Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [54]
Neither of them moved for a moment. “Now, why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re wet?” he murmured, looking down at her.
She struggled to find something, anything to say. She felt his strong hands on her legs, pulling them around his hips. She was clutching the sheet beneath her, and once he’d gotten her legs wrapped around him he prised her hands loose and placed them on his shoulders.
“I think you’d better hold on to me, Ms. Spenser. It’s going to be quite a ride.”
This wasn’t going to work, she thought blindly. He’d barely kissed her, hadn’t even touched her, he’d done nothing in terms of standard foreplay.
And yet she was wet. Aroused, in a way she’d never felt before. And he hadn’t even moved.
“Don’t look so stricken, sweetheart. You’re supposed to like it.” He pulled out, just a little, then sank back in again, a small shimmer of movement that left her gasping for breath.
“I don’t want…” she said.
“Yes, you do.”
Yes, she did. He began to move, slowly, too slowly, as if the only part of him involved was what was between his legs, between hers. She closed her eyes, trying to shut him out, but he was everywhere, on top of her, beneath her, inside her.
She told herself it didn’t matter. He was just trying to make a point, trying to strip away anything she had left, but she could fight it, fight him, fight the slow, insidious buildup of response that was shimmering through her body. She caught her breath, a hoarse gasp that seemed to draw him in deeper, and she made the terrible mistake of opening her eyes.
He was bracing himself against the mattress, his hands on either side of her, and his icy blue eyes were open, staring down at her face with single-minded intensity as he kept up the steady, wicked rhythm, rocking, rocking, thick and full and deep.
“Come on, Ms. Spenser,” he whispered. “Prove me wrong. You don’t want to come with me inside you—you don’t want me to have that satisfaction. You want to hold it back from me, don’t you? Prove to me what an arrogant, conceited prick I am. You can withhold this part of yourself, can’t you? You want to, don’t you?”
How could he be doing this, with the slow, steady thrust of his cock inside her, his hands on the bed, not touching her, his voice teasing her with those soft, taunting words?
She couldn’t answer him because she didn’t know what he was asking her, why he was baiting her.
“Your nipples are hard, Ms. Spenser,” he whispered, “and the room is warm. Why are your nipples hard?”
She closed her eyes again, trying to shut him out, but she slid her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, fully on top of her, body to body, not just the joining between them. He was hot, covered with a thin film of sweat, but his heartbeat was steady, unmoved.
Things were tumbling out of control. Her body was trembling and there was nothing she could do to stop it. He’d taken over, and her body no longer belonged to her. It was his, to do with what he liked. If she relaxed, that first wash of pleasure would happen, she knew it, and he’d be satisfied and leave her alone, but she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t let go. Couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give him that victory. The tension was rippling through her, and she clutched at him in desperation, her fingernails digging in, clawing at him, fighting for something just out of reach.
“Who’s going to win, Ms. Spenser?” he whispered in her ear. “Your body or your mind?”
She could have answered that with no hesitation, but she’d lost her voice. He was moving faster now, and she was meeting his thrusts because she had to. His hands cupped her hips, pulling her up against him, so that he was deeper, deeper still, wet and slippery and hot and strong, and she wanted to cry out, but there was no sound, just a strangled gasp.
“I think you want to,” he whispered, his voice soft and steady. “You’re fighting it, but you want it. It’s only a small death—nothing permanent. Give it to me, Genevieve. Give it to me now.”
It shouldn’t have been like that. It went through her like a bolt of