Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [47]
“I’m not a virgin anymore,” she said bitterly. Then could have bit her lip.
“Was that supposed to be encouraging? I thought you were saying no?” He began to pull the zipper down, slowly, almost lazily.
“I am saying no. I’m just saying I’m not a virgin anymore. Thanks to you.”
“If only.” His rueful smile should have been infuriating. “And it doesn’t matter how many men you’ve fucked since Paul got you in the back of the Cadillac, you’re still a virgin at heart. Untouched, inviolate. You probably lie back and close your eyes and think you’re supposed to like it. When you don’t, really.”
His deep, insinuating voice was driving her mad, just as the feel of his long fingers against her skin burned her cold flesh. “Shut up.”
She was wearing very skimpy bikini panties beneath the jeans, ones that matched the lavender bra and camisole. She hadn’t gone for the thong, though she’d been tempted. The bikini was indecent enough, but no one was supposed to see it. And if she didn’t do something to stop him, Dillon—the last person in the world she wanted—would be the one to see it.
The jeans were unzipped, but he didn’t seem in any hurry to pull them down. She’d fight him when he tried, she knew she would. She had to.
“You must make men jump through hoops,” he said, brushing his mouth against the side of her neck, so softly it was like the brush of a feather. “What do they have to do—submit a blood test and a family pedigree? I expect the Duchess would be more interested in the class issue than any health concerns.”
“Is this your subtle way of asking me if I’m HIV positive? Because I am. You should get as far away from me as you can.”
“Don’t waste your time, baby girl. You never were a very good liar, and I could always see through you. Just as I can right now. Tell me you don’t want me.”
“Are you insane? I’ve been trying to tell you that for the last half hour! Leave me alone.”
“Then walk away.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” His patience was paper thin. “If you don’t want me putting my hands on you, then push me away and walk. You think I’d chase after you, drag you down on the cement floor and ravish you? Not my style.”
“I’m not your style,” she said, putting her hand in the center of his chest. His hot, sleek chest. She hesitated for a bare moment, then pushed, and he fell back with seemingly no effort at all. She could run now, except that she was wearing nothing but her bra and camisole on top, and her jeans were unzipped and falling down around her hips.
He seemed untroubled. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were even more of an innocent now than you were before Paul got his hands on you. What’s wrong with the men in Rhode Island? Don’t they know anything about sex?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said bitterly, reaching for the zipper of her jeans.
Wrong answer. He’d stepped back, seemingly willing to let her go, but her words stopped him.
“You wouldn’t know?” he echoed. “Just how many lovers have you had since that night with Paul?”
“None.”
“Okay, let me rephrase that. How many men have you gone to bed with since that night?”
It was too late to change her mind. Besides, she was too angry, too panicked to be able to keep her mouth shut at this point. Besides, the truth was more likely to keep him away from her. “None.”
“Boys?”
“None.”
“Women?”
He was trying to shock her, but she was past the point of worrying about it. “None.”
“Well, at least that simplifies matters,” he murmured. “So clearly you’ve been saving yourself for me.”
It was such an outrageous statement that she couldn’t come up with a response. She could only stare at him in amazement.
“I’ve been keeping myself safe,” she snapped.
“Safety is an overrated commodity. I think it’s time we finished what we started that night.”
“I don’t.”
“Let me convince you.”
It was her last chance. She’d already told him more than she wanted to, she’d stood there and let him undress her, and he’d given her plenty of chance to run. She hadn’t moved.
“I could count to ten. Give you