by Stuart, Anne
He gave her a gentle shove and she stumbled away from him, through the darkened living room into the bedroom. She fumbled with the light, staggered into the bathroom and began peeling off her ice-stiffened clothes. She didn’t even bother to close the door. If Nick was so hard up that he had to resort to being a Peeping Tom, then that was his problem. All she wanted to do was melt the three layers of ice that had solidified around her body.
At first the water hurt her frozen flesh. Gradually the numbness faded, blood began to flow and her limbs began to move freely again. She stood there and let the blissfully hot streams of water rush over her, stood there behind the smoked glass door, ignoring the sounds from the bedroom beyond, ignoring Nick’s shadow as he scooped up her wet clothes and took them away, ignoring everything but the warmth pouring over her frozen body.
It wasn’t until the water began to lose its heat that she aroused herself from her stupor and turned off the tap. With warmth, sanity had returned, and so had at least a trace of her sense of self-preservation. It had to be close to five o’clock in the morning, in another couple of hours it would be light and she’d have no trouble making it home. That is, if her car wasn’t totaled by its close encounter with a maple tree.
So she just had to make it through two hours of Nick’s admittedly tempting company. Hell, she could do that. All she needed was something hot to drink, maybe something to eat, and she could face anything.
The bathroom was deserted, bereft of human presence and her wet clothes. He’d left a couple of towels for her, thick maroon ones he must have brought with him from Cambridge. No Vermont farmhouse ever boasted such wonderful towels. HARVARD YOU IDIOT
She peeked out into the bedroom, but it, too, was empty, the door chastely closed. He’d left a silk dressing gown for her, a shimmering, sensual piece of apparel that was the last thing she intended to appear in. Particularly since the tie would be much too easy to unfasten. The dressing gown was lying across the bed, and the covers were turned down. Never in her life had Sybil seen a more inviting bed. It was an old-fashioned one, high off the ground, with maroon sheets that matched the towels and a patchwork quilt that had been there before John Black’s time. She wanted to climb up into that bed, pull the covers over her wet head and fall sound asleep. She’d like it even better if she could fall asleep wrapped around a long, lean body.
Forget it, she told herself. Instead, she headed for his closet, dismissing the wool and linen suits, settling instead for a huge blue plaid flannel nightshirt that came practically to her bare ankles. Rummaging in his drawers, she completed her outfit with a pair of thick woolly knee socks and a towel wrapped around her sopping mane. She surveyed her reflection in the mirror, grinning. If he’d had any thought of a last-minute seduction, this should put him off.
He was standing by the wood stove, leaning against the mantel, and he had a glass of cognac in his hand. He’d changed his clothes while she’d been showering, and he was dressed in black sweatpants and a sweatshirt, with no socks on his long, narrow feet. He looked warm, sexy and dangerous.
He caught sight of her standing in the doorway, and that thin mouth of his twisted in just the hint of a smile. “You didn’t like the bathrobe?”
“Not warm enough,” she said, moving forward. “Besides, there haven’t been any women around you, so I can only surmise that you like to wear it yourself when no ones around, and it would be too long for me. Got some of that for me?”
His laughed. How could a laugh sound so sexy? The room was warm, hot even, and the dim lighting added to the sense of coziness and heat. “Some of what?”
“The cognac?”
“We have to share.” He held out the snifter, watching with unconcealed amusement as she did her best not to touch him.
She took a deep, warming sip, feeling it burn its slow, languorous way down into her stomach, and immediately she knew it was a big mistake. The room, the warmth, the narrow escape and, yes, the company all combined to put her in a far too receptive mood. She’d have to keep all her wits about her if she didn’t want to end up back in that comfortable-looking bed, and of course, part of the problem was that was exactly where she wanted to be.
She sat down on the sofa, cross-legged, the thick wool socks showing to advantage. She took the towel from her head and began to rub it briskly through her long, wet hair. “How does the snow look?”
“Impenetrable. Why?”
“It’ll be light in a couple of hours. I thought I could make it the rest of the way.”
“I smashed your car against a maple tree.”
“But not badly, didn’t you say?” She knew her eyes were anxious. She couldn’t walk home, not in this kind of storm. And she couldn’t stay here with him.
“Bad enough. And it’s stuck sideways in a ditch. Even with four-wheel drive we’ll need help getting it out.”
“I’ll need help getting it out,” she corrected, shaking the long wet strands around her face.
“We’ll need help getting it out.” He took the brandy back from her, ignoring her start when his warm flesh touched hers. She was still cold, deep within the core of her, and there was only one way to get warm. “Stop fighting, Saralee. It’s a waste of energy.”
“I’m a born fighter.”
“That you are,” he said, his voice deep with approval. “But you don’t have to fight me.” He moved forward, squatting down beside the sofa, and his hand reached out and brushed the loose neckline of the oversize nightshirt. “Was this supposed to keep me away? I hate to tell you, darling, but this nightshirt is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen on anybody in my entire life.”
She jumped a mile at the touch of his burning skin on her cool, trembling flesh. “You must be crazy,” she said.
“Maybe. Who gave you the second love potion?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Dulcy. I called her for an antidote.”
“Why did you need an antidote? I thought it didn’t work.”
“Of course it didn’t work. But I . . . I had nightmares. I figured the power of suggestion might be working, so I thought I’d do something to combat it. So I called Dulcy, and she mixed up a second potion to combat the first one. It was supposed to be a different one, and the two should have canceled each other out.”
“Did they?”
Sybil grimaced. He was so close she could smell the cognac on his breath, and for a moment she wondered what it would taste like on his tongue.
“Dulcy made a mistake.”
“Did she?”
“She thought you’d made a different potion. A Hungarian one, with completely different ingredients. Instead, she just gave me a second dose of the one you mixed up, and then she said there was nothing she could do.”
“She lied.”
She would have liked to insist that Dulcy never lied, but her own innate honesty stopped her. “You mean there was something she could do?”
“I mean she knew exactly what I had whipped up. She was the one who gave me the ingredients for it, how could she have not known which one I mixed?”
“You’re right,” Sybil said, unaccountably depressed. “I can’t even trust my best friend.”
He still hadn’t moved. He was much too close, and as long as he stayed there she couldn’t think quite clearly enough. “Maybe she thought it would be good for you,” he suggested softly.
“And maybe she just wanted to cause some trouble. Dulcy likes to stir things up.”
“Are you stirred up?”
She looked at him then, her wary brown eyes staring into his slightly hooded, hypnotic ones. She was crazy to get involved with him, he was nothing but trouble, he was everything she’d run away from. She was crazy to resist him, he was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen in her entire life and for some strange reason he seemed to want her.
“Are you?” he prodded, his voice low and mesmerizing, and the fingers that had been lightly toying with her flannel nightshirt slipped inside the loose neckline, to brush gently against her cool flesh. He was hot, so hot, and she’d been cold for such a long time.
“Yes,” she said, her voice a mere whisper of sound, of reluctant surrender.
He sighed then, a small sound that might have been relief, and his eyes drifted shut for a moment. The hand that was stroking her skin slid around behind her neck, pulling her gently to him as he leaned toward her. His mouth touched hers, briefly, softly, and his lips tasted of cognac.
It was the last possible moment. He moved just inches away, his eyes fluttered open and stared down into hers. “One last chance, Saralee,” he whispered, but he lied. It wasn’t a chance at all, not with his long fingers still cupping her neck, not with his mouth so close to hers, not with the slumberous eyes watching her. Waiting. Wanting. She didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.
She crossed the inches that separated them, rising onto her knees and sliding her arms around his neck. Never in her entire life had she wanted someone as much as she wanted this very dangerous man hunkered down in front of her. It could be the three years of enforced celibacy, the close brush with death or her own exhausted emotions. It could even be the double dose of non-Hungarian love philtre. It no longer mattered. She was through fighting it, fighting him, fighting herself.
At least for tonight.
Slowly, hesitantly she pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were trembling, her hands were shaking and he was holding himself very still, giving her no assistance, almost savoring her suddenly clumsy efforts. His mouth was soft, damp, responsive against hers, and she could feel his accelerated heartbeat as she pressed her breasts against his chest. It was more than enough encouragement. Very shyly she touched the tip of her tongue to his lips. They parted instantly, his own tongue caught hers before she could retreat, and the taste of cognac swirled around them, cognac and passion.
He surged upward, carrying her with him, and for a moment she dangled there in his arms, inches off the ground, as they kissed. He was hard against her, very hard, the soft fleece of his sweatpants outlining an almost intimidating erection, and she gave a small moan of panic and anticipation. Slowly he lowered her to the soft rug in front of the fire, his hands sliding down to cup her rounded hips and hold her against him, forcing her to feel his need. It was a need that matched her own.
She slid her hands under his soft sweatshirt, trembling as she felt the hot, lean flesh of his stomach. He was hard all over, his stomach, his arms, his shoulders, everywhere, and she trembled, softness against his hardness, and pushed her hands higher under the shirt, to cup his flat male nipples.
He pulled his mouth away from hers with a groan, burying his mouth in the vulnerable curve of her neck. The hands that had been cupping her hips were busy pulling the oversize nightshirt up and over her head, breaking them apart long enough to toss it across the room, leaving her in nothing but a pair of knee socks.
She tried to move back against him so he couldn’t see her, couldn’t judge the softness of her belly, the ten pounds that had settled on her butt and thighs, but his hands on her shoulders held her away, as his eyes moved down her body with slow, lascivious care, looking at her as if she was the most beautiful, most desirable woman he’d ever seen, and her skin warmed beneath his gaze. She needed more, needed his hands on her again, needed him to just do it, for God’s sake, before she regained her sanity.
He finally pulled her back against him, and his hands slid up her back, over her skin, stroking, calming, arousing. She reached for his sweatshirt again, but he was already ahead of her, pulling it over his head and tossing it after the nightshirt. Catching her hand, he pulled it down between them, placing it on his cock, pressing it against that hard, hard flesh. Should he be that hard? It wasn’t what she remembered. Colin’s erections were more half-hearted, in fact she . . . .
“What twisted thoughts are racing around in your mind, Saralee? Do we need the parking divas to bless us before we do this?”
Her eyes lifted briefly to his, then lowered again, and she tried to pull her hand away. He didn’t let go. “Stop worrying,” he said on a note of breathy laughter. “Trust me, it will fit.”
If she weren’t so hot all over she would have blushed, but she was well past that point, her fingers straightening to lightly stroke him, and the feel of his cock beneath the fabric turned her dizzy with want and a primitive panic. She wasn’t used to this, she wasn’t used to him, she wasn’t sure . . .
He took her hand and slid it inside the waistband of the sweatpants. Her fingers curled, willingly and wonderingly, around his iron-hard cock, and she pulled at him, gently, and his groan of pleasure sent heat and dampness through her. Her mind might harbor some doubts but her body was hot and damp and ready for him.
Before she realized what he’d planned he flipped her over on her back, kissing her, licking her with slow, wicked determination as his mouth closed around her nipple. Her breasts had never been sensitive, but men seemed to find this sort of thing arousing and . . .
She let out a shriek as he bit. It was more surprise than pain, and he lifted his head to glower down at her. “Stop thinking about other men,” he growled. “I’m not them.”
That startled her even more. “How did you know . . . ?” she began, when he cut her off.
“I dowsed it.” And he leaned down and bit her other breast, just hard enough to make a bolt of pure lust shoot through her. Maybe her breasts were more sensitive than she’d realized. Or maybe she just needed someone outrageous like Nicholas.
He was far from done. He followed the sharp little bite with a languorous sucking, his tongue swirling around her nipple, and suddenly she was breathless, arching up off the floor, reaching for him, as he slid one long hand between her thighs, finding her clitoris with unerring instinct.
“Impressive,” she managed to choke out. “Most men aren’t that accurate. You must have had a lot of practice.” She was babbling, trying to slow him down, slow herself down as pushed his fingers against her, and she was so wet. “But then, you’re an academic. You probably studied charts and diagrams and . . . ”
“Saralee,” he said patiently. “Shut the fuck up.”
She didn’t have any choice when he slid long fingers inside of her—her voiced trailed away in a choked gasp. It had been so long, she thought. And it felt so good. No, “good” was too tepid a word. It was splendid, it was glorious, it was unbearably sweet. She was trembling all over, covered with a fine film of sweat. She was still holding his cock, and he was hot and hard and heavy in her hand, he was damp and ready for her, but still he made no move, content to stroke her, driving her past all conscious thought, and she knew if she had to wait a moment longer she wouldn’t be able to stand it.
“Please,” she whispered, her face crushed against the hot, smooth skin of his shoulder. Her free hand clutched at him, the nails digging into his flesh. “Please, I can’t stand it.”
“What do you want, Saralee?” he whispered in her ear, his voice soft and low. He couldn’t be human, she thought. She had physical proof that he was ready to explode, and he could still taunt her, ignoring his own needs.
“I want you,” she said. Stupid words, how could he fail to know that? “I want you inside me. Now.”
He took his hand away from her, and she cried out at the loss. He pulled away, out of reach, only for a moment, to strip off the black sweatpants. His eyes were glittering in the darkness, and the last little bit of fear shot through her. Was she a fool to want him?
Wisdom no longer had anything to do with it. Or sanity, or self-preservation, or even ego. Sybil no longer existed, neither did Nick. There was just woman, and man, and something dark and light, elemental and very complex, there, waiting.
His hands w
ere hard and strong as he lifted her, up, up, into his arms and carried her through the dark house to the bedroom. Then she was falling, they were failing, toward the bed, and he was over her, around her, inside her, filling her with a deep thrust that left her breathless. She pulled him closer, wrapping herself around him, locking him in her arms, her legs, her body, imprisoning him as she was imprisoned by his invading cock. Each thrust was a demand, a painfully sweet demand that she answered with the arch of her body, reaching for the climax he promised.
She was trembling, he was trembling, she was crying, he was crying. Then the tempo shifted, jerked, swung crazily and exploded. Too soon, Sybil thought dizzily. Not yet. Don’t let it stop.
And it didn’t. For countless, endless moments it held, beyond reality, time and space. It held, so achingly pleasurable that it flirted with pain, then melted back into pleasure, until they collapsed together in a damp tangle of limbs and hair and heat and love, as the torturous response took her and shattered them both.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t even open her eyes. Every ounce of strength she had left was spent on making her heart beat, her lungs fill with air.
Nick recovered faster, but then, he must have felt this incredible obliteration before. It was unlike anything Sybil had ever experienced in her life. She lay there, barely breathing, unable and unwilling to face him.
A finger touched her eyelid, and she flinched. Despite her best resolve she looked up to see Nick smiling down at her, those eyes of his bright with laughter, his fingertip wet with her tears.
She knew her expression was dazed, but there was nothing she could do about it. She watched him, waiting, waiting for heaven knew what.
“You’re mine now,” he said, his mouth curved in a smile that was both wicked and oddly tender. “I just won your soul.” Leaning down, he bit her lower lip, just hard enough to hurt. “Got that, Saralee?”
