat, restricting her breathing. Then suddenly she was there—shaking, screaming out loud, wailing with the exquisite pleasure and mind-numbing release of his expertise.
As the sensation rolled over her again and again she realised that Orlando hadn’t stopped. His fingers were still there, performing their magic, relentlessly prolonging the searing intensity of the sensation until she thrashed beneath him, her hair sticking to her forehead, spreading wild across the coverlet, the rapture almost too much to bear.
And then it was over. As the last violent twitches left her body she felt Orlando shift his position and, unscrewing her eyes, saw him looking down on her the way she’d known he would be, savouring her dishevelled, sweaty, totally uncontrolled wantonness. If his earlier look had been of triumph, victory, then this was one of possession—domination, even. He could do this to her—he had done this to her. With less than a couple of minutes of skilful lovemaking he had reduced her to the quivering mass of abandoned helplessness that he saw before him.
He had made her his.
As he lowered himself down onto her, Isobel closed her eyes again against the sheer thrill of his nakedness, the pressure of his erection against her groin. She felt his hair brush her chest as he dipped his head, his hand slipping the straps of her dress and bra over her shoulders to release the swell of her breasts, before his lips trailed a path of heat and damp across them that left a trail of goosebumps in their wake. And when his tongue slid into her cleavage she hooked her arms around his neck, pulling him down to increase the pressure, any vestige of self-respect gone now—it was too late. He had won.
‘Tell me you want it, Isobel.’ Deliberately moving so that his swollen member ground against her, Orlando searched deep into her eyes for the answer.
Too choked with desire to be able to answer, far too desperate with the yearning to feel him inside her to be able to speak, Isobel spread her legs wide, arching up in readiness for him.
‘Uh-uh—not good enough, I’m afraid. I need to hear you say it.’
Why? Wasn’t it all too blatantly, earth-shakingly obvious? Wasn’t every fibre of her being screaming for him to take her? And yet still he held back, his body poised on the brink of penetration in a masterful display of the wretched self-control he was so proud of. Control he was now determined to parade before her to demonstrate her own total lack of it.
What was he trying to do? Make her beg?
And yet despite the almost casual demand there was no mistaking the look in his eyes—eyes that had turned liquorice black—or the slight tremble in the muscled forearms that were planted on either side of her head, the veins running in thick cords down their length.
If his pride meant that he needed her to say the words then she would say them. Because right now her need was bigger than any pride, and even though she would never get Orlando to admit it so was his.
‘I want you, Orlando.’ The words came out as a husky whisper, barely escaping her lips before his mouth came down on hers for another bruising kiss.
‘Say it again.’ Lowering his locked elbows, he nuzzled her neck, his voice grating, his breathing ragged. ‘How much do you want me, Isobel?’
‘This much.’ Sliding her arm down his back, she felt him twitch beneath her touch. It turned into a full spasm as she trailed her fingertips lightly over his taut buttocks, following the line of the cleft before slipping underneath him to take hold of his erection, circling its wide girth in her palm.
‘Dio, Isobel.’ He let out a long, low groan. ‘That is all I need to know. Come here.’
Arching upwards, he put his hand over hers, guiding his member to Isobel’s throbbing, swollen core. With the tip in place he paused, shaking with feverish desire, mirroring Isobel’s own desperate longing to finish what he had started.
‘I warn you...’ With a deliberate movement he started to push inside, letting out a guttural groan as Isobel’s clenching muscles gripped around him. ‘This...is going...to be quick.’
Angling himself better, he took in a shuddering breath and then thrust, once and then again, until the whole of him was deep inside her. With a yelp of sheer delirium Isobel clung to his back, clawing her nails into his skin.
Growling an unintelligible stream of Italian words, Orlando started to thrust, pumping with a power that had Isobel hanging on to him, each movement thrusting deeper, more forcefully than the last. As he increased speed the searing sensation became more intense, obliterating all thought in favour of pure, unadulterated sexual gratification.
As Orlando’s words turned into low groans she knew that he had almost found his own release, which meant she could stop fighting the losing battle of trying to hang on to hers. With a final punishing series of deeply penetrating thrusts she felt him start to shudder, then buck, then spasm inside her. She immediately followed suit, clasping him to her, their limbs entwined as they both threw themselves headlong into the darkness of oblivion.
Minutes passed, as if time were holding its breath. With their bodies entwined and their heart rates slowing they stayed clasped together, as if pulling apart would mean facing up to the reality of what they had just done. And for Isobel that reality was the destruction of every barrier she had put in place to fend Orlando off.
The sex between had been amazing, incredible, but then it always was. The worry for Isobel was that her feelings for Orlando went way beyond the incredible sex, deeper and deeper into the fathomless depths of something far more dangerous. Something that she was trying her hardest never to face up to.
Eventually Isobel felt Orlando shift and, loosening her grip on him, let her hand stray to the bunched-up clothes around her waist. What must she look like? She attempted to tug her dress down, rescue a bit of dignity, but it was far too late for that. Any dignity she might have had had disappeared the moment Orlando had straddled her on the bed...the moment his fingers had touched her there. The barriers she had been so carefully constructing to ward off his devastating power over her had come crashing down in an instant. She had wanted him so badly that she had burned with it, been flayed by it. She would have done anything, absolutely anything, to satisfy her craving need.
And would again.
Even lying there awkwardly beside him now, Isobel knew that it would only take one touch for her to be back there again. She was that weak.
‘It’s getting late.’
With a sudden movement Orlando pulled his body away, creating a rush of cold air that prickled across Isobel’s skin, making her curl into herself. Avoiding eye contact, he swung his legs over the bed then sat with his back to Isobel, as if contemplating what the hell he had just done. A film of sweat made the muscular planes of his naked torso gleam in the dim light.
‘We need to
be going.’
The words were spoken harshly over his shoulder as he rose to his feet, bending to snatch up his discarded clothes from where they lay scattered on the floor. She watched his dark shape as he pulled on his boxers, closely followed by his jeans, which he tugged over his hips, slipping the belt through the heavy metal buckle with a decisive click.
She was still following his every move when he whirled round to face her, his shirt in his hands. ‘Isobel?’
The sight of his dark stare brought Isobel to her senses and she scrambled off the bed, darting over to pick up the screwed up bit of fabric that was her panties and fumbling with shaky fingers to try and untwist them enough to get her legs into them. She refused to look at him as she tugged down her dress as far as it would go and cast about, searching for her handbag.
‘What just happened...what we did...’
‘Can I just stop you right there?’ Pulling herself up to her full height, the palms of her hands held in front of her like a barrier to ward off his words, Isobel finally faced him. ‘If you are going to say that it shouldn’t have happened, then please don’t bother. I already know that.’
‘I wasn’t, actually.’ Orlando’s voice was flat, devoid of all emotion.
‘Well, don’t tell me that you’re sorry either.’ Isobel rearranged her hair, combing it through with her fingers. ‘Because that would be even worse.’
‘What is it with you, Isobel?’ Shrugging on his shirt now, Orlando started to do up the buttons with unnecessary force, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘Standing there, telling me what I am thinking, what I am going to say, like you know me better than I know myself...’
Staring at the towering silhouette that smouldered before her, Isobel dragged in a breath. ‘I am just trying to make you see that you don’t need to justify or apologise for what we did. That’s all.’
