Defiant Angel (34 page)

He turned to the object of his thoughts, noting she shivered in her sleep and had wrapped her arms about, missing the warmth of his body. He stood, laying more logs on the fire, making sure they caught, and walked over to the bed, climbing in carefully, not to wake her. He drew the fur cover over them. Tiffany instinctively moved into his arms, and while he warmed her, she sighed.

A confident smile lit his face as he drifted off to sleep. His last conscious thought was of the night he would possess her, a night when her physical need would be as strong as his.

L
ike crumbs falling from a moist whiteness, the snowflakes fell, shrouding the earth with a blanket. Snow-laden branches of the evergreens bowed under the weight of the flakes, their green needles poking out from beneath their snowy cover. Swirling winds drove the snow into smooth, curving drifts, rearranging the terrain. The gray sky peaked through the heavy curtain of flakes as the snow fell softly.

Tiffany peered out, watching the delicate pattern of a flake hit the frost-coated pane. Her eyes wandered over the snow-covered landscape and she marveled at the mercurial moods of nature, for just a few short weeks ago she had watched autumn leaves turn and fall to the brown earth. Standing like a sentinel at the bay window, behind the study desk, she glanced out at the glistening snow, thinking Wentworth appeared like a winter wonderland. She had come to know and love Wentworth Estates, with its ever-changing terrain and its never-ending boundaries. Its vastness overwhelmed her, for she never felt hemmed in, always able to ride for hours. She felt a sense of freedom she'd never experienced before, and a sense of wonder.

Its terrain, while seemingly endless, offered her every variety she craved: meadows, hills and dales, valley, and woods. She seldom thought of Courtland Manor and found she no longer pined for it.

Maybe later, if the snow stops, I'll go outside, she thought. She was restless, having been housebound since yesterday, when the snow began, and felt a need to stretch her legs. She could understand her restlessness, attributing it to her captivity; another feeling, frustration, baffled her. Pressing her nose against the cold pane, she continued to ponder the source of this unwelcome feeling. The more she thought, the more she disliked the conclusion, for she believed her frustration was born from the close quarters she kept with Clinton.

She groaned knowing that Clinton had kept her at a distance, not demanding his husbandly rights, and while she had initially been pleased, for it allowed her to gain some measure of control over her traitorous body, she now had to admit she found herself anticipating when the drought would end.

She sighed and shook her head. It was becoming harder to ignore her body's yearnings, for while Clinton did not seek his conjugal rights, he was always just a breath away.

Each night they bathed together, and now that her flux was over, she was forced to sleep naked, wrapped in his arms. Each night she wondered if the good-night kiss he gave her would progress to more, but to her chagrin, he'd drift over to sleep while she lay there feeling an uncoiling burning in her belly.

She blew against the pane, watching her breath cloud it. Since she was forced to endure his daily company, she found herself noticing small things about him: the way a small dimple creased his cheek when he smiled, or the errant lock of hair that fell on his forehead. And, God, how her knees weakened when her eyes followed the crisp mat of hair on his chest tapering to a thin line over his taut belly and disappearing at his waistband! She took a deep breath, yet felt her heart flutter, recalling the way his muscles rippled when he bent to stoke the fire. Even now she could smell his scent. A tingling began in the pit of her belly, and again she shook her head to push away her lustful thoughts. She failed in her quest and blushed over the shocking lengths her mind traveled. An ache began in her nether regions as vivid images of their last coupling came forth; his mouth covering a dusky nipple, his hands caressing and stroking her, his tongue . . .

"No!" she cried aloud, yet her body belied her words, for her nipples stood erect against the fabric of her gown, and the ache between her legs became unbearable.

"No what, Tiffany?"

She spun to see Clinton enter the room. He covered the distance to his desk, where he lifted the cover of his cigar box, withdrawing one, lighting it, while regarding her. She, in turn, watched him with a mixture of awe and longing. He was dressed casually in bluff breeches, which encased his long legs like a second skin. His shirt lay open at his throat, exposing black hair she knew covered his chest. Her fingers curled into her palms as she suppressed the urge to run them through the crisp mat. He looked incredibly handsome sitting on the edge of the desk, his leg swinging negligently as he regarded her with an arched brow poised in question.

Realizing he expected an answer to his question, she stammered, "Ah . . . nothing." Fidgeting with the folds of her dress, she dropped her gaze to the material her fingers had wrought damage to in their twisting.

Clinton watched her intently as he puffed leisurely on his cigar. Her hair was unbound as he preferred it, with a ribbon drawn around it in the same hue as her burgandy gown. Her tresses reached her waist, flowing freely. His eyes were drawn to a lock that nestled in the soft valley between her breasts. He noted her color rode high, almost as if she'd blushed, and wondered where her thoughts had been. He watched her, assessing her nervousness and uncase, speculating on its cause. Perhaps, he thought, she craved him, for it had been a while since they had made love. He felt the familiar tightening in his groin, knowing today would see the end of their abstinence. He smiled at her.

Tiffany hated the silence and his knowing smile--as if he read her mind. Seeking to distract him, she said, "It's snowing."

Clinton's smile widened to a grin. Ah, he thought, she's got the same itch as I. His eyes moved slowly over her form, resting on the taut nipples rising against the material of her bodice. He saw her blush again as if her thoughts wandered to forbidden territory.

"Really?" he asked with poorly concealed amusement to her obvious observation. "Is that what has occupied your thoughts?"

"Of course!" she snapped, then wished she hadn't. She added lightly, "Whatever else would I be thinking?"

"Oh, how long it's been since you've felt me hard and throbbing deep inside you." Knocking an ash from his cigar, he watched the myriad of emotions cross her face and continued to verbalize her thoughts. "And how you'd love to feel my tongue travel over your breasts, down your belly, and stroke."

"Stop it!" she cried.

"Talking about it, Princess?"

"Yes, yes!"

"And start doing it?"

"Yes ... no, damn you to hell, no!" she screamed, and headed toward the door but was stopped when he easily reached out, pulling her to him. Holding her between his legs, his arms about her waist, he pressed her against the evidence of his arousal.

"I think you lie, Princess." His eyes searched her face and she blushed furiously, pushing against his chest to be free. When her hands touched his chest, rivers of fire shot through her loins.

Clinton's eyes rested on her taut nipples. Raising them, he smiled crookedly and taunted, "Most definitely you lie. I think, Princess, your thoughts are filled with images of me doing all those delectable things which make you whimper and moan."

Shaking her head adamantly, she was unable to speak for fear her voice would betray her.

Clinton seductively rubbed his thumb across her full bottom lip, huskily whispering, "I bet, Princess, if I'd tip your skirts, I'd find you ready for the taking."

"You delude yourself," she managed to utter, as scarlet rose becomingly on her cheeks at the truth of his words.

"We shall see." He stood and tossed her over his shoulder, strolling confidently from the room as Tiffany pounded furiously on his back with balled fists.

Clinton kicked the bedroom door open, startling both Mortimer and Germane, who made a hasty retreat from the room.

"Put me down, you bastard, put me down!"

Clinton complied, slowly lowering her against his hard length, then holding her, pressed her against his swollen manhood. He released her and nonchalantly began to unbutton his shirt.

Tiffany watched him remove his shirt in a trancelike state, noting the play of his well-honed muscles. Shaking herself out of the trance, she stated, "It will be rape, you know."

Pulling his boot off casually, he stated, "I think not. It has never been."

Tiffany watched as his hand moved to his waistband. A pleasant ache at what was hidden and would soon be reve
.iled throbbed between her legs. "You'll . . . not win . . . this time," she whispered.

Pausing, Clinton looked at her and smiled. "You always equate our lovemaking with winning or losing. Let me say neither of us lose. Both win." As he dropped his breeches,
Ins
manhood rose proudly, full and potent, from the nest "f black hair at his groin.

Tiffany thought him to be a splendid specimen of manhood. She could not help but admire him, and a shiver of anticipation coursed through her. Closing her eyes, she felt his deft fingers unbutton her dress, which fell, pooling at her ankles. She felt, rather than saw him, kneel before her, and knew he had when his hands slowly unrolled her stockings and caressed her shapely calf.

"Admit it, Princess, you want me so badly, it hurts," he whispered. His tongue trailed a path from her ankle up her calf, placing nibbling kisses.

Tiffany was going mad with the wanting of him. His tongue trailed a fiery path up the soft skin of her thigh. She groaned, feeling herself becoming warm and open. She squeezed her eyes tightly, feeling his tongue inches from her desire. She felt his hands move up over her thighs and hover over her essence, and just when they would have touched her, they retreated and she moaned disappointedly.

Tiffany arched instinctively toward him as he knelt before her. His hands moved to grasp her buttocks and he whispered love words while his hands worked their magic, rubbing and kneading her buttocks, bringing her closer to his mouth. She felt him lift the edges of her chemise so her charms were exposed to him.

"Watch me, Princess; open your eyes, love." She felt him breathe, his breath inches from her desire, and knew what she sought would not be given unless she complied. She willingly opened her passion-dazed eyes.

"Can you imagine how good you will taste? Can you even now feel your own desire well up, longing to flow upon my tongue? Can you imagine the velvety feel of my tongue?" he whispered hoarsely. She groaned at his words and cried aloud when his tongue stroked her desire, sending electrical currents through her so strong, she thought her legs would crumble.

When he moved his tongue away, she dropped her head back, groaning in protest. Her legs weakened, threatening to buckle, but he held her still and lifted his mouth. She arched her hips to his mouth. "Please . . . don't stop . . . not yet." Her fingers gripped his hair, pulling him closer to her core of desire.

"Savor it, Tiffany. Let it build till it hurts." His tongue returned to stroke, to tease her, till the bittersweet pain became unbearable and she pulled his hair in need, yet he withheld from bringing her to release. "Not yet, love, not till you feel as if you'll die from the wanting." And then his mouth and tongue worked its magic, and when he felt her unfilled desire well and begin to flow, he brought her down to the rug, sliding her legs over his shoulders, and reared over her. His hands slid up her buttocks and lifted her closer to his mouth closing over her. Her legs stiffened as her body convulsed in a climax that sent her spinning slowly down into a pool of sensation as each shocking wave after another washed over her.

Keeping her legs over his shoulders, Clinton rose and entered her in a long, smooth stroke, feeling her muscles contract in climax. Tiffany cried out when he filled her. Clinton withdrew, concerned that in his need to possess her, he had hurt her. Feeling him withdraw, Tiffany whimpered in protest, again feeling the first of desire ignite.

"Please . . . don't go . . . oh, please."

Clinton groaned, a sound deep in his throat, and complied with her pleas. Grasping her hips firmly, he drove into her, watching her eyes darken with pleasure, feeling her body sheath him tightly. She moved, writhing beneath him, drawing him deeply into her warmth. Her eyes widened when she felt him plunge deeper and she contracted against his manhood, bringing them both to release.

Lying against her, he felt the rapid flutter of her heart. I le shifted his weight onto his hands and gazed down into her glazed eyes. Still within her, he felt the final contractions of her muscles against his member, causing him to spill the last of his seed into her. Slowly withdrawing, he savored the sensation as much as when he entered her. He lowered her quivering limbs from his shoulders and withdrew from her completely. Tiffany moaned, feeling a sense of emptiness.

She felt his breath against her damp cheek as he whispered, "I love you," and then covered her mouth with his own in a gentle kiss. She tasted herself on his lips, a musky, bittersweet taste. She felt herself lifted in strong, warm arms and laid on the downy mattress, feeling it sag with his weight when he joined her. She curled against him, lying languid and content within the circle of his arms.

Clinton smiled down, softly stroking her tresses. The tension and frustration of weeks of abstinence behind them, they drifted off to a contented sleep.