Her head ached—an aftermath of the brandy she had drunk, she reflected, then she suddenly remembered her ankle and moved her foot experimentally to see if it still hurt.
There was pain, but it was minimal. Chelsea lowered her foot, freezing instinctively as it brushed against Slade’s calf, and the realisation came to her that beneath the protective bedclothes they were both naked.
A longing to be close to Slade overwhelmed her, flooding her with what her brain told her was a crazily impulsive need which she would be wiser to fight against than give in to, and whether it was because enough of last night’s brandy still lingered in her veins to override habitual caution and wariness or not, Chelsea didn’t know, but it seemed impossible to prevent herself from moving closer to Slade’s unmoving form and almost exult in the throwing off of years of self-repression.
Once that barrier was breached it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to reach out experimentally to touch the dark shadow along Slade’s jaw with fingertips acutely sensitised to the rough texture of overnight beard, thrilling to the knowledge that there was something acutely erotic in so doing.
With new honesty she admitted that she wanted Slade’s possession of her body, even if it was without love. Pain filled her. Part of her mind told her that she should have more pride, but that other new Chelsea argued fiercely that surely she had the right to this; to give herself freely to the only man she was ever likely to love?
Her fingers stilled and she raised herself slightly to look down into his face, studying it avidly. In repose there was a slight curl to his mouth, hinting at a sense of humour. Thick black lashes protected her from the sharp intensity of his eyes. He moved suddenly and the sheet slipped down between them. Her skin looked pale against his tanned flesh, Chelsea noted, and lifted her fingers to touch the smooth column of this throat. He was oblivious to her tentative caress and it gave her the courage to bend her head and lightly touch her lips to his skin. It was warm and faintly salty and felt so pleasurable beneath the hesitant exploration of her mouth that all thought of any possible danger slid from her mind. Totally engrossed in her tactile voyage of discovery, Chelsea was oblivious to everything but the scent and taste of Slade’s body, the hunger she had dammed up from the first time she met him spilling over to close her mind and her senses to everything but the feel of his skin beneath her hands and lips.
Her tongue was tracing a delicate path along the brown shoulder closest to her when she suddenly became aware that something had changed; the change was so subtle that it was several seconds before she realised what had happened some sixth sense relaying to her the fact that the smooth skin beneath her hand was no longer inanimate, but seemed to be radiating a sensual responsiveness which set alarm bells ringing long enough for her to raise her head and encounter Slade’s slumberously aroused green gaze.
His hand reached out to capture the length of her hair and hold her against him, his voice husky and warm as he murmured, ‘What exactly are you trying to do? Take advantage of a poor helpless male?’
Heat scorched her skin, the shock of finding him awake arousing all her own instinctive fears, but it was too late to move away. With one lazy movement Slade turned towards her, imprisoning her in his arms and trapping her beneath him with the weight of his body. At the first touch of his skin against hers, Chelsea’s resistance melted. This was what she wanted; what she craved for; what she had been born for. Feverish tremors shivered through her, punctuated by delicate shudders of pleasure as Slade bent his head and traced a sensuous pathway over her shoulders and throat, pausing a mere breath away from her lips. His fingers stroked caressingly over her shoulders and Chelsea felt as though she were drowning in the pleasure of his touch. Her hands reached upwards, entwining in the dark thickness of his hair, impelling him to close the tiny distance between them, but Slade resisted her, his palms flat on the bed either side of her head as he studied her minutely.
Chelsea no longer cared what he read in her face or in the hurried rise and fall of her breathing.
‘Slade!’
His name was a plea and both of them knew it. His hands left the bed to frame her face, his eyes searching every feature, and then as though satisfied with what he saw he bent his head, lightly brushing her lips with his.
Her blood turned to liquid fire, Chelsea strained upwards, hungry for more than light teasing kisses, sensing instinctively that Slade was deliberately holding himself in check; waiting for her total self-abasement and capitulation, a tiny voice warned her, but she ignored it.
‘Slade?’
This time her husky plea was answered, with the hot pressure of his mouth and a passion no longer leashed, but smothering her in velvet black darkness, awakening her to sensations she had never dreamed existed, drawing from her a felinely sensuous response she had never known she possessed, glorying in the knowledge that Slade was no longer master of his desire for her, his caresses increasingly urgent as he thrust aside the sheet and bent his head to place the burning heat of his mouth against the exposed curves of her breasts.
Her heart was beating so heavily she half expected it to burst the wall of her ribs. A hectic flush stained Slade’s skin, his eyes so dark that they were almost black, his arousal obvious, and yet it seemed to Chelsea that he was intent only on increasing her pleasure rather than satisfying his desire, and she knew instinctively that whatever else she might regret her body would always remember these moments with intense pleasure.
Slade was a skilled lover; Chelsea closed her mind to how he had obtained those skills, shivering ecstatically as his hands moved delicately over her body, tracing the shape of her spine and the narrow curve of her waist before stroking softly over her hips and the slender curve of her thighs, his touch turning her boneless with pleasure, as supple and sensual as a small cat in his arms, delighting in his exploration of her body and the knowledge that touching her aroused him.
His tongue traced circles around her nipples, witnessing their response and encouraging it in a manner that made her gasp and twist into his arms, pressing passionate kisses against his skin, recklessly uncaring of what she was betraying.
She heard Slade groan and cried out in protest as his mouth touched demandingly against the quivering flesh of her stomach, his hands soothing her minute tremors but increasing the gnawing ache deep down inside her.
Her own hands reached instinctively to caress the taut maleness of Slade’s hips, teasing the vulnerability of the smooth flatness of his stomach before tracing the dark arrowing of body hair downwards until he trembled and groaned, his response fuelling her own intense desire until her bones ached with the need for fulfilment.
His mouth felt hot as he buried it in her throat, a wild pulse beating under the fingertips she stroked against his flesh.
‘Has any other man made you feel like this?’ he demanded huskily, lifting his head and studying the aroused pleasure in her face. ‘Has he?’ he repeated forcefully, anger mingling with passion, and with a jolting sickness Chelsea felt herself come back to earth. She started to shiver with reaction, sickened both by her own behaviour and Slade’s egotistical desire to arouse within her something she had felt for no one else.
Stifling her emotions, she forced herself to go rigid in his arms, noting with satisfaction the darkening in his eyes as he felt her reaction. In the space of a few seconds they had gone from lovers to enemies, each ready to use every weapon at their command to wound the other. At least he had not realised that she loved him, Chelsea thought in relief; possibly because love as a viable emotion would simply never occur to a man who merely experienced physical lust.
‘What’s wrong?’ she goaded. ‘Are you wondering how you compare? Would you like a rating on a scale of one to ten?’
For a moment she thought he was going to hit her, but with a tremendous effort of will he seemed to gain control of himself, desire converted into blazing anger as he stared contemptuously down into her face.
‘You’re an extremely
desirable and sexy woman, as I’m sure you already know, but all of a sudden the only feeling you arouse in me is one of nausea, combined with a need to wash the taint of you off my body!’
He pushed aside the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor, leaving Chelsea to stare in sick shock after him as he disappeared into the bathroom. How long she lay trying to come to terms with the pain of the wounds he had just inflicted she didn’t know, but at last she managed to find the strength to limp into her own room, still shaking with reaction and self-disgust. As she opened her door she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes looked too large for her over-pale face, lilac smudges lay like bruises against her skin, and a raw agony in her expression gave away the truth.
She badly wanted the relief of tears, but she couldn’t cry. All her emotions seemed to be locked up inside her as the traumatic aftermath of her own behaviour swept over her. She shuddered violently as she relived how she had felt; how she had touched and actively encouraged Slade, almost unable to believe that she was reliving the actions of herself and not a stranger.
She glanced out of the window and saw the silver glint of moonlight on the snow. A closer look confirmed that the blizzard had stopped, but the snow lay thick and deep. She shivered, creeping into her cold bed and pulling the blankets up around her, wishing that she could simply find oblivion in sleep and not wake up until the snow had gone and with it Slade Ashford.
It didn’t help knowing that she had no one but herself to blame—herself and possibly the brandy, she thought grimly, recalling how the fierce spirit had undermined her defences to the extent where she was no longer prepared to listen to the voice of caution. How could she have been so stupid? She thumped her pillow despairingly. She had known how Slade felt about her; how determined he had been to salve his ego—and what had she done? Ignored all the promptings of caution and common sense and stupidly given him the means to hurt her.
At least he hadn’t guessed the truth, she comforted herself; but no thanks to her. If he hadn’t spoken as he had at this very moment she could have been lying in his arms trying to work out how to explain away the fact that she had still been a virgin.
Infuriatingly, although with Darren she had been fiercely glad of the fact that she had not succumbed to him, her feelings towards Slade were still ambivalent. Her brain told her that she had had a lucky escape, but her body still yearned for him.
It was dawn before she slept, only to be awakened abruptly by the sound of activity outside the house.
Her first thought was—how on earth was she to face Slade? Unless she had been mistaken about the conditions outside there was no way they would be able to get away from the house. She frowned, realising that by now Slade should have been in New York. Her initial thought when she had returned yesterday and seen him had been that he had deliberately lied to her about leaving, but now she recognised that he was hardly likely to have indulged in such an elaborate deception simply to be alone with her. So what had happened?