Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

“Well!” Whitney burst out indignantly, plunking her hands on her hips and giving him a murderous look. “I can’t help it when you just stand there without so much as moving a muscle to cooperate.”

“Perhaps you’re right. On the other hand, you’re supposed to inspire me to cooperate.”

“Oh shut up!” she snapped with blazing eyes. “You just do your part. I’ll do mine!”

“I’ll do no more than follow your lead,” he warned coolly. “And I have no intention of trying to teach you what you should have learned already. I have better things to do with my time than play tutor to a tiresomely naive schoolroom miss.”

Whitney felt as if he’d hit her across the face. With an effort, she bit back a vengeful retort, and forced herself to concentrate on finding some way to “inspire” this cold, withdrawn man into participating. And while she was about it, she wouldn’t mind throwing his taunts about “tutoring a schoolgirl” and “maidenly pecks” right in his teeth! Bending her head, she tried to imagine herself as a bold temptress, a courtesan, as wise in the ways of passion and seduction as he was. Very slowly, she raised jade-green eyes so full of promise and warmth that when they met Clayton’s she witnessed a momentary crack in his aloof composure.

Emboldened by her success thus far, Whitney slid her hands inside his jacket, upward along his silk shirt. Beneath her fingertips, she felt his chest muscles leap reflexively, then draw taut and hard. He was trying to resist her! Some primeval female instinct told her that if he had to try to resist her, she must have struck a very responsive chord, and the realization brought a knowingly seductive half smile to her lips as her hands glided over his shoulders and up behind his neck. Keeping her eyes locked to his, she slid her fingers through the soft hair at his nape, inexorably drawing his face nearer to hers. Tenderly, she brushed her lips over his mouth . . . his smiling mouth! Damn him, he was grinning! And even though her arms were locked around his neck, his arms were still diffidently at his sides.

“A definite improvement,” he congratulated her impersonally, “but hardly—”

Outraged pride made Whitney silence this final rejection with her parted lips. She found him blindly, and lingered endlessly, trying to force him to respond. His warm breath mingled with hers, his mouth followed her lead, but the moment she began to draw back, he did the same. Slowly, her fear of retreating too soon was surpassed by her greater fear of continuing too long. Her heart was beating in unsteady lurches, and her body was stirring to life in a most alarming way. Dropping her arms, she stepped back, and for the first time she realized that Clayton’s arms had never been around her. He hadn’t been the least bit affected by the kiss. “I hate you for this,” she whispered, too humiliated to look at his face, which she was certain would be gleaming with sarcastic amusement.

Clayton was not amused, he was furious. For the first time in his adult life he had not been able to control his own body’s responses. Her innocent kiss and light caress had sent a tidal wave of instantaneous lust surging through him, very nearly sweeping away his restraint. And while he was still struggling for control, she was declaring her hatred of him.

His jaw tightened and he tipped her chin up. “That was much better,” he said smoothly. “This time will be good-bye.”

Good-bye? Whitney thought, immediately forgetting she hated him. They were saying good-bye. This would be the last time they ever saw each other.

Whitney gazed up into his recklessly handsome male face with a nostalgic sensation that bordered on sadness. His was such a compelling face. A face that could seem almost boyish when the firm jawline and finely carved mouth were transformed by one of his lazy, devastating smiles. She liked the aura of calm authority that always surrounded him, that vibrated in his deep voice and lent purpose to his long, agile strides. She admired his ability to seem forever at ease and relaxed. He was, she thought with an inward sigh of regret, all the things a man ought to be.

His mouth was slowly moving closer to hers. “Shall we continue where you left off?” he suggested softly.

Drawing a long, ragged breath, Whitney lifted her trembling lips to within an inch of his. Then a half-inch. Her mind screamed a warning as her emotions reeled crazily and sudden shock waves of longing racked her. “No, I—”

His mouth came down hard, silencing Whitney’s objection with a demanding insistence that sent a jolt rocketing through her, exploding along every nerve until she was clinging to him, her arms wrapped fiercely around his neck.

“Am I boring you?” he taunted, kissing her harder, more deliberately than before. His tongue plunged suggestively into her mouth. “Would you describe this as sordid?”

Rage burst in Whitney’s breast, enclosing her in a mist of blind fury. He was lashing her with her own words, coldly and deliberately humbling her. She dug her fingernails into his wrists, trying futilely to pry his hands away from her head. His kiss deepened, devouring her and sending silky tendrils of desire curling down her spine.

“Are you pretending I’m Sevarin?” he jeered. “Are you?”

Stunned, Whitney let her hands slide from his wrists. She had actually hurt him with those things she’d said. Somehow Clayton had always seemed so utterly invulnerable, so completely self-assured, that she’d never dreamed anything she ever said or did could hurt him. But evidently she had.

“Tell me how much you hate my touch,” he ordered furiously. Pulling his mouth from hers, he stared down at her with biting gray eyes. “You despise my touch,” he hissed. “Say it now, or don’t ever, ever say it to me again.”

Whitney’s chest tightened around an aching lump of poignant contrition and shattering tenderness. She swallowed painfully, tears filling her eyes. “I—I can’t.”

“You can’t tell me you despise my touch?” he jeered in a silky, ominous voice. “Why can’t you?”

“Because,” she whispered, attempting a trembly smile, “you warned me not five minutes ago, never to lie to you again.” Whitney watched his features harden into a mask of cynical incredulity and, before he could say anything else to hurt them both, she leaned up to silence his retort with her lips.

Swearing savagely, he grabbed her arms and started to pull them down from around his neck. “Clayton, don’t!” she cried out brokenly, locking her fingers tightly behind his nape. “Oh please, please don’t!” Tears slipped down her cheeks as she ignored his painful grip on her arms and kissed this angry, unyielding man, this powerful, dynamic man, who had endured her hostility and outbursts with patience and humor . . . until now, when she had hurt him.

His hands went to her waist to shove her away, but Whitney pressed closer. Timidly, she touched her tongue to his lips, hoping he would like it if she kissed him that way. He went rigid. Every muscle in his body drew taut, hardening against her. Her tongue slid between his barely parted lips, encountered his, recoiled in wild alarm—and then crept back for one more sweet, forbidden touch. And her world exploded with the violence of his response. His arms went around her, crushing her to him as his mouth opened over hers, slanting fiercely back and forth. His tongue plunged boldly into her mouth, probing, as if to verify its welcome there.

Dazed with passion and longing, Whitney gloried in the wild excitement of his mouth moving with hungry urgency against hers. She kissed him back while his hands shifted possessively across her back and down her spine, then lower to cup her buttocks, molding her closer against his hard legs and thighs, forging their two bodies into one.

An eternity later, he lifted his mouth from hers and cradled her face between his hands, his thumbs gently stroking her flushed cheeks. Tenderness and desire smoldered in his gray eyes as he ga

zed down into her languorous green ones. “You beautiful, infuriating, wonderful little fool,” he whispered thickly, and then he slowly buried his lips in hers again, deepening the kiss until flames were shooting through Whitney’s veins and she was straining to be closer to him. His hands cupped and caressed her breasts, branding them with his touch, then stroking downward, fitting her hips against his rigid thighs.

Without warning, it was over. He tore his mouth from hers and kissed her eyes and forehead, then rested his jaw against her head. Whitney stirred and his arms tightened around her. “Don’t move, little one,” he whispered. “Stay close to me a while longer.” Leaves rustled in the breeze and birds fluttered overhead, while loneliness and despair began invading the bliss of the moment. Longing to feel his lips covering hers again, to have him drive away this aching sadness creeping over her, Whitney leaned her head back, her gaze lingering on his firmly molded lips.

Automatically, Clayton bent his head to accept her shy invitation, but an instant before his mouth touched hers, he checked himself. “No,” he said with a throaty chuckle.

Bewildered by his refusal to kiss her when he obviously wanted to, Whitney looked at him, her wide, questioning eyes shadowed with hurt confusion.

“If you continue to look at me like that,” he teased huskily, “you’re going to find yourself being thoroughly kissed once more. And if that happens, there’s an excellent chance that I’ll not be able to keep my promise.”

“Why?” Whitney whispered, still shamelessly yearning for his kiss.

“Why?” he repeated, his mouth hovering so near hers that their breaths were mingling. “I’ll be happy to show you why . . .” he offered in a lusty whisper.

Reason at last returned, cooling her ardor and restoring her sense. She shook her head. “No, for it would only make our parting more difficult.” With a weak smile, she stepped back and away from him. “Good-bye, your grace,” she whispered, gravely offering him her hand. Her heart gave a lurch when he took it and turned it palm up.