Song of Seduction (19 page)

At her back, Arie worked to untangle the stays of her corset. He laughed softly, his lips grazing her nape. “And you sound glad of that.”

She smiled, willing her hesitation to abate. She wanted passion and oblivion and wildness. But fear persisted. The edginess shone through in her voice, but she couldn’t banish it. “I like to know I affect you.”

“You do,” he said. “More than is healthy. Anyway, how can you tell?”

“I’ve never seen your hands so unsteady.”

He yanked at the laces, mumbling Dutch curses under his breath. “As long as I can untie your stays, they are still useful.”

“You take much longer than my maid.”

“No, no. I do this purposefully.”

“Oh, really?”

Finally working through the labyrinth of her undergarments, he eased the corset and shift off her body. “I am taking my time,” he whispered. His warm breath and his feathery kisses covered her from one shoulder to the other. “Before…before we barely had time to breathe, let alone undress.”

Dizziness enveloped her, a blissful moment where thought dissolved into sensation. “Are you complaining?”

“No. I want more.” With those unsteady hands, he banished her remaining clothes to the floor. Smooth palms skimmed her skin, heating every place he touched. A greater heat built in the pit of her stomach and between her thighs. “Tonight,” he said, “I want to see you.”

Nude, bathed in the glow of two candles and Arie’s reverent gaze, Mathilda fought her inhibitions. Old disappointments threatened to smother the fires started by his every look, kiss, touch. Excited anticipation shimmered in her blood and prickled her skin. Her breath alternated between catching and rushing. The need to dig her nails into the resilient muscles of his chest, into the whole lean length of him, drove her to chant silent pleas for mercy.

Yet that bone-deep knowledge of inevitable, callous frustration robbed her of the joy she desired. She had learned to accept her failings with Jürgen—failings he shared, too. But she did not want to accept that same maddening result with her idol. Making love to him in actuality, for all of the pleasure his kisses promised, would mean ripping her most private fantasy to pieces.

Nibbling contentedly on her shoulder, Arie hesitated. The recognition of her sudden withdrawal crossed his face like a shadow, slowing the play of his lips across her skin.

When Mathilda could no longer meet his bold, appreciative eyes, he sat on the narrow bed and motioned her to join him. “What is it?”

Oh, what she wanted to say…everything she could never voice. Private embarrassment threatened to crush her. Crossing nude breasts with trembling arms, she sat and dragged her knees closer to her body. “I cannot discuss this.”

“I do not pull you here to the studio—at your request, mind you—and unlace that confounded corset to see you cover up and be silent.”

Arie’s tolerant smile eased the vigor of his tirade. He pulled the bedcovers away from the headboard and motioned her to climb into that warm seclusion. She gratefully acquiesced, only to watch him unceremoniously remove the remainder of his clothes and slide in beside her. She squirmed to one side of the narrow mattress, but he caught her around the waist. Under the blankets, the delicate hairs along his forearm tickled and aroused her bare belly. Her nipples hardened with every subtle brush of the bedding against her sensitive skin.

“Better,” he murmured at her temple. “I will be good, but you will talk.”

“You are terribly certain. Why?”

“Because you are a truthful woman.”

She exhaled, enjoying a measure of proud satisfaction at his assessment. Since revealing the truth about her marriage to Jürgen, she
felt
honest, relieved of those old burdens. But she was no closer to revealing her worries—not about this, not even naked and in his bed.

“Perhaps, but I am not indiscreet.”

Arie grinned. “Because you fear to damage my fragile esteem?”

“Regarding this topic, you seem quite assured.” She helplessly recalled how, weeks earlier, he had dropped to his knees and taken her into his mouth. A flash of heat released from deep inside her, wetting the folds between her thighs. She squirmed. Arie held fast, his fingers tightening along the flesh at her waist.

“You will be surprised,
liefde.
I fear your rejection here more than anywhere.” His teasing demeanor eased. “Is your worry to do with your husband?”

Emotion left Mathilda shaky. She nodded in the deep shadows of their retreat.

“Then you should speak—”

“Arie, you’re mad.”

“—because I imagine a difficult part of mourning is when everyone hides from the dead. They fear upsetting you. You cannot discuss memories—good, bad, ordinary, intimate.”

Tears stung behind her eyelids. She toyed aimlessly with his fingers at her hip. “I won’t discuss those intimacies with Jürgen’s successor in my bed.”

“The bed is mine,” he said, kissing her brow. “And with what other person will you have such a conversation?”

“No one. I shall keep my memories to myself.”

“As you wish.” He rolled gracelessly onto his back, leaving her to miss his possessive hold.

“You’re impossible.”

“Perhaps, but I want to understand.”

Mathilda closed her eyes. She stifled the mortification that promised to leave her mute and useless, trapped by fear. She wanted Arie to comprehend the dread keeping her paralyzed. Only she wished he could read her thoughts to accomplish that end, saving her the embarrassment of saying the words.

Ah, but she was a fool. Stripped bare in his bed, what additional damage could an honest conversation wreak?

After a deep, fortifying breath—all the better to spit out her thoughts in a single, long string—Mathilda spoke. “Imagine the sex act for you, for men. Aside from a few pleasant distractions when you remember to notice your partner, you begin at zero and continue confidently to number ten.”

Arie mumbled his agreement and faced her again, lazily tracing her nipples. When had the sheet slipped?

“I will not disagree with you.” His deep voice wound through her body, coiling between her legs. “You are a feast of distractions.”

“Well, no matter how pleasant, I freeze. At number eight.”

He burned her with a wicked, knowing grin. “You did not freeze before, under my mouth.”

A painful blush flared over her skin. The heat between her thighs intensified. “Jürgen never…did…” She sighed, giving up on trying to express what had transpired between them. “You took me by surprise.”

Arie waved at their strewn clothes. “And this? This was too much time to worry?”

“Maybe.” She giggled nervously. “Anticipation is supposed to be positive, yes?”

He trailed two fingers between her breasts, down to her navel. The sheet slipped again. “Perhaps. But women have unique shapes. Small wonder you have different needs for pleasure, different prompts.” Her maestro stopped. “I did not have as many women as you fear.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face, Tilda.” He kissed the bridge of her cheek, her nose, her upper lip. She inhaled his breath as his masculine warmth sank into every pore. “You wear an expression of curiosity and fear.”

Her stomach clenched at the truth of his words. His casual mention of other women, even within the context of trying to assuage her anxieties, froze her with cold dread.

“I wear nothing of the sort,” she said.

“You wear nothing, and I am a happy man.”

“Arie!”

He chuckled again, watching her with implacable eyes—eyes that refused to allow her to retreat again. All teasing vanished. “I am not a profligate,” he said steadily. “I had no more than one lover for each year since I turned nineteen.”

A mixed wave of relief and stupid, persistent curiosity thawed the ice freezing her heart. “Then you must refrain from revealing to me your age. Ever.”

“Perhaps I am twenty and you are my older woman.” He kissed her collarbone and the receptive notch at the base of her throat. Her pulse fluttered in response.

“On one hand, you try and reassure me,” she said, half-serious. “On the other hand, you mock my jealousy.”

“You said before…I have talented hands.”

“No, I mean you are honest and a tease, both. I cannot keep pace.”

Arie raised his head from her collarbone, just when she had been certain his mouth’s next destination was the tip of one impatient breast. “Tilda, I tease about trivia.”

She indulged in a sulk. “The number of lovers you have taken is hardly trivial.”

“It is when I have you.”

His lips silenced any further indignant protests, claiming her with a kiss that shattered her understanding of language and time. Only the delicious, warm pressure of his mouth existed. His tongue glided past her half-formed rebuttal. Mathilda’s body clambered nearer to the source of that heady seduction. Poised above and around, Arie answered with a rhythm she wanted to learn. Lust like pagan drums beat hard and staccato beneath her skin. Ligaments and muscles dissolved into molten pools.

A heartbeat later, Arie ended their intimate dance. He whispered against the responsive curves of her lips. “Now, where were we?”

“Good question.”

“Ah, yes. You have trouble…counting.” He wiggled his eyebrows like a ninny. Mathilda laughed. The tension he had created eased away from its precipice. It remained, yes, but quiet and waiting. “Do you think every man is aroused by the same sights? The same touches?”

She grinned and ran a hand across the solid curve of his shoulder. “My experience in comparing lovers is relatively new, you know.”

“Consider it.”

He petted the underside of her breasts, his fingers never stroking the peaks that begged for his touch. Mathilda inhaled deeply. Her expanding lungs lifted and displayed her nude bosom. With a rush of feminine awareness, she watched Arie’s eyes widen.

“Jürgen was not…
talkative
about these matters.”

“Let us overlook your departed for a moment.” He plucked a taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting and pulling with delicate precision. Mathilda gasped as a flood of pleasure thickened her blood. When Arie did not release her from that tender, decadent torture, she met his frank stare. “For example,” he said, “I like biting.”

She squeaked. “Biting? You or me?”

“You. On me. Do not draw blood, my dear—at least not where anyone will see.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I am,” he whispered. “I am hard just thinking about your teeth on me.”

He dragged her fingers to his groin before she could object. Reflexively, boldly, she clutched his rigid heat to test its firm resilience. Arie hissed. Now he was the captive.

“May I?” Her grin felt as wicked as any Arie might have conjured.

“Please,” he whispered.

He begged for her after all.

The urgent pulse of Arie’s blood surged beneath her hand. The surprising size of him, the vigor and hard potency, told of her inexperience. Despite the differences between her two lovers, Mathilda had not thought they would be so varied
everywhere.
Her innocence made her blush—an innocence she abandoned by squeezing him again, focusing on his straining pleasure. There, captured by her grip, she suspected that he would agree to anything she asked.

She wanted to eat him alive.

That agonizing thought had plagued her throughout the evening, every time she observed the square set of his shoulders, recognized the restless way his eyes hunted for hers, or acknowledged the magnetism of their attraction. She had imagined teeth on bare skin, and now, Arie begged for it.

Oblivious to the fears that had stolen her desire, Mathilda released his erection and smiled at the whimper of protest lodging in his throat. A rush of power assailed her unlike any she had ever experienced. No other thrill rivaled the adventure of arousing, teasing, unsettling this remarkable man.

Pushing his shoulders, urging him to lie flat on the mattress again, Mathilda became an explorer. Arie’s body became her wild territory—his neck, his chest, his taut stomach and its tempting streak of sand-colored hair. She reveled in the taste of his sinewy physique, using her tongue to discover the places that made him clench or laugh or sigh.

When the stubborn barrier of uncomfortable shyness receded, she replaced her tongue with her teeth. Tiny welts appeared where she bit and grazed and tortured. The barest sheen of sweat slicked his torso, urging her to taste yet again. Voracious for those biting caresses, Arie threaded fingers through the loose tendrils of her hair, pulling her closer still. His breath became an endless chorus of hisses and heavy exhales.

With a jagged curse, the meaning of which was plain despite the foreign syllables, Arie flung her back. Dazed, suddenly beneath him, she caught sight of his wide and wild eyes.

Breathing at an unhealthy pace, Arie said, “Stop now.”

“Too much?” She touched a crescent-shaped mark on his biceps.

“I have resolve,
schatje.
But unless you want that only I am pleasured, you must stop.”