Girl Behind the Scandalous Reputation

by Michelle Conder

  ‘Help me…’ she began, but he already was, pressing his thigh firmly against her and moving his arms so she could disentangle her hands.

  Once free, she immediately set to work on the buttons of his dark shirt.

  He was breathing just as hard as she was, and a fine sheen had broken out over the skin her jittery hands were having trouble exposing. Then he raised both hands to her breasts to tug at her nipples and Lily’s fingers fumbled to a stop.

  ‘That’s not helping,’ she groaned, involuntarily arching into his caress.

  ‘Then allow me.’ Tristan grabbed hold of his shirt and tore the rest of the buttons free, leaning in close before she was able to look her fill of his sculptured chest, his ridged abdomen. Then his chest hair scraped her sensitised nipples, and she forgot about looking as feeling took precedence.

  ‘Oh, God…’ Lily swayed and rocked against the rigid length of him pressed into her belly.

  ‘Easy, Honey,’ Tristan soothed, but Lily was beyond easy. She needed him to touch her between her legs. The ache there was now unbearable.

  She groaned with relief when she felt his hands smooth over her thighs and ruch her dress up around her waist, her legs automatically widening to accommodate his seeking hand.

  His movements seemed as unsteady as she felt, and it imbued her with a sense of power.

  Unable to keep her mouth off him, she bent her head and licked along his neck, breathing in his earthy masculinity.

  ‘Tristan, please, I need you,’ Lily begged, her voice sounding hoarse. Another saner voice was telling her that later she’d be embarrassed by such uninhibited pleading. But her body couldn’t care less about later on.

  It was caught up in the most delicious lassitude and straining for something that seemed just out of reach.

  Then his fingers whispered over the very tops of her upper thigh and the feeling came closer. A lot closer.

  Lily’s breath stalled and her body stilled, and when finally he slipped his fingers beneath the lacy edge of her barely there panties and stroked through the curls that guarded her femininity she nearly died, clinging to his broad shoulders. Her body was his to do with as he willed.

  And he did. His fingers slipped easily over her flesh, unerringly finding the tight bud of her clitoris before pressing deeper. Stretching her with first one and then two fingers.

  A groan that seemed to come from the very centre of his body tore from his mouth. ‘Honey, you’re so wet. So tight.’ He seemed lost for a second, and then established a rhythm within her that created a rush of heat to the centre of her body. But suddenly he stopped.

  ‘No, I want to be inside you when you come.’ He pulled his hand free and Lily’s nails dug into his shoulders in protest.

  She heard the metallic sound of his belt buckle and the slide of his zipper and in seconds he was back.

  Only her panties were in the way, and with a decisive movement they went the way of his shirt.

  Lily followed an age-old instinct and rocked against him, her mouth on his neck, her hands in the thick lusciousness of his hair.

  ‘Honey, you keep that up and this will be over before I’m even inside you,’ he said hoarsely, stroking his tongue into her open mouth. He eased back, seeming to remember where they were. ‘Not here though.’

  ‘Yes, here.’ Lily demanded against his mouth, an urgent excitement driving her beyond the edge of reason.

  Her lower body felt as if it was contracting around thin air and she needed him inside her. Filling her.

  Tristan sucked in an uneven breath and lowered both hands to cup her bottom, lifting her into him. ‘Put your legs around my waist,’ he instructed gruffly, and Lily blindly obeyed as the velveteen tip of his body nudged against the very centre of hers.

  The back of his neck was taut and sweaty and Lily’s head fell forward and she nipped at his salty skin. He must have liked it, because with a sound that was part pain, part pleasure, he tilted her body towards him and surged into her in one single, powerful thrust.

  For a second the world stopped, and then Lily registered a harsh cry and realised she must have bitten down on Tristan’s neck—hard—as her body initially resisted his vigorous invasion.

  He swore viciously and instantly stilled, reefing his head back and cupping her face in one hand to pull her eyes to his.

  ‘Honey, please tell me this isn’t your first time.’

  Lily felt the momentary sting pass as her body stretched to accommodate his fullness, and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ she breathed as her body completely surrendered to his and tiny sparks of pleasure returned between her thighs.

  She shifted to try and elevate the feeling, but Tristan’s fingers dug into her hips to keep her still. ‘Wait. Let your body adjust to me.’

  ‘It has,’ she insisted, and felt his slightly damp hair brush her face as he shook his head.

  ‘Please, Tristan, I need to—’

  He rocked against her and Lily moaned the word move as if it had six syllables.

  Tristan eased in and out of her body gently, and then with more urgency, and Lily’s brain shut down. All she could do was feel as a thrilling tightness swept through her and urged her on. Then Tristan moved one hand up between their bodies and lightly stroked his thumb over her nipple, and Lily’s world splintered apart as pleasure clamped her body to his.

  Tristan swore again, and thrust into her with such force all Lily could do was wrap her arms around his neck and hang on as he claimed her body with his and reached his own nirvana.

  After what felt like an hour Lily became conscious of how her uneven breathing was pressing her newly sensitised breasts into the soft hair on Tristan’s chest, and also of how hard the wall was behind her—despite the fact that Tristan had curled his arm around her back to take the brunt of the pressure.

  She was also conscious that Tristan still had his mouth buried against her neck, his lips pressed lightly against her skin as he tried to regulate his own breathing.

  Her arms were slung laxly over his shoulders and a feeling of utter contentment enveloped her. A sense of euphoria was curling through her insides like warm chocolate syrup.

  It was madness. This inexplicable feeling of completeness that swelled in her chest. But maybe it was because she’d had a life-changing experience. And she had. Nothing had prepared her for what had just happened. No song. No movie. No book. And she knew she’d remember this moment for ever.

  But even through her high she could discern that Tristan wasn’t feeling the same way. He was unnaturally still, his breathing too laboured, as if he was having trouble composing himself. She shifted then, and the hardness of the wall scraped her skin. The air was slightly chilly now, as the sweat started to dry on her body. She shivered, still supported by his strong arms. Muscles she’d never felt before contracted around his hardness, still buried deep inside her, and she flinched as he cursed.

  He pulled out of her, gently lowering her to the parquetry floor, stepping back. A look of abject disgust lined his face.

  The shock of it made Lily recoil, and she quickly dropped her eyes and dragged her crumpled dress into place.

  She heard him readjust his own clothing, and a primeval survival instinct she had honed as a child took root inside as she blanked out the feeling of utter desolation that threatened to overwhelm her for the first time in years.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ she ordered, knowing that the best form of defence was attack, and was mildly surprised when shock replaced the revulsion she had seen on his face.

  Good. She might not be as practised as he was in these postsex matters, but pride demanded that she did not behave like the bumbling fool she now felt.

  For him this was just run of the mill but for her it was—

  ‘Don’t say anything?’ he all but bellowed. ‘You should have told me you were a virgin.’

  Never let ‘em know you care, Honeybee.

  She looked at him levelly. ‘
It slipped my mind.’ In truth she had hoped he wouldn’t notice. But that seemed like a stupid notion in hindsight, given his size. ‘And you wouldn’t have believed me anyway, would you?’

  He glanced to the side and it was all the answer Lily needed. Of course he wouldn’t have—when had he ever believed her? Something tight clutched in her chest and she toed on the shoe that had fallen off when her legs had been wrapped around his lean hips.

  ‘I didn’t use a condom,’ he said, the bald statement bringing her eyes back to his.

  She wasn’t on the pill. Why would she be?

  ‘I think it’s a safe time,’ she murmured automatically, trying to quell a sense of panic so she could think about when her last period had been.

  He groaned and paced away from her, one hand raking the gleaming chestnut waves back from his head as if he might tear it out.

  ‘Look, Tristan, this was a mistake,’ she said with an airiness she didn’t feel. ‘But it’s done now so there’s no point moaning about it.’

  He stopped pacing. ‘And if you’re pregnant?’

  She turned from her study of an ancient Japanese wall hanging and wet her lips. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  He placed his hands on his hips and she tried really hard not to stare at his muscular torso.

  ‘Look, if it’s all the same to you,’ she continued casting around the floor for her discarded underwear, ‘I could do without a post-mortem.’

  She didn’t look at his face but she heard his sharp inhalation.

  ‘It’s next to the cabinet,’ he bit out, and Lily followed his line of vision to where her tiny nude-coloured thong lay crumpled in a corner. She marched over and snatched it up, balling it into her fist. No way was she going to inspect the state of it while he stood there towering over her like some Machiavellian warlord.

  ‘Well, I’m going to bed,’ she stated boldly, turning towards the back staircase and heading for the relative safety of her room.

  He snagged her arm as she moved past him. ‘Did I hurt you?’ His voice low and rough, as if the concept was anathema to him.

  Lily cleared her throat. ‘Uh, no. It was…I’m fine.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  FINE.

  She had been going to say it was fine, Tristan thought moodily the next morning as he stared out of his kitchen window at the grey London skyline. The colour reflected his dismal mood perfectly.

  But last night hadn’t been fine. It had been amazing, sensational, mind-blowing. The most intensely involved sexual experience of his life, in fact. And he hated that. Hated that he hadn’t had the wherewithal to go slow, and hated that he hadn’t been able to take her into his arms afterwards and carry her up to his bed. Make love to her again. Slowly this time. More carefully…

  He released a pent-up breath and scrubbed his hand over his face, remembering how she had looked afterwards. Gloriously dishevelled. Her dress creased, her hair half up and half down where his hands had mussed it, her lips swollen from his kisses.

  He could recall with bruising clarity the moment her body had sheathed his, her shocked stillness. And she had bitten him—marked him—because even though she had denied it he had hurt her. The thought made him feel sick. He should have been more gentle. Would have been if he’d known.

  A virgin!

  She had been a virgin, and afterwards he had been disgusted with himself for taking her with all the finesse of a rutting animal against a wall.

  Damn.

  If there had ever been a time he’d felt this badly he couldn’t remember it. Maybe when he’d come across her in his father’s study doing cocaine—or so he had thought at the time—with some loser she had just had sex with.

  Correction: hadn’t had sex with.

  Damn.

  His head was a mess, and last night, after the deed was done, he’d stood in front of her like some gauche schoolboy with no idea how to fix what had just happened. Which was a first. But what could he have said? Hey, thanks. How about we use a bed next time?

  And what about her response? Don’t say anything, she’d said, and, I could do without a post-mortem.

  Damn.

  He couldn’t have been any more shocked by her off-handedness if she’d hit him over the head with a block of wood. On some level he knew it was a defence mechanism, but it was clear she also regretted what they’d done together and that had made him feel doubly guilty.

  Not that it should. She was an adult and had wanted it just as much. Things had just come to a natural head with two people available and finding themselves attracted to each other.

  So he would have gone about things a little differently if he’d guessed the extent of her inexperience? If she’d told him! But that hadn’t happened, and he didn’t do regrets.

  Tristan rubbed at a spot between his brows.

  He might not do regret, but he owed her one hell of an apology for his condescending behaviour of the last two days. As well as his readiness to accept all the garbage that was written about her.

  But hadn’t it been easier to accept she was an outrageous attention-seeker like his mother so he didn’t have to face how she made him feel?

  Which was what, exactly?

  Confused? Off-balance?

  He took a swill of his coffee and grimaced as cold liquid pooled in his mouth.

  He put his cup in the sink and stopped to look again at the morning papers on his kitchen table.

  An earlier perusal of the headlines on the internet had confirmed that Lily’s concerns the previous night had been well founded. A photo of their kiss was plastered over every two-bit tabloid and interested blog in the Western world.

  On top of that someone had snapped their photo at the airport right before he had put her in the back of his limousine that first day. She’d had her hand on his chest and the caption in that particular paper had read ‘Lord Garrett picks up something Wild at Heathrow’.

  Cute.

  So what to do about her? Try and play it cool? Pretend he wasn’t still burning up for her? And why was he? Once was often more than enough with a woman, because for him sex was just sex no matter which way you spun it.

  But it hadn’t felt like just sex with Lily, and that was one more reason to stay away from her.

  The thought that this was more than just an attraction chilled him. He didn’t do love either.

  Damn. Who’d mentioned anything about love?

  He blew out a breath and snatched the papers off the bench. One good deed. That was all he’d tried to do. And now his life was more complicated than a world-class Sudoku.

  When Lily woke that morning she remembered everything that had happened the night before in minute detail. Every single thing. Every touch, every kiss, the scent of him, the feel of him…

  She rolled onto her back and stared at the crystal chandelier above her bed. She loved that these perfect antiques were woven into the ultra-modern décor of his amazing home.

  Part of her wanted to regret last night. The part that had been hurt by his obvious rejection straight afterwards. But another part told her to get over it. She’d had sex. Big deal. People did it every day. Granted, it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to have sex with a playboy type who thought she belonged in a sewer…but at least she hadn’t made her mother’s grave error and fallen in love with him.

  And in a way it had been necessary. Tristan had been right when he’d said there was unfinished business between them. As much as she’d tried to deny it there had been, and now it was gone. Finished—as it were.

  It wasn’t as if Tristan had promised her a happy-ever-after. And even if he had she didn’t want one. So what was there to regret? Except having to face him again. That could be awkward. Oh, and the small matter of an unplanned pregnancy. She didn’t know how that had slipped her mind. Not that she was worried. She trusted the universe too much to believe that was a possibility, and she was still in the early part of her cycle so that was safe—wasn’t it? She’d never had to consider it before, and th
ose sketchy high school lessons on the birds and bees weren’t holding up very well ten years down the track.

  Pushing aside her thoughts, she glanced around the elegant, tastefully decorated room. His whole house was like that. State-of-the-art and hideously expensive. Lots of wide open spaces, acres of polished surfaces, toe-curlingly soft carpets against contrasting art and antiquities. And it was neat. Super neat. But that was most likely his housekeeper’s doing, because his office was another story altogether.

  It made her wonder at the person he was. Because as much as she wanted to hate him she knew she didn’t. Most of his actions, she knew, were driven by a deep-seated sense of responsibility and a desire to look out for his sister, and even though he had been harsh with her he’d also been incredibly tender. If she was being completely honest with herself, his sharp intellect and take-no-prisoners attitude had always excited her.

  Lily felt herself soften, and swung her legs onto the boldly striped Tai Ping carpet and headed for the shower, her body tender from his powerful lovemaking.

  She showered quickly and smoothed rosehip oil all over her face and arms, running a critical eye over herself. She knew her face was much lauded, but like anyone she had her problems. A tendency for her skin to look sallow, and dark circles that materialised under her eyes as soon as she even thought about not getting eight hours sleep a night. Right now they looked like bottomless craters, and she reached for her magic concealer pen to hide the damage of another night with very little sleep.

  Discarding the towel she had wrapped around her body, she donned her silk robe and felt the flow of the fabric across her sensitised skin. Her breasts firmed and peaked, and just like that she was back in Tristan’s living room with his mouth sweetly tugging on her flesh.

  Stop thinking about it, she berated herself. She was an intelligent woman who paid her own bills and made her own bed, and yet the only bed she could think of at the minute was Tristan’s—with both of them in it! And since he wasn’t thinking the same thing why torture herself with fantasies? She should be thinking about how she was going to face him still feeling so…so aroused!