Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [93]
He’d only seen her cry once, despite all the stuff he’d thrown at her. She’d cried in the pool, right before he’d had her again. The sex had stopped her tears, but it had been the most dangerous thing he could remember doing in years. Because it had almost started his.
He should lie back down and ignore her, ignore the anxious sounds she was making, the restless way her body was moving. She was just having a nightmare, and it would pass. No one ever died of a nightmare, for God’s sake.
But he knew he wasn’t going to follow his own advice. If he woke her up and she hit him, then so much the better. If she didn’t, he’d deal with what happened as it happened. And he got out of bed and slid in beside her, pulling her trembling body into his arms.
19
He was hoping she’d wake up instantly, order him to get out of her bed, and he would leave, grateful. But instead she reached out for him, her hands cool on his heated skin, and she buried herself against him, her wet face pushed up against his shoulder, and she clung to him, still crying.
He held her—what else had he expected? he mocked himself. He pulled her into his arms, wrapping his larger body around hers. She was wearing just about every stitch of clothing he’d bought her, thank God, because even so, her body against his bare skin was agonizing in its ability to arouse. What the hell was wrong with him? You’d think he was the one who’d gone three years without a lover. She was just one of a hundred women, a drive-by fuck, nothing special. And she was everything.
He tried to pull away, but she clung tightly, whimpering in her sleep. Since he didn’t really want to let her go he stayed where he was, gently brushing the tears away from her face as she slept on. He was an idiot; he wasn’t the answer to her nightmares, he was the cause of them. If she opened her eyes and saw him she’d start screaming, and that’s what he needed to do, wake her before it was too late, before he was in too deep.
It was even easier to wake a woman than to knock her out, and he used the same trick, just a different pressure point, and a second later her tear-drenched eyes flew open, staring into his.
She didn’t scream, didn’t even speak, her silence more disturbing than any protest as she simply looked at him in the darkened room, so close. Finally, she spoke.
“Nothing special?”
“Nothing at all,” he said, and kissed her, as he’d always known he would. She rolled onto her back, taking him with her, and kissed him back, her arms around his neck, her mouth full and sweet and generous, and he knew he was doomed.
And it didn’t matter. She didn’t say a word as he stripped off her clothes—he kept her mouth busy with his, and even when he wasn’t kissing her they were silent. It was in the dark, a dream, they weren’t doing this. But if they spoke it would suddenly make it real, and the price they would have to pay was enormous.
She didn’t resist when he pulled the last piece of clothing, the plain white underwear that he’d foolishly thought wouldn’t be sexy, down her endless legs. He remembered everything he knew about her, including her sexual history and the things she didn’t like, and he knew she was going to do every one of them and like it. She was going to be on top, and she was going to go down on him, and she was going to tell him she loved him. And he didn’t know what would cost her more.
Her skin was cool against his warm flesh, and it tasted like soap. He kissed the side of her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath his tongue. He knew his own pulses were racing and he didn’t give a shit. Her breasts were full and taut, the nipples hard against his fingers, and she arched up when he touched them, making a whimpering sound of need in the back of her throat, a sound that changed to a cry when he put his mouth over one, drawing the nipple deep into his mouth, and sucked at her.
He could make her come this way, he realized. He could make her come any way he wanted—she was trembling with need and ready to fall. But the longer he waited the more powerful