Satin Doll (14 page)

His low growl answered her. He took her with hungry violence, arching into her deeply, each lunge dragging her by inches across the clinging surface of the carpet. Sam clutched the cloth of his jacket at his shoulders and held on. The world seemed to explode in a sweating, grunting turbulence of energy so powerful she was carried along with it, mindless, on fire, overwhelmed by savage, animal desire. He battered into her as though he couldn’t get enough of her, as though just the feel of her was driving him crazy. Her own body had fled to a hot dark place filled with sensation. Brilliant flames leapt against the blackness of her mind. She heard his choked sounds against her mouth, her ear, the side of her face, passion tearing from him in hoarse gasps. It made her wild. She was writhing, her senses reeling with the feel of him, responding to him shamelessly, trying to match his erratic, uncontrollable pounding.
 

“Ah, damn, woman.” He ground his mouth against hers. “Ah God, you feel so good!”
 

The storm broke, too quickly. Arms crushing her, he contracted like a drawn bow, ramming himself into her. Against her opened mouth he gave a hoarse shout of release. Then he lowered himself to her, shaking with aftershocks, and dropped his face into the warm wet hollows of Sam’s throat.
 

She tried to drag air into her agonized lungs and heard him still struggling for breath. He gave a harsh jolt of laughter against her throat. “I haven’t gone off like that since I was fourteen.” The words were muffled against her wet skin.
 

Sam lay crushed and sweaty under him, feeling the pull of her tangled clothes. She stared over his shoulder, waiting for the world to settle down. For a moment, in spite of the overwhelming frenzy, it had seemed something was going to happen—that elusive fulfillment she’d tried to reach so many times with Jack and couldn’t. She was still throbbing with unfinished desire.
 

The man over her stirred, lifting his curly black head to look down at her. That chiseled, good-looking face was flushed; he was still breathing heavily. He studied her for a long moment. “I hope to hell you’re happy, starting this.” He cleared his throat. “Why do I feel like I’ve been raped?”
 

Sam moved her swollen mouth gingerly. She’d gone crazy, driven by something she couldn’t even remember clearly. Suddenly she trembled on the verge of tears. She tightened her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut, fighting them. She wasn’t going to cry, not in front of him.
 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She felt his hand touching her face, hard fingers tracing the edge of her puffed upper lip. “Look at me.”
 

Sam opened her eyes. She kept them pinned on a spot just beyond a broad shoulder covered in dark cloth. Now she knew Chip was just as dangerous as he looked. He’d treated her like an experienced sophisticate to whom a tumble on the floor with a big, muscular stud was nothing. And now she didn’t know how to get rid of him.
 

“Samantha?” That low, husky voice prodded her. “Are you going to answer me?”
 

Oh, Chip was something, all right, she was thinking bitterly—tough and inescapable. His bandit’s face with the black slash of brows over inky eyes, the straight carved nose, the long upper lip with the solitary dimple at one side were all engraved in her mind. She felt a wave of despair wash over her. He was rough, he was trash, he was like the men she’d grown up with. With an old Ford pickup, a gun rack and a saddle thrown in the back, he’d be right at home with her brothers. Tears squeezed out from under her eyelids and slowly slid down her face. She’d just had sex with him. Oh lord, what was she going to do?
 

“Don’t move,” he said quickly. He pulled away from her, sitting back on his heels.
 

Through a tearful haze she saw Chip was still fully dressed, his opened trousers down around his hips. He began to tear off his suit jacket, dropping it on the floor beside him, loosening his tie, frowning, never taking his eyes from her.
 

Sam lifted her head and looked down. The black silk shirt covered her to the navel and then fell away; from there on down she was naked. The black satin jeans were down around the high-heeled sandals she still wore. She looked like the survivor of some violent accident.
 

He got to his feet, bending his black, curly head as he shoved his trousers down over lean hips. It was all her own fault, Sam was telling herself; she’d brought all this on herself, acting crazy. Now she was going to pay for it. He wanted to do it again. She jammed her fist against her lips to keep from sobbing out loud.
 

“Samantha, it’s all right.” His voice was low, hurried. “Don’t panic. Just let me get out of these damned clothes.”
 

Panic? She sat up, staring at him as he tossed his trousers on the pile of clothes on the floor and then stripped off white underwear briefs, baring his tall, wickedly muscular body. His tanned skin was silky over the breadth of his shoulders, the powerful chest, the lean flat belly. A band of white flesh left by swim trunks emphasized a triangle of curly black hair in his groin, and his big, half-aroused flesh jutted out from the dark background like the huge stamen of some tropical bloom.
 

“It was all a mistake,” she whispered. She couldn’t move when he bent over her, looking grim.
 

He slid his hands under her arms and lifted her to her feet. “It was a mistake. Mine, not yours. Samantha—” She heard him curse under his breath. “You didn’t finish, did you?”
 

He seemed another man—curt, rather grim, the macho flashiness subdued if not entirely gone. He had such a beautiful body she couldn’t seem to stop staring at it. “I just have to get some sleep, that’s all.” Her voice sounded thin. “It’s late. What time is it?”
 

“It’s late,” he agreed quietly.
 

He unbuttoned her silk shirt and pulled it away. She wasn’t wearing a bra; her small naked breasts with their gleaming pink tips thrust out tautly. She saw him look down. Then his big hands very softly covered her. He held her while she trembled, her knees, her whole body quaking. He lowered his head to nuzzle her hair. “I’m sorry, love. A quick bang on the floor doesn’t do you justice.” His voice was husky. “Let me make love to you again.”
 

“I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.” The words just spilled out of her inanely. “I have an appointment first thing in the morning with Madame Doumer. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
 

He pulled his head back to look down at her, a frown marking the finely drawn black brows. Softly, his thumbs moved to stroke her nipples. Sam quivered, trying to hold back a gasp as she felt the quickening response all through her body. She watched, fascinated as his dark hands moved against the pale skin of her breasts.
 

“You’ve got to give me a chance to make it better for you.” His words were low, almost regretful. “You do want me to, don’t you?”
 

She held on to him, her fine pale hair tumbling around her naked shoulders, and managed a tight, reassuring smile. “I’m fine, there’s nothing wrong with me. I just have to go to bed, that’s all. I have to get some sleep.”
 

He cursed again, softly. “I’m damned if I can figure this out. First you want to fight, then you tear my clothes off. Now this.” He seemed to make up his mind. “I’ll take you to bed.”
 

He bent and put one hand behind her knees, lifting her in his arms and starting for the bedroom. Sam didn’t struggle. The contact of her own body against his hard naked one, the feel of his arms around her, stifled any protest before it started. But she coiled like a spring as he lowered her to the black velvet bedspread.
 

She tried not to look at that menacingly virile male body that was ready now, the big shaft of his flesh fully erect. He climbed into the bed and knelt beside her.
 

Head thrown back, body arched and naked, pink-tipped breasts rising and falling rapidly, she looked up at him. “Just get out of here,” she managed between clenched teeth. “I’m fine.”
 

He held her by the shoulders, still frowning. “Good God,” he said under his breath, “you make me feel like a bloody bastard. It was all wrong, wasn’t it?”
 

His hands smoothed the curve of her arms gently, stroking down the satiny flesh to her hands. Then he lifted her fingers and brought them to his lips, kissing them lightly. She shuddered at that sudden feel of warmth, the firm gentleness of his mouth. “Samantha, don’t you know you shouldn’t play around with fire? What the hell did you think you were doing a few minutes ago?”
 

She couldn’t answer. She had no explanation. There was something in sleazy Chip now that was entirely different, hard and implacable, as though another man were hidden underneath that sexy, good-looking façade. A man who wouldn’t be fooled.
 

His long, smoothly muscular body bent over her, forcing her back to the bed. His mouth followed her, touching her everywhere with gentle caresses. He kissed her eyes, the tip of her nose, and her chin very softly. She gasped, digging her fingernails into the silky skin of his shoulders to keep from falling back on the pillows, overwhelmed by his unexpected, wildly erotic assault. Then she heard him murmuring, “It’s all painted up, brittle as ice and twice as glittering, and damned impossibly beautiful.” That black, jeweled look searched her face. “And it’s a fraud. You’re not what you seem, are you, Samantha?”
 

She shuddered as his strong fingers cupped her breasts and defined their shape, making them ache under the sensuous pressure. His hands moved down to her waist, around the slender curve of her hips and down her thighs, evoking in them tremors of desire. He leaned forward and brushed her mouth with his, barely touching it.
 

“Are you going to remember this tomorrow?” he whispered.
 

Samantha trembled. His dark, husky voice was hypnotizing her, as were his hands roaming over her surrendering body. She saw that hard face too close, the gleam of black opal eyes half-hidden under the thick brush of lashes that were impossibly long, absurdly pretty in his hard face. She took a shuddering breath to tell him to go away and leave her alone, but the words wouldn’t come.
 

He lowered himself against her, his leg sliding between hers.
 

“Oh, don’t,” she moaned. “I—I don’t do this.”
 

“So I gathered,” he muttered against her lips.
 

This was far worse than what had happened before; then he had overwhelmed her, insatiable and out of control. Now her senses skittered wildly as he crouched over her, radiating such heat, such fierce desire that she was paralyzed. She didn’t want to make love with Chip—it was madness. It had never been like this with Jack, she thought wildly. Jack was a dazzlingly experienced lover but always a little aloof—a middle-aged man making love to an inexperienced, very young woman. And this sexy, pantherish man who wanted her was too dangerous. He was making her feel dangerous things. “Stop it,” she breathed. “I can’t.”
 

He held her slender hips in his hands and pulled her under him. “I want you, Samantha.” His head lowered to the satiny curve of her breast. “I won’t leave you alone, it’s too damned late for that.” His mouth caressed her, his lips flicking at the tight buds of her nipples. “Ah, love,” he muttered, “do you have any idea how tempting you are? I ought to have my head examined for this, but I can’t resist you.”
 

She, too, was lost. She knew it was crazy to make love with someone when you didn’t want to, but she was aching, reaching for him, wanting to be drowned again in the heat of that magnificent body. She dug her fingers into his hair as his mouth closed over her nipple and gently tugged at it. Her whole body coiled around him as his lips twisted and pulled softly, ardently caressing her. She slid her legs against his, her body writhing. His hand slipped lower, against the soft places of her inner thighs, then traced circles upward into the damp cleft. She went rigid.
 

“Please don’t do anything,” she breathed. Nothing would happen, she was sure. It never did.
 

“Is that the damned problem?” He stared down at her with hard black eyes. “You mean all that glamorous ... you mean no man’s ever taken the trouble to satisfy you?”
 

Taken the trouble? She remembered those long, exhausting sessions with Jack, gaining nothing, proving nothing, except that she had failed him. She closed her eyes painfully. When she opened them, he was still staring down at her.
 

“Samantha, I’ll make it happen,” he murmured huskily. “Just trust me.”
 

She gasped as his hard, stroking finger touched her, stroked her intimately, then entered her. She tried to jerk up in his arms, confused and protesting, but he was like a giant black tiger, all rippling male desire, and she was helpless as she surrendered to him.
 

“Ah, love,” he muttered. “Damn it, don’t fight. Darling, my beautiful darling, just go with it.”
 

It was madness. The dark room closed around them, the flame-shot night enveloping her, shutting down over her, whispering that at the top of this dark house in a foreign place, a thousand miles and more from everything that mattered, she could forget all else and do as this dark voice was telling her.