Widow - Anne Stuart [88]
“I’ve changed my mind.” Her voice broke the velvet silence—nervous, high-pitched, ready to run.
“Have you?” he asked calmly. He didn’t take his hand away from her, and she was too frightened to move. He stroked her slowly, gently through the cloth, taking his time. “Why?” He sounded no more than vaguely curious. He still wasn’t quite sure how to handle her—whether she needed tender wooing or brute force, whether she was even ready for this. If he made the wrong move…but he wasn’t going to. Making love to Charlie had suddenly become the most important thing in the world to him. He wasn’t worried about his own pleasure—he could come just from looking at her.
But she needed to know the pleasure her body could give her. Hell, she needed to know the pleasure he could give her.
She didn’t try to push his hand away, and he kept stroking her through the layers of cloth. There was something perversely erotic about seducing a woman wearing his underwear, and she probably didn’t have the faintest idea how turned-on he was. Just as well—she was scared enough already.
“Why?” he asked her again, his voice almost lazy. The cotton was growing damp beneath his stroking fingers, and he could feel the reluctant tremors of reaction sliding across her body.
“I don’t want…” she began, and her voice trailed off as she took a little gulp, a shiver of reaction catching her unaware.
“Don’t want what?” She was fighting him, fighting the feeling he was coaxing from her. The underwear was now less a turn-on than a hindrance, and he wanted her flesh on his fingers, her dampness, her scent.
She let out a startled yelp when he touched her a little harder. He wanted to rip the briefs off her with his teeth he was so aroused, but he knew he could make her come like this, standing up, half dressed and terrified, and he intended to do it.
He could feel the opened folds of her flesh through the cloth, and he knelt down in front of her, put one arm around her hips to hold her, and pushed his fingers against her clitoris. She was trembling, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, digging into the sweater. He thought she was crying, but he didn’t care. He wanted her to cry, needed her to cry with the sheer power of it.
“Don’t fight it, Charlie,” he said in a harsh voice. “Do it, Charlie. Do it for me.”
She probably had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t matter. The orgasm took her by surprise, and she let out a low, keening wail that was the most glorious thing he’d ever heard. He leaned forward and put his mouth where his hand had been, up against the thick cloth that was guarding her, pulling her body against him.
He held her that way until her shaking began to lessen. Then he rose and began stripping off his clothes.
“Get on the bed, Charlie,” he said, reaching for his zipper. His cock jutted out, thick and heavy with need. “Or I’ll put you there.”
“Maguire.” Her voice was a raw thread of sound.
“No more games. If you’ve changed your mind you can leave. Otherwise get on the goddamned bed.”
She got on the bed, kicking off her shoes and sliding up on it. He didn’t need to see her face to know that she was watching with fearful eyes, half terrified of what he was going to do to her.
She lay back, crossed her arms over her chest like a martyred virgin, and closed her eyes. His own eyes had grown accustomed to the dark by now, and he could see her quite clearly. The marks of tears on her cheeks. The pale, defenseless skin, the small, perfect breasts. And the incongruous white of the men’s briefs that she still wore.
He felt something crack inside him, though he tried to shove it away. Some kind of ice dam finally breaking.
He came around the side of the bed, sat down beside her and took one of her hands in his. “I