Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [66]
15
She didn’t hesitate. She was too good at what she’d done for years, and she was motivated. The last time she’d had sex was the night James had left, the night before he died. She’d made herself do it, had put on her best performance, but James wasn’t fooled. She hadn’t tried again.
She wasn’t going to let this man touch her.
She surged up from her seat, breaking his hold, shoving him back against the wall. She had the short blade of the pocketknife against his throat, against the bloody mark her teeth had made, and she couldn’t afford to hesitate. One sharp, deep slice and he’d go fast. Covering her in blood.
His eyes were half-closed, that damnable smile still on his face. “What’s stopping you? You know how quick and easy it would be. I won’t stop you.”
She froze. He reached up and took her hand in his, pulling the knife away, making her drop it on the floor. “Show me how much you hate me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Prove it to me.”
She hit him, both of her fists raised, beating at his chest as he imprisoned her in the circle of his arms. She was striking him, scratching him, tearing at his clothes in a silent, deadly rage, and she could feel his skin beneath her hands, hot, sleek skin. He picked her up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he fell back against the door, the light switch, plunging the room into inky darkness.
And Isobel was gone, swallowed up in rage and darkness and heat, and she was the one who pulled his head down to hers, she was the one who kissed him, openmouthed and full.
He turned her, and they fell crosswise on the bed, and he was tugging her clothes off her body, yanking at them, and it hurt, and she wanted it to hurt. She hated herself, hated him.
She heard the rasp of his zipper in the darkness, his muffled curse, and she caught her waistband in her hands and shoved her jeans down her legs, kicking them free. He arched over her, pushing her legs apart, resting against her, heavy, hard, pressing against her.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said. And slammed into her, so fast and hard that her breath caught, and she waited for the pain and tearing.
Except she was wet. Her body had welcomed him, even as her mind rejected him, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, trying to pull him in deeper still, scratching at him, clawing at him, trying to get more of him. He caught her wrists, slamming them down against the bed, holding her still as he moved. Thrusting deep, so deep that she cried out, so deep that she needed more, and she couldn’t breathe in the velvety darkness, trembling, shaking, fighting it, fighting him.
She wasn’t strong enough. Everything was gone now—only the darkness and their sweat-dampened bodies remaining, and she didn’t want this, didn’t want to…
The first wave hit her with such force that she cried out. He released her wrists, putting his hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, and she bit him again, tasting blood, as her entire body arched into a silent, endless scream of such intensity that everything exploded. No enemies, no boat, no bed in the middle of the ocean. Just elemental, hot, sweaty sex, and she couldn’t stop, as wave after wave of climax washed over her.
He rolled off her, and she could hear the hoarse roughness of his breathing.
She opened her eyes in the inky blackness, because it was safer that way, because bad things could hurt you if you closed your eyes.
Her face was wet, and she knew she was crying, but for some reason it didn’t matter. She lay next to the man she hated most in the world, a butcher, a monster, the man who had just destroyed her, and she tried to catch her breath. She had to find the knife. Now she had a reason to kill him. Nothing would stop her this time, no weakness that she hadn’t realized existed. She could kill him now, and the longer she delayed the worse it would be.