“Do not do this to me,” she whispered.
“I must, Cassandra.”
She felt his hand upon her breast, and his touch, hated and alien, unleashed her fear. She writhed and twisted until one of her hands slipped loose from his grasp, and she raked her bandaged fingernails down his face.
He rolled suddenly off her and rose to stand beside the bed. She watched him in frozen silence as he shrugged off his waistcoat and his white shirt, baring his chest. He was not lean and slender like Edward. His chest was covered with black curling hair. Her eyes fell to his muscled flat belly above the line of his breeches, and in a spasm of terror, she tried to fling herself past him. He picked her up easily with one arm and tossed her lightly back onto the bed.
“Cassandra, listen to me,” he said sharply. “If I must rape you, then so be it, but I will not allow you to fight me like some wild thing. You will only hurt yourself, and I do not wish it. Either you accept me, or I shall tie you down.”
“I will never stop fighting you. Never, do you hear me?”
“Very well,” he said flatly, and strode away from the bed, out of her view.
She scurried to the far side of the bed and came up on her knees, her back flattened against the rich mahogany paneling and crossed her shaking arms over her body.
He appeared suddenly, two silk handkerchiefs in his hand. She shrank back.
“Stay away from me.”
But he climbed swiftly over to her and dragged her back toward him. He straddled her, holding one arm down beneath him while he grabbed her wrist and swiftly knotted a handkerchief about it. He jerked her arm up and secured the other end to a wooden lattice in the headboard. She heaved wildly beneath him, but if he felt pain from her legs striking his back, he gave no notice. He pulled her other arm above her head and secured it. She felt the silk tighten about her wrists as she struggled to free herself. He moved off her and she lay panting, staring up at him, her eyes dark with fear.
She tried to stop the deep upward and downward heaving of her breasts as his hands moved over them, unbuttoning her bodice. He appeared unhurried in his undressing of her.
“You have set me a problem,” he remarked. “How am I to get that dress off you with your wrists secured?”
“Go to the devil.”
“I must sacrifice your gown, I fear,” he continued, as if she had not spoken. He unfastened the small buttons at her wrists, and in a powerful motion, ripped the sleeves up to her shoulders and jerked open the fine stitching about her throat. His hands were curiously gentle as he pulled her free of her bodice. He untied the ribbons of her chemise and eased her out of the material, leaving her naked to the waist.
He gave a sharp intake of breath and gazed down at her. “I had imagined that you would be all pink and white, Cassandra. You are quite exquisite.”
“I cannot be so different from your women in Italy, my lord.”
“But you are, my love, quite different,” he said. She felt his hands move lightly over her. She swallowed an impotent cry and concentrated on her hatred of him. She lay rigid even as his mouth closed over her and she felt his tongue.
“Stop it,” she yelled, arching and twisting her back to escape him.
The earl circled her waist with his hands to hold her still and let his mouth rove over her breasts, loving the feel of her. He felt her shudder, not with desire, but with fear, and for an instant, he hesitated. He had envisioned many times possessing her body, bringing her to a woman’s pleasure, and felt a shaft of anger at Edward Lyndhurst for being the first to awaken her. He thought about the viscount’s child lying small in her womb and cursed himself for not having taken her a year ago, when she was seventeen. He raised his head from her breasts and saw her eyes were tightly closed, her lips drawn in a thin line.
He drew a resolute breath and quickly removed the remainder of her clothes. When she was naked, he rose slowly and stared down at her. She lay motionless, her face turned away, her thighs locked together. His eyes followed the curved, soft lines of her, from her slender waist to her flat white belly. His gaze lingered upon the curling blond triangle of hair that covered her, and he was startled at the delicate yet provocative sensuousness of her. He felt a surge of lust for her, and pictured her long legs wrapped about him, drawing him deep inside her. He wanted to part her, caress her, taste her. He was hard, straining against his breeches, and with a low moan, he shucked off the rest of his clothes.
Cassie heard his boots fall to the floor, and, despite herself, turned her face on the pillow toward him. He stood before her, indifferent in his nakedness. Her eyes fell inevitably to the mass of black hair at his groin, and she gasped aloud at the sight of him.
She struggled at the bonds about her wrists and jerked her hips away from him.
“I won’t hurt you, Cassandra, you know that.” He sat down beside her and stroked her belly, caressing her, until he was touching her. She tried vainly to jerk away from him, her legs flailing wildly, but he held her down with his body. He eased his fingers between her thighs and stroked her gently.
“You are beautiful.” She felt his fingertips stroking her thighs, probing at her, and she felt a shuddering sensation that made her draw in her breath.
“Please stop,” she said breathlessly, pressing her thighs together, away from his fingers.
“No, my love. Relax, give in to me, Cassandra.” He pulled her thighs apart and held her open to him with his body. He lowered his head and she felt his mouth touch her. She frantically tried to jerk away.
“No. Damn you, no.”
Reluctantly, he released her. He straddled her quickly and lifted her hips up on a pillow. She felt his fingers part her and arched upward to see him guiding himself into her.
Her cries died in her throat when he suddenly went rigid over her, straining against her. Her eyes flew open and she saw him staring at her in bemused surprise.