The Disobedient Virgin

Hours later, when even the street far below his apartment had gone quiet, he’d heard a faint sound. He’d told himself it was the wind, sweeping through the leafless shrubs on the terrace, but he had known damned well it was Cat, weeping. About his reaction to her cooking? He’d doubted it.

About his reaction to her request for help was more likely.

And he’d thought, What if I went to her right now and said, Okay, you want me to teach you about sex? Here’s lesson number one.

He hadn’t done it, of course. Lessons in seduction? In sex? If she thought he’d teach her what men and women did in bed, she was nuts.

Or was she?

In some way that danced on the edge of sanity he could almost see the logic of it. He relied on people he trusted to help him all the time: CPAs to do his taxes, lawyers to write contracts. Wouldn’t it be better for Catarina to learn about sex from a man she knew and trusted than from a man she intended to marry and then divorce?

Jake sank down in the chair behind his desk again, picked up a pencil, rolled it mindlessly between his fingers.

There’d be a lot to teach her.

He’d start with the basics. How to let a man know she was interested. A little smile. A touch of her hand. No. She was innocent. He had to keep that in mind.

It would be best to start with what a man would do to her. That way none of it would come as a shock. She’d be prepared for what would happen.

He could do it tonight. Go home, confront Cat, tell her he’d decided to comply with her request. Say it just that way, so it sounded businesslike—because that was what it would be.

Businesslike.

Purposeful.

Instructions on how to make love.

He’d lead her to his room. Shut the door. Turn down the lights, leave just enough illumination so he could watch her face, see what pleased her when he touched her.

Undress her. Slowly. God, yes. Very slowly. Strip her naked, one garment at a time. And when she was naked, when she tried to shield herself from him, as she almost surely would, he’d take her hands in his.

Cat, he’d say softly, sweetheart, don’t. Let me look at you. You’re so beautiful, Cat. Any man would give his soul to see you like this.

Her eyes, those huge pools of darkest brown, would fix on his.

Tell me what pleases you, he’d say.

Then he’d reach out, touch her breasts. Her nipples. Watch them tighten in anticipation. A whisper of excitement would sigh from her lips, and when it did he’d cup her breasts, bend to them, suck the nipples into his mouth, tasting them on his tongue as he had that night in the kitchen.

She’d tremble with desire, but there’d still be fear in her eyes.

Do you like that? he’d ask.

And she’d say, Yes, oh, yes, Jake. Oh, yes.

Then he’d kneel down before her, stroke his hand down her belly, hear the swift intake of her breath as he cupped her hips, brought her closer and blew gently against the soft curls that guarded her virginity.

Jake, she’d sob. Oh, Jake…

Let me, he’d whisper, and he’d press his mouth to those curls, inhale her scent until the splendor of it made him dizzy. Her hands would be in his hair, clutching at him as she swayed, as he made her mindless with need.

That was when he’d scoop her into his arms, carry her to his bed, take her down and down onto the soft sheets, take off his own clothing, watch her eyes widen as she saw him naked for the first time.

Jake? she’d whisper unsteadily.

Shh, he’d say softly, I won’t hurt you. I’ll never hurt you.

He’d draw her against him, stroke her, soothe her, and when she finally relaxed he’d take her hand, kiss the palm, then bring it to his chest, let her feel his skin, let her measure the pounding beat of his heart as she’d tried to do that very first night in Rio.