Sweet Vixen

'No game, Sarah,' he said, grinning wolfishly as she backed up against a large white stone sculpture, hemmed in by the back of the couch on one side and a table topped with the glowing globes on the other. I've had enough of games. This time it's for real.'

Sarah's nerves were as taut as wire as she watched him stop an arm's-length away, resting a lean hip against the back of the couch, casually unbuttoning and removing his wais

tcoat, and undoing several of his shirt buttons. But­terflies began a frantic dance in Sarah's stomach. She craved his touch, his soft words, but not like this. He thought she was an easy lay, a body with which to relieve the frustrations of a tiring day.

'Your father will be here any minute,' she said desper­ately, but Max was ignoring her flutterings, his mouth twitching as he looked at her.

'How clever of you to wear red, it's so . . . evocative. I remember the last time you wore a red dress. All I could think of was what was underneath it—the honey-flavoured skin, those little shreds of lace . . . kissing you up against that wall, arousing you until all you could do was moan for me. Remember?' His voice had dropped to a husky murmur, his eyes almost clouded as he watched the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Sarah almost moaned then. She remembered. Every inch of her body tingled with the memory.

'I see you do,' he said dreamily and she, struggling weakly in the silken web of sensuality, only gave him token resistance when he pounced, pulling her towards him until their bodies bumped together.

'That's better. Little fool, stop fighting me. This is what you're here for.'

With one arm around her he thrust his other hand into her hair and tilted her head back kissing her roughly. It was as though he had never stopped.

Still holding her he let himself fall over the low back of the couch, carrying her with him so that she lay on his chest, hair falling in a silky curtain around their faces. His mouth moved against hers hot and hungry, parting her lips with an eager tongue. It happened so suddenly, that much-desired, long dreamed-of embrace, that Sarah was instantly excited—pride, scruples melting like sugar in the mouth. He was rough, but it was a roughness born of passion, not anger, and Sarah welcomed it, welcomed also the change of that first devouring assault to a mutual exploration.

She closed her eyes, sighing as his mouth moved over her delicate ear, moving her own mouth against the warm muskiness of his neck, loving the feel of domination it gave her to lie on top of him, to feel his body tremble beneath hers.

His hands moved through the warm softness of her hair and he used it to pull her sideways and roll with her so that now he was lying half on top of her, his thighs heavy on hers, hands moving over her as he kissed her face, her throat and the upper curve of her breasts above the dress. She twisted, pressing herself feverishly closer to him, hair spilling in a cascading wave over the side of the couch to the floor.

She felt the warmth of his hand on her leg, sliding up the heavy velvet of her dress, stroking her thigh with soft, circular movements and felt his slurred murmur against her throat.

'How I've waited for his . . . moan for me, sweet vixen, like you did before . . .'

His hand moved up under her dress, sliding across her satiny stomach as he brushed his mouth back and forth across her skin just above the deep curve of her bodice. The fabric suddenly felt tight and constrictive, heavily encasing her, inhibiting her enjoyment. The blood rushed dizzily to her head as it drooped over the side of the couch. A physical sensation that was close to swooning, a volup­tuous sighing, straining sensation took hold of her. She was gasping for air in his arms, dying of sweetness and love . . .

Next moment she was being shaken out of her daze, the caressing hands had become a vice about her waist. 'What did you just say?'

'Hmmm?' She didn't care, she tried to pull his head back down but he wouldn't let her. He dragged her so that they were both sitting up.

'What did you say?'

'I don't know ... I don't remember,' she said, fright­ened. She didn't want to think, or talk, she wanted to make love. She no longer cared how little he thought of her, she wanted one beautiful, intimate memory to take away with her. To sustain her against the bitter truth she had faced tonight.

'Something about loving me.'

'No.' Not even in the incandescent heat of the moment could she have betrayed herself so utterly. 'No, I said —make love to me.'

'You lying bitch, you said you loved me!' He shook her brutally hard and she choked back a sob. Was he angry because he thought she had said it as a form of black­mail to try and worm her way back into his good books?

'You must have misheard me—'

The hell I did!' He put a hand on the side of her face and forced it back as she would have looked away from him. 'I love you", you said—and you meant it. That's why you took that job with my father, because you wanted to get close to me: because you were desperate enough to settle for whatever you could get—isn't it? Isn't it?' His eyes burned yellowly into hers and she knew by his look, his grip, that he was intent on forcing an answer. God, how he must hate her, to do this to her!

'Perhaps I did say it,' she said wildly, giving him the lesser victory, 'but you already know how responsive I am to you physically. You can make me say anything, do anything, when I'm in your arms—'

'And have done so . . . but not tonight. I wasn't asking anything of you tonight. I wasn't taking advantage of your sexual thrace,' he gave a peculiar, excited laugh. 'What you said you said of your own free will. And you'll say it again.'

'No!' With an anguished cry she tore herself out of his hands and fled, plunging through the nearest door, down a short hallway into the dimness beyond. A dead end; she turned at bay.

'You're always trying to get away from me, darling,' came the silky drawl from the dark silhouette in the doorway. 'Haven't you learned yet how hopeless it is?' He couldn't know how true that was. 'This time you've made a truly Freudian slip.'

The room leaped into life as he touched a switch by his side and Sarah realised with dismay that she was in a bedroom—his bedroom. It had to be. All white and black and silver, the tubular chrome curves of the bedstead rising flatly from the wide, wide, black fur-covered bed.

Sarah could feel herself beginning to shake, beginning to weaken. What did pride matter? He was right, she would settle for whatever she could get. . .

'Max . . . your father . . .' she panted, a last fatalistic attempt to put him off the scent.