Mistress for a Night

In some strange way the inevitability of it had relaxed her, so that by the time he had come to her she was in a state of what she could only muzzily assume was trance. And the closeness of his hard male body, the musky, slightly sharp scent of him, the intimate haze of his body heat and the stroke and slide of his fingers through her hair released the last vestige of tightness in her mind, freed her to submerge herself in every insidious sensation.

Sternly forbidden for so long, it all came back in swamping waves of hedonistic pleasure. The melt-down of her bones, the headlong rush of fire through her veins, the pooling of liquid heat deep inside her. So long forgotten, yet so easily remembered.

She swayed towards him, languid, lost, her legs buckling beneath her, and his arms folded around her as he eased them both to the cool, mossy ground.

‘This heat,’ he muttered thickly. ‘You’re not used to it.’

‘And you are?’ She was teasing, gently mocking his unconscious male superiority, but her voice came thickly, the words spaced out and slow, as if she were drugged. She felt drugged. She sought his eyes. They were smoky with what seemed to be happening here, his brow slightly furrowed as if he, too, were grasping for the reality that was endlessly receding.

‘I can take it.’ His lids lowered heavily, his lashes thick dark crescents against the olive tones of his moisture-slicked skin, his eyes lingering on her mouth, at last to move on to slide down the fragile length of her neck, down to the uncompromising armour of her long-sleeved shirt, to swing up again and lock with the bemused golden light of hers.

‘So buttoned up. No wonder the heat’s getting to you.’ It was an excuse, and he knew it, and wondered if she knew it, too. An excuse to allow the tips of his fingers to ease the rigid row of buttons from their fastenings. An excuse to devour her body with his eyes, to touch the inviting creamy flesh.

When the last button was free of its moorings he eased her on to her back, met no resistance, felt the powerful surge of his manhood with a stab of wild, head-spinning elation, knew without doubt that she was his.

As she had been his on that one earth-shattering night, when his perceptions of himself, of her, had changed beyond recognition.

And his life had changed thereafter, that strand of bitterness had been introduced into his heart and soul, the voice of sanity reminded him. A voice that was lost when her lips parted on a husky whimper of helpless capitulation and she wound her arms around his neck, urged his head down to the pouting globes of her naked breasts.

He needed no further invitation to turn the tortured dreams of the last seven years into ecstatic reality. Hungrily, he took each erect peak in turn as her body arched and writhed beneath him.

His hands found the zip at the front of her trousers and dragged it down, and the blood pounded hotl

y through his veins, throbbing wildly at his temples, as she lifted her hips to allow him to slide the light fabric down, to allow him access to the warm, softly furred mound of her femininity.

The sensuality of her movements blew his mind, and he fought the primitive instinct to simply take her. He had to cool it, find control, make this slow and perfect for her. For both of them. Make it as it should be.

He shuddered, and saw her soft mouth tremble, saw the glitter of gold beneath her lowered eyelids and bent his head again, to trail tender kisses down to her navel, then back again, to the temptation of her creamy breasts, slowing it down, fighting back the urgency, easing her now wild and glorious hair to cover the pert globes, kissing them through the soft, silky veil.

Against his intentions, the gentle teasing appeared to drive her wild, inciting her to wind those slenderly elegant legs tightly around his body, opening for him, her voice raw with passion, thick and heady with it as she cried out his name.

His voice shaky with the effort of holding back, he said, ‘Such beautiful hair—it always was soft and silky, now it’s so long, and full of glorious light. Whatever you do to it, it’s inspired.’

She’d been lost, drugged by sensation, entrapped by memories of loving him, the yearning and passion that had blossomed for him, and only him. Lost in it all. But not now. Now she found herself—the woman she had become, not the simple girl she had been, the girl who had been so betrayed.

Memories changed abruptly. A crystal-clear flash-back of Sue, dragging her off to a top New York stylist, telling her it was past time she took some interest in her appearance. It had been six months since she’d lost her baby. She had to start living again.

The stylist had transformed the long, unkempt mass, not losing the length, but cleverly shaping and layering it to give style and life, brightening the mousy-brown with what had seemed like a trillion fine blonde highlights.

The new, flattering hairstyle, coupled with her weight loss, had marked the beginning of her new attitude. Become part of her persona, her life. As Jason wasn’t, and never could be.

With a smothered cry of anguish she pressed the palms of her small hands against his shoulders and pushed him away, frantically scrabbling to cover herself.

‘Just leave me alone!’ she commanded tightly, dragging the edges of her shirt together. ‘I didn’t ask you to come here. I don’t want you here.’

She saw the flare of his nostrils, the white line of what was probably temper appear around his mouth, and it incensed her. He looked like a man who had been deprived of something he believed he had a right to take!

Pushing the shirt into the waistband of her hastily pulled-up trousers, her hands shaking with rage, shoving her feet into the sturdy slip-ons she’d discarded so she could feel the soft coolness of the moss beneath her feet, she stated rigidly, ‘Don’t ever try to touch me again. You caught me when my guard was down—what’s your excuse?’

Jason got slowly to his feet, dragging a long-fingered hand over his tight jawline as he felt the savage ache of frustrated need ebb as quickly as it had flowed, the shock of her explosive rejection suddenly clearing his head. He couldn’t excuse what had happened between them because he sure as hell couldn’t understand it.

‘I didn’t think I needed one. It’s not the first time you’ve thrown yourself at me, remember? You seem to make a habit of it,’ he added drily. Tousled hair, her golden eyes ablaze with anger, she looked magnificent, wild and incredibly sexy.

He fought back the hot, resurgent stab of need the only way he knew how, employing the first weapon to come to hand, using the thought that had lurked at the back of his mind since his stepfather’s death. ‘I can’t imagine you leading Harold on, then giving him a similar slap in the face. Because as sure as God made little green apples he wouldn’t have left his entire fortune to you if you had.’

The utter hatefulness of his taunt was a pain that had no ending. It would have had her on her knees, sobbing her heart out, if she’d let it, the pain of knowing he had always believed what Harold had said all those years ago, his belief reinforced by the contents of that will.

Retaining the pain within her rigidly held body, not letting him guess at his power to hurt her, she raised one finely arched brow in his direction. ‘How very astute you’ve become, Jason. I guess it must come with the job.’ And she swept past him, heading for the path between the trees. She wasn’t going to argue with him. He could think what he damned well liked.