Swiveling around, he lay her back on the thick carpeting, spreading her wide. He came down over her, rubbing against her sensitive center, driving her crazy. Slowly, he began to unhook the corset, freeing her from its confines, exposing her, looking at her, like she was a lush piece of ripe, juicy fruit. He pulled her arms above her head, positioning her just the way he wanted her.
Reaching over to the couch, he dragged a gold velvet pillow down and placed it beneath her hips, elevating her. Then he positioned first one leg, planting her heeled foot on the floor and then the other.
The look in his eyes told her that he was more than aroused. She watched him grab the bowl of chocolate and the lush, juicy strawberries. He dipped a strawberry into the melted chocolate and she felt the warm, wet drizzle of chocolate across her breasts. She gasped at the sensation. He pressed the treat to her mouth, drawing it across her lips. When she opened her mouth to take a bite, he drew it back, a secretive smile on his lips.
And then she gasped when she felt the berry pressed against her slit. He slid it back and forth, pressed it deep, swirled it over her sensitive clit, then brought it back up to his own mouth and ate it. Her whole body convulsed at the sight, at the sensation and knowledge of being completely opened to him, displayed for him and the hot desire expressed in his eyes as he pleasured her.
When the strawberries were gone and her body glistened with a confection of strawberry juices and chocolate, he dipped down and began to lap at her flesh, sucking her chocolate-tipped breasts deep into his mouth, kneading her calves as he ate at her body. And when his mouth came down over her wet, cream-covered labia lips and she orgasmed once more, it was as though she left her body, her lids fluttering as she seemed to move above herself, outside of herself onto a plane filled with pleasure that she never wanted to leave.
When she had finally returned to reality, Ross was naked, holding the vibrator and lubricant. She smelled the strawberries and then felt the penetration as the vibrator slipped inside her well-prepared pussy. And then he turned it on and her whole body sang with the sensations.
It was then, for the first time in her life, she felt like a cloud, no longer anchored to the earth. She was sensation, no longer human, simply a bundle of nerve endings that responded to stimuli, a primal thing as she quivered and climaxed, opened completely to receive and to give pleasure in all its varied forms.
The vibrator was gone, but the vibrations continued to rock her as Ross slowly entered her and his heat filled her.
"Look at me," he'd commanded as he possessed her fluid body.
She'd never felt so full as she did at that moment. He touched her soul and the sensation was earth shattering. She felt the tears flood her eyes and the exquisite pleasure pain consumed her as the tip of his penis pressed deep and touched her heart.
"I love you, Ross," she'd screamed, unable to help herself, and she'd felt his climax more profoundly than she ever had before.
He brought her back to earth slowly, carefully. She'd been nothing but a mass of half-solid gelatin. She couldn't stop shaking in the aftermath of the experience. He'd soothed her, picked her up and carried her into the bedroom and held her. It was the first night she'd spent the whole night with him. Unable to leave him. She wanted to wrap herself inside him and never be parted again.
The next morning he'd brought her breakfast in bed and she'd looked up at him curiously when she saw the book on the tray. He'd climbed onto the bed and pulled her between his legs, feeding her the scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.
"What's this?" she'd finally asked, pointing to the book, and leaning back against him. She'd never felt so content in her life.
"It's for you."
"Another present? This is supposed to be your birthday, not mine."
He tugged her closer against him. "You're my present. That's all I need."
She opened the book and discovered blank pages.
"It's a journal," he said.
"It's beautiful."
He leaned forward and nibbled at her ear. "I want you to write in it. About us. About how you feel."
She felt the warmth fill her face. "About us. I don't think I could do that."
"But I want you to. And when we're together, you can read to me."
"Oh, God, Ross."
"I want to know what you feel. I want to hear it from your lips. I want to hear you to tell our story as I'm filling you, buried so deep I can feel your heartbeat, feel the vibrations of your voice shooting through me. I love the sound of your voice. You have no idea how much it excites me just to listen to you."
She'd felt herself getting wet as he talked to her. He reached over the side of the bed and grabbed up a book. "Here," he said as he lifted her and she felt his thick head separate her moist lips and sink inside. "Read to me, Mary," he whispered in her ear. He pulled her back against him and she read through the text, hardly knowing what she was reading. It wasn't long before she orgasmed and felt him surge over the edge not long after.
"The next time, I want you to read to me about us."
How could she resist?
It had been a long time since she'd allowed herself to think about that wonderful weekend. That night had resulted in so many firsts for her, but the most important was how much she loved him.
She slid the vibrator from inside her and dropped back weakly against the wall in her apartment. It hurt too much to think about that period of her life. It had been a long time since she'd thought about his presents.
It was the journal that had ended up destroying everything. Her own words had killed any change at happiness with Ross.
Chapter 7
* * *
He'd planned to ignore the invitation and not attend the exhibition of his buddy Jake's photography. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy his work and even had a few hanging on his wall, but he just wasn't in the mood for a social gathering.
It was odd how he'd been all set to anchor in front of the television and veg out. Yet instead he'd veered in the opposite direction, showered, changed and picked up the invitation. Now he knew why. Something had drawn him here, and looking across the room, he knew what it was. He'd hoped she would be here. It was destiny that had called him out.
The exhibition was a publicity event sponsored in part by the publisher of a book on this particular artist's life and art. It was a combined showing of Jake's work with a booksigning by the author and the artist. Jake looked bored--Ross knew this really wasn't his kind of thing either; the author looked enthused. And near the author, watching the books fly off the table, stood the woman he'd wanted to find. Apparently, the publisher of the book was the one Mary worked for.
He couldn't simply let it go, let her go. There was something she wasn't telling him. She'd never held back from him when they were seeing each other. But now there was a part of herself she'd closed off. It was that part of her that involved him.
Today she wore a black dress with a scooped neck and long, tight sleeves. The style should have been simple and understated, but on her it was sexy as hell. It draped over her full, upthrust breasts, the nipples he'd suckled, hiding the body he'd so thoroughly possessed and about which he had learned every nuance. How each lush mound fit his large hands so perfectly, soft as a spring rain, the color of a blushing sunrise, nipples that drew tight and dark as seasoned, mouth-watering raspberries. He could taste her even now.
The skirt flared out at her rounded hips, diving and hugging her perfect, shapely body. The folds seemed to emphasize the slope of her abdomen and the shadow of her succulent mound. Down it went, clinging to her shapely thighs, contoured calves, flirting and leaving bare the sun-bronzed flesh of her ankles.
The only piece of jewelry she wore was the gold and diamond anklet that sparkled beneath the strategic lighting in the gallery.
The shoes were not ones he would have chosen for her. Those he would have changed. Maybe it wasn't politically correct, but he loved seeing her in heels that displayed her long, luscious legs, drawing the ey
es to the special curves that he found most entrancing. Yet still, nothing could detract from the beauty of the woman he watched. And wanted.
Today she wore her hair in a French twist tucked neatly back, sophisticated and exposing the sensual curve of her neck. He remembered how sensitive she was when he kissed her there, how she would shudder and purr for him.
It was his job to notice the small things, those tiny clues that everyone else missed. It's why he studied her now. What had he missed back then? What signs that would have told him something was wrong? He should have seen something, felt something.
She turned away to speak with a man who had walked up to her. Ross studied the smooth slope of her back as it dipped to her heart-shaped derriere--the perfect globes he had cradled with his hands, separated and delved between the moist, sweet, valley between.
The longer he stood there, the harder he grew. Just watching her as she talked animatedly with the stranger, her delicate, soft hands motioning in the air. Whatever she spoke of was something she loved. Something she was passionate about. He saw a flash of the girl he'd once known, a hint of vulnerability and innocence.
It was the same unguarded sensuality that had drawn her to him at the picnic. She eased her position, clasped her hands behind her back, crossed her ankles delicately, leaving herself exposed and welcoming.
His blood burned as he watched, unexpected jealousy boiling quickly to the surface. He tried to control it, but he couldn't help wanting to stalk across the room and in primitive possession toss her across his shoulder and take her someplace private, somewhere they could be alone so he could find out exactly what went wrong.
She leaned down to say something to the author and he nodded in response. Ross watched her pivot around and make her way to the buffet table on the other side of the room. Now was his chance. He followed her, studied her as she picked up a clear glass salad-sized plate and begin heaping food onto it. A canapé, several chicken wings, breaded shrimp, some raw vegetables and a dollop of dip. As he watched, he'd drawn closer, until they reached the dessert table.
There she paused, staring down, unmoving, like a rabbit who sensed danger, yet her gaze was on the food laid out in front of her. Silently he moved up behind her, almost touched her back, he could smell her clean, feminine scent. No perfume, just the intoxicating fragrance of light floral-scented soap and sensual woman.
He reached around and picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry from the tray. He leaned closer, inhaling deeply.
"Try this," he said softly against her ear. "I doubt they'll taste quite as good as the ones we shared, but I'm sure they're tasty enough."
He felt her stiffen and softly suck in air.
"Ross."
* * * *
Something should have warned her. Although now that she thought about it, she realized she had sensed something. That warmth that always flooded her when he was near had shot through her, but she'd ignored it. She'd thought it was simply the excitement of the event.
She inhaled sharply, tried to catch her breath, but all she could smell was Ross, all she could see was the succulent strawberry he held in front of her mouth. All she could remember was the feel of a strawberry as he swiped it through her juices, the feel of the chocolate as it dripped onto her body and hardened as it imprisoned her nipples. She felt herself weave and her eyelids fluttered. Someone shifted the plate from her hand and she felt Ross's firm arm slide around her waist and guide her away from the table. Too many sensations assaulted her.
He was pushing her down onto the soft cushions of a chair just around the corner from the main room of the gallery. There was a narrow partition between where she sat and where the rest of the activity was, and it muffled the sounds from the other room, voices that seemed to blend together creating a dull roar in the background.
Ross held a glass to her lips and she sipped at it, then erupted into a coughing spasm.
"Sorry," he said. "The champagne was all I could grab. There wasn't any water close by and you looked like you were going to faint if I didn't get you out of there.
Finally, she looked at him, kneeling in front of her, looking up, a worried expression on his face. "I'm fine. It must have been the excitement," she lied.
It wasn't the excitement of the event, of her author having a best-selling book about this controversial artist-photographer. It was Ross. It would always be Ross.
"What are you doing here?"
He shrugged. "The photographer is a friend of mine."
His hands rested on her thighs, kneading the soft material of her dress. The burn of desire shot through her, slowly enshrouding her. Whenever she was in his presence it was no different.
"We need to talk."
She shook her head. "There's nothing to talk about." She tried to deny the feelings--the spark of recognition that wouldn't be ignored.
His hands tracked upward, drawing the hem of her dress with them. His swirling gaze imprisoned hers, not allowing her to look away. His hands were at the juncture where thigh met hip and she felt her pussy cream, her lips engorge as though her body knew that touch so very well and responded quickly.
"I've missed you, Mary," he said, his moist breath teasing her lips. "I can smell your arousal; I know you feel the same. Nothing has changed between us."
She wanted to give in, to admit her feelings. His thumbs pressed against her mound. She felt the searing power of his touch through the material of her dress, feathering along her moist slit and a shudder passed through her body.
"Ross. Oh, God, Ross, don't make me want you again."
"So soft. This dress becomes you, Agnes Mary. Who was the man you were talking to? Is he your lover?"
His thumb pressed deeper, her panties proving little barrier to his intimate touch. Her hips jerked.
"H-he's Dirk's agent," she gasped. "No, he's not my lover."
His thumb rubbed across her clit and her eyelids fluttered closed.
"You want this, Mary. I can feel your heat. I want you surrounding me, gripping me the way only you can do with your tight, silky warmth. Nothing's been the same since you left. Nothing has been right."
She felt herself climbing and she gripped the sides of the chair, her fingernails digging into the upholstered arms. And then she was toppling over the edge.
"Ross."
He leaned forward, his forehead touching hers as he continued to stroke her. "I tried to leave you alone. But I couldn't forget you. And I don't want to forget. And I don't think you do either." He turned, reached down and stroked her ankle, the one with the anklet and the charm.
"Ross, I'm afraid. There was a reason I left."
He looked at her as he traced the line of the ankle bracelet and then down over her heel. "You're my weakness, Agnes Mary. Without you, I'm half a person. You're leaving me was like that poisoned arrow through Achilles' heel, do you realize that?"
She reached up to press her fingers against his firm, passionate lips. "Don't say that. Please don't say that. If I'd stayed I truly would have been the poison arrow."
He pulled away and abruptly rose to his feet. He reached for her hands and drew her up. "I'm taking you home. And you're going to tell me exactly why you left." He reached up to cup her face. "Because I know now it wasn't because you didn't love me. And I want the truth. If nothing else, there's going to be truth between us. No more lies."
"I never lied to you," she protested.
"You lied by omission."
He pulled her behind him and around to a side exit.
"Wait. I have to let Dirk know I'm leaving. I have responsibilities, Ross. I can't just disappear without a word."
He studied her for a long moment and she shivered beneath his inspection. Then he nodded. "All right. But I'm not leaving your side. We are going to talk this out. You left it unfinished and I want the answers this time. If you still want me to leave, then I guess I'll have to, but not before I know the whole story."
She was done running away from the truth. He did have
a right to know. Maybe she couldn't protect him any longer. Maybe he was right and she should have told him the truth before. But this time he wasn't going to leave her with a choice. She would have to face whatever revealing the truth would lead--even if it was him who walked away for good this time.
Chapter 8
* * *
Mary preceded Ross into her apartment and switched on the table lamp, dropping her purse next to the lamp. Her heart thumped like a bass drum in her chest, the vibrations winding her tighter and tighter. Would he understand why she'd left?
She heard the door click shut behind her and she slowly turned to face him, and to face the truth that had kept her shut away all these years.
Why was it that she had no problems directing her authors, or the people who worked under her at the publishing house? No problem meeting any situation head on and with determination without a qualm. But when it came to Ross Carpenter she turned to some substance that was as pliable as artist's clay, and as fluid as...melted chocolate. She shivered at the memory that thought invoked.
She watched him shrug out of his brown leather jacket. He tossed it over the back of a forest green armchair. His expression was dark as a storm-bloated sky.
She licked her lips, then cleared her throat. "Would you like something to drink? A beer?" She hesitated. "No, I don't have beer. I forgot. Wine, maybe? Or coffee?"
He stared at her, making her feel uncomfortable, and she pivoted away, heading toward the coat closet. She took her time hanging up her coat, closed the door, and turned to face him.
"Would you say something, please?" She wanted to screamed at the tension that cut thickly through the air.
"Do you know how often I've thought of this moment," he said softly as he moved farther into the room. "Do you have any idea how many times I've wanted to track you down, to ask you why?" He stopped at the center of the room, several feet away from her. As his gaze slid over her, she felt stripped, all the layers that had served to protect her from the pain of separation peeled away in an instant. And she wanted to feel him again, know the warmth of his embrace, the taste of his male flavor.
Achilles' Charm Page 4
