Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“Oh, no,” he said, his frown becoming a grin. “Is there going to be domestic trouble shortly?”

“Brent, must you jest about everything? Can’t you see that—”

“Just remember, my dear, that I am the master. In the South, the master rules—everything. Do you understand?”

She searched his face, but he was looking over her shoulders and breasts. She clutched the loosened gown over her chemise.

“Do you understand?” he repeated.

She held her ground. “You’re a tomcat,” she said.

Brent stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and laughed deeply. “And all little female cats are the same in the dark?”

“No, I think you enjoy comparing and contrasting all your women. And I’m just the new cat, one who happened to come into your house through the back door. It’s just a matter of time, isn’t it, until you want to go roving again?”

“Your metaphor is straining common sense, Byrony.

I think, if given the choice, that I’d prefer being the stallion. More noble than a ratty tomcat.” His voice hardened, all lightness gone from his eyes. “But since you are my own legal little cat, you are quite in this tomcat’s power. Take off your clothes. It’s late and I want to go to bed.”

Was he giving her outrageous orders because he couldn’t do so to Laurel? The complexities of his mind gave her a headache. She sank onto the soft feather bed, pulling only a sheet over her, and watched him strip off his clothes. Naked, he doused the lamps, then strode onto the balcony to smoke a cheroot. The moonlight outlined his body, the hard lines, the sculptured shadows, the smooth muscled planes. Why couldn’t he be a gnome? Why did he have to be so beautiful? She called out, “It’s a pity I have no comparisons to make. Who knows what I would learn?”

She saw him grind out the cheroot and walk back into the bedroom. “If you ever get the urge,” he said, standing over her, “I will tie you up and lock you away.”

“Why?” she asked, goading him. “Why shouldn’t the cat have the same options as the tomcat?”

“Some cats do, my dear, but not you. You are mine.”

“Does it not go both ways? Aren’t you then mine?”

He grinned at that and scratched his fingers over his chest. “My, but you’re in a feisty mood tonight, aren’t you?” He stared down at her, taking in her glorious hair, loose and full, framing her face. He felt lust and knew she was aware of it. Her eyes grew darker, falling to his groin. “I don’t think,” he said very quietly, “that I shall pull out of you tonight. I think I will fill you with my seed, watch your face while I do so. I think I will stay inside you even as you sleep.”

The words poured out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “You love me then? You want our child?”

But he only chuckled. “I am certain my feelings for you rival yours for me.”

“You don’t know what my feelings are,” she said.

Brent grasped the sheet and pulled it off her. He looked down at her. “Why don’t you tell me,” he said as he reached out his hand and laid it on her belly. He felt her quiver beneath his fingers. He watched her face as his fingers roved lower. “Tell me, Byrony.”

He eased down beside her, balancing himself on his elbow. “Tell me,” he repeated, his fingers now lightly caressing her. “Nothing to say? I would say, my dear, that your feelings are so soft right now as your woman’s flesh.” He deepened the pressure, and Byrony couldn’t help it. She moaned. “This tomcat knows what he’s about, doesn’t he? Many men don’t, of course. That is, they know perhaps, but they don’t care. You’re very lucky. I’ve always enjoyed a woman’s pleasure.”

She turned on her side to face him and touched him. He was hard and warm, and she stroked the length of him. “Brent,” she whispered, her voice soft and desperate. “Please.”

She felt his finger ease inside her and tightened her own fingers around him. To her delight, he groaned, pushing against her. His fingers found her again and she lurched against him, arching her back. “That’s it, love. I want you to burst with pleasure just as I will inside you. I want to feel you do it, and admit to yourself that no other man could ever make you feel thus.”

She wanted to ask him if he would admit that no other woman could please him as she did, but his words sent her reeling, and she wasn’t aware of anything save the intense wash of sensation that made her cry out. But Brent was. He watched her closely, felt her body surge in climax, and knew such pleasure at her release that it frightened him. “Byrony,” he said. He quickly drew her beneath him and came into her.

“I can feel you.” Her body continued to convulse in small shocks of pleasure. “I can feel you inside me.” He arched upward, moaning deeply, and she felt his seed.

She wrapped her arms tightly around his back, buried her face against his shoulder.

Brent was still hard inside her. Her words had made him crazy. Suddenly her soft keening words, other words, crystallized in his mind. It was her pleasure that made her say them, he thought. He eased onto his side, bringing her with him. He remained deep inside her. He stroked her hair away from her face, still telling himself silently that she hadn’t meant those words. “Byrony,” he asked against her temple, unable to help himself, “did you mean what you said?”

She nestled closer against him, lightly rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

He pressed his hand against her buttocks, keeping her close. “Did you?”

She was asleep.