Defiant Angel (29 page)

"Clinton ..." she whimpered into the hollow of his throat, clinging to his strong arms. She felt him within her--possessing her. He seemed so alien, so very hot, too thrusting, too deep, as if he touched her soul. Her tears welled in her eyes at his possession. She could no longer think when his palms moved over her breasts and his mouth covered hers. She heard him whisper little things and then felt her body quiver at his words. His body moved over her in fluid motion, moving deeper and deeper into her until he was fully seated and she fully possessed. She could not remember when the pain ended and the unbearable pleasure began, only that her body moved and arched to meet his thrust and receive him. A throbbing began anew in the center between her thighs and turned to a hungry need which screamed through every part of her body for fulfillment. Instinctively, to bring him closer to her needs, she arched her hips, bringing their loins together.

She heard his hoarse whisper, "All of you, Tiffany." He felt her undulations beneath him, almost undoing him. He pressed on, long, smooth strokes demanding she give to him and hold back nothing. He kept his raging desire to spill himself in tight check till she surrendered totally. Moving his hand between their bodies, caressing the taut bud of desire, he plunged deeper into her. "All, no less."

Tiffany wrapped her legs about his trusting hips, capitulating, giving over to him.

And when he felt her give over, he gave of himself, unselfishly, as if in atonement for her surrender. He felt her nails scratch his back in abandon and her body ripple in convulsion. She cried out in a tumultuous climax as he released all his passion he had so torturously contained, spilling himself, flooding her with his seed, crying out in ultimate triumph.

C
linton reclined against the propped-up pillows, a smile of contentment spread across his unshaven face. Smoke curled upward from a cheroot lying in the ashtray. He lifted the cup of tea Mortimer delivered earlier with a pot of hot chocolate, sipping the strong brew. He replaced the cup on its saucer.

Sun streamed into the room. A slight breeze ruffled the curtains of the open French doors. He inhaled the fresh morning air deeply, feeling invigorated. He normally rose before the break of dawn, but this morning he slept later than usual. The reason for his laziness was tucked snuggly against his side.

He looked down at her. Her head rested against his shoulder, her hand lay trustingly over his heart, and her leg, bent at the knee, entwined about his. His eyes moved to her face. A tender smile curved his mouth. She was so soft in her repose. Her lips, red and swollen from their night of passion, were slightly parted. Long, sooty lashes cast shadows on her creamy, flawless skin. Tiny curling tendrils escaped the heavy raven mass of hair streaming across the pillows. Absently he touched a lock, which curled possessively about his finger.

Images of the night past flooded his mind, causing a dull ache to begin in his groin. His eyes traveled to the soft, sweet swell of her breast, its dusky tip hidden beneath the satin sheet. He pictured it, hard with desire. His blood moved thickly in his veins at the image. His eyes followed the beguiling line of her waist over a rounded hip, slowly down long, curvaceous legs. Again his mind betrayed him and his manhood rose in tribute, picturing those legs wrapped tightly against his flanks.

He drew a deep, calming breath and lifted his cigar, puffing thoughtfully. He was glad he had kept his raging desires in check and had given her release. He was glad of his wisdom, for it prepared her to receive him, and contrary to her claim, she was untouched. He smiled broadly, knowing that her first experience in lovemaking would remain indelibly etched in her memory.

Although he had tapped and drunk from her well of passion, he found his thirst unquenchable. She had rivaled him in passion, giving him consummate pleasure.

She had surrendered each and every part of her body to him as he knocked down every obstacle in his path. He had forced her to admit to the passion he stirred and she possessed. He had forced her to watch her own passion ;ind his possession of her and brought her to high ground, sharing a shattering release. Afterward, he wrapped her quivering form in his arms, feeling her tears fall silently on his chest.

He knew while she surrendered and contorted in the ecstasy he gave her, she also withdrew from him, denying her love.

The corners of his mouth lifted as he thought she had vet to experience all she could feel. There was much he Imd yet to teach her. In bed, wrapped about his body, I ilfany would learn and seek him for her desire, accept him as a lover. She had, as of yet, to accept him as a companion, for there had been little time for wooing and i ourtship. A broad smile etched his face; that, too, would pass.

Clamping the cigar between his teeth, he leaned back, smiling as he made his next battle plans.

The sweet aroma of chocolate teased her nostrils. A soft smile touched her lips in her sleep. She drifted up from the depths of sleep, thinking soon Germane's accented voice would break into her semisleep, urging her to be up for her bath. Snuggling deeper into the mattress, reveling in its warmth which enveloped her, she waited. She heard a dull constant pounding. A frown marred her brow, the pounding getting louder as her senses began to awaken. Slowly she opened her eyes, the sunlight causing her to squint. Adjusting to the light, her eyes opened and she saw her hand resting against flesh. Flesh that was warm and firm under her fingers. Her eyes widened with realization, and with a strangled cry, Tiffany was fully awake, grabbing the sheet and scrambling to the far corner of the bed. Sitting on her haunches with the sheet clutched in her hands, under her chin, she stared at an amused Clinton. Her eyes widened when she realized she had yanked the sheet from his body and now he sat proud, indifferent to his nakedness, casually smoking a cigar.

She blushed. Images of the night past flooded her mind. Images too powerful, too erotic, to deny.

"Well, good morning to you, too, Princess."

Averting her eyes from his smiling face and form, they fell to a stain as red as berries against the whiteness of the sheet, proof of his possession. Raising her eyes, she glared at him. His face split into a wide grin. Enraged beyond belief, Tiffany gasped, grabbing the nearest item, a pillow, and hurled it at him.

"Is it something I've done?" he asked with mock innocence, catching the pillow with ease.

Images of her unconditional surrender flashed before her. She shrieked, grabbed another pillow, and flung it with all her might at him.

Raising his arm, he easily deflected it, causing it to crash against a priceless vase, breaking it. "Or didn't do?" he inquired dryly. He looked at the picture she presented.

The sheet no longer covered her, forgotten in her display of anger. Her black silken mane streamed about her like a mantle over her shoulders, down to the beguiling ebony triangle of curls. Her breasts were covered by her hair, but dusky rose tips peeked out from beneath its raven shroud with each agitated breath she took. Blue eyes shot daggers of flames at him. He smiled, his manhood rising to the tempting image he held.

The arrogant smile on his face only incensed her more. Her hand frantically searched and found a heavy brass candlestick, which she threw at him. Clinton caught the heavy missile easily, dropping it to the floor. A gleam of triumph lit his eyes. "Must be something I didn't do."

"Ohhhh,"
she screamed, and lunged for him, hands curled, nails bared, ready to scratch his eyes out. Clinton saw her coming and quickly grabbed her, but not before her nails scratched his cheek, barely missing his eye. Tossing her easily on her back into the softness of the bed, he pinned her hands above her head with one of his own. Touching his hand to his cheek, coming away with blood on his finger, he smiled down at her.

"I guess one bloodletting deserves another, Princess." He sucked the blood from his finger. His eyes hooded with desire.

Tiffany struggled beneath him, thrashing her legs, nearly unmanning him, until he covered her limbs with his own. She struggled anew until she felt his hardness press against her belly and realized her movements enticed him. She arched to buck him off, trying to get as far away as possible from the branding heat of his rising manhood. Instead she came closer. Her breasts heaved in her exertion, rubbing against his hair-roughened chest. Her nipples tingled and rose.

Clinton felt them pressing into his chest. Lifting his chest, he peered down, and a wolfish smile crossed his lace. "Ah, a succulent ripe cherry for the tasting." He blew a warm stream of breath on the nipple and it hardened. Looking at her, a gleam of mischief crossed his eyes. "But is it sweet?" Not waiting for a reply, he lowered his head.

Tiffany struggled, attempting to move away from his lowering head, fully aware of his intent. She moaned when his mouth closed over a taut peak, feeling a bolt shoot from her nipple to her belly. Clinton grasped her hands with his, holding them above her head firmly as he payed homage to her other breast, biting, sucking its peak into a tight, aching crest. Tiffany clasped her hands with his own when she felt a sparkling tremor between her thighs.

Raising her head, he leaned close to nibble at her ear and whispered in a deep, sensual voice, "I've a need to taste more of you." His tongue moved teasingly down and traced around her hardened nipples. "This is but an appetizer to the great bounty you bring."

"No . . . no. I won't let you." She reared her head back, renewing her struggles. He brought her hands, pressing them down, at her shoulders, laying his palms against her own. Her fingers curled around his as he parted her thighs with his knees, raising himself between them.

Before lowering his head, he promised, "I think you will, Princess. You know you like it." His knee rubbed erotically against her, feeling the beginnings of her wetness. She felt herself grown warm and pulsating with the movement and moaned in submission when he bent his head, tracing his tongue over her breasts, down her belly. He looked up at her, watching her toss her head lightly back and forth. He hovered over her sweet essences. Tiffany felt his breath caress her intimate flesh as she knew soon his mouth would do. She moaned. Clinton wedged his chest between her raised thighs, still holding her hands.

"Watch me taste you."

"No ... no. Please, you shame me," she whispered brokenly, but even as she spoke, her eyes lifted to the mirror above. Unwittingly she arched her hips in invitation.

"Nay, Princess, I but worship you." Tightening his fingers about hers, keeping his eyes upon her face, he lowered his mouth, closing over her. He tasted her with scorching need, his tongue stroking her sensitive bud till it was hard and hot. Tiffany groaned, dug her fingers into him, arching fiercely against his mouth. He delved deeper and deeper into her womanly flesh, and when he saw her toss wildly upon the bed, he released her hands. Sliding his hands beneath her buttocks, he lifted her against his mouth and questing tongue.

Tiffany watched their reflection, seeing herself move in undulating, writhing motion against his mouth. She felt herself grow warm and her moistness flow. Arching, her fingers dug into the bed, her hips moved wildly against his stroking tongue.

"Aaahh."

Clinton felt the tensing of her legs, and pressed relentlessly on until her body shuddered and she cried out. Rearing over her and lifting her hips, he entered her in one smooth stroke, seating himself fully within her. He nearly spilled himself, feeling her muscles contract in release against his manhood. Then moving in long, slow, savoring strokes, he brought her back onto the precipice, hearing her moan, feeling her hips meet his thrusts.

Closer and closer Tiffany came to satisfying the delicious tightening between her legs, as his hands on her hips guided their movements and rhythm.

When he felt her begin to contract against him, he demanded hoarsely, "Look at me." She closed her eyes--her last defense before surrender. When she didn't comply, he pulled from her, holding only the engorged tip of his member within. She writhed beneath him--her body screaming, demanding completion. Desire, like liquid lava, ran through her veins, centering where he now held himself. Her eyes opened. He dove into her when she surrendered, grinding himself against her. Tiffany screamed out as her body convulsed, then stiffened in climax. He watched her pleasure wash over her and he in turn surrendered to the woman he conquered, exploding into a shattering climax.

Tiffany stretched like a contented kitten. Opening her eyes, she slowly surveyed her surroundings; mauve bed curtains billowed with the soft breeze, sun rays filtered through the gauzy material, casting a pinkish tinge to the satin sheets. Looking up, she caught her reflection in the mirror above; long, raven tresses were in a tangled disarray which would take hours to brush, her face had a rosy glow, her lips swollen and red. Running her hand down the length of her body, she noted all her parts were still intact. Outwardly, she thought, her body showed no change from the night past. Regarding her image critically, she decided she looked no different, despite her passage into womanhood. She moved to sit up and felt a strange warm stickiness and pleasant ache between her thighs. Sitting, she drew her legs up, resting her chin atop and wrapping her arms about them.

She stared, her mind reflecting. She had lost yet another battle. Her body had surrendered completely to Clinton and, in that surrender, betrayed Alan. This caused her to wonder. Surely she felt nothing for Clinton, least of all love! Her heart belonged to another, but her body acted on its own volition!

"Bonjour, madame,"
greeted Germane as she walked into the room. Raising her head, Tiffany watched Germane place the tray of hot chocolate down and accepted a cup of the sweet brew.

Tiffany sipped her hot chocolate uncomfortably, noting Germane scan the room, as if she expected to unfold some secret of the night past. Scarlet rose high on Tiffany's cheeks, and seeking to change the direction of her maid's thoughts, she asked, stupidly, "What have you been up to?"

"What else, madame! Arguing with that pompous Mortimer." Germane switched to French since her English was limited, and continued in flustered speech, "He thinks he will attend you. I say
'Non!'
No one but me attends you, and it would be improper for him to consider!
Non!"

Tiffany blew on the hot chocolate, smiling; she could picture her fiery maid all afluster while dour-faced Mortimer stood stiffly in outrage.

"It will be very difficult, madame, with one chamber, not separate.
Oui?"

Sipping her hot drink, Tiffany nodded in agreement and asked, "Where is Mortimer now?"

Curling her pouting lips, Germane spat, "Discussing the situation with His Grace." Gathering her mistress's robe and holding it up, she inquired, "Would Madame wish to bathe?"

Aware of the stickiness and soreness between her legs, Tiffany nodded, rising from the bed.

Germane's eyes fell to the bloodstained sheets and she muttered to herself, "I will see to the chambers as well."