Unraveled (Turner, #3)

She’d understood what was to happen. One couldn’t grow up with actors and retain any degree of innocence. But she hadn’t known it would feel so good, hadn’t known that when he slid his hands under her bottom and angled her up, that change in elevation would send him sliding inside her in a way that made her shudder. She hadn’t understood how powerful it could be to clasp him tight with her inner muscles and hear him gasp, to run her hands down his chest and feel his thrusts grow tighter, more controlled.

She hadn’t realized he would touch the deepest part of her, that he would slide up on his forearms and touch her between her legs. She hadn’t known that his fingers could make a counterpoint to his thrusts. She threw her head back and reached for his hips. Something vital coiled up inside her just as his thrusts grew more insistent. Her body was just as demanding. More. Harder. She could think of nothing but the pleasure of their joining. The sheer perfection of it had her digging her nails into his backside. Her inner muscles clamped around him hard—and then she cried out.

No words. There were no words she could use.

The pleasure passed through her like a wave, crashing over her head and tumbling her over and over until she couldn’t tell up from down, couldn’t draw breath. She was only vaguely aware when it spat her out, her legs clamped around his hips.

“Oh, my.” She smiled up at him in a haze. He was panting, his hair wet with his exertions. She’d known it could be good. But she hadn’t known it could be that good. Oh, God. She was going to get a month of this, and he was paying her for it? She wanted to laugh. She wanted to kiss him.

She did both. “Now what happens?” she asked.

His forearms tensed and he gave her a grim smile. “Now it’s my turn,” he said. He started moving again. The rhythm that had seemed powerful before, rocking her into ecstasy, became harder, more savage—like a drumbeat counting out its strokes against her body. His hands clenched on her hips, pulling her to him. He thrust inside her, hard and powerful.

It was different than before. He’d been holding back. The pace he set this time was as demanding as he was, a relentless master that insisted on more from her. More, when she was convinced she’d given him her last breath. Still, his every stroke sent pleasure rippling through her. He grew harder inside her, hotter. And when he finally pounded into her, she gasped as pleasure overtook her once more.

His hands tangled in her hair. The pads of his fingers were rough against her cheeks; his nose nuzzled the side of her face. He breathed against her neck.

“My God, Miranda,” he whispered. “God.” His fingers brushed through her hair, the movement almost wistful. As if for the first time that evening, he was unsure of his reception. Foolish of him, of course, when they’d just shared that.

She reached up and laid her hand against his face.

He froze.

Slowly she let her fingers trail down his cheek in a slow caress, saying with her fingertips what she was almost afraid to whisper aloud.

I care for you.

But something was wrong. Horribly wrong. He’d not relaxed against her, as she’d hoped. Instead, he pushed himself up on his forearms. His every muscle had tensed.

“What the devil are you doing?” There was no warmth in his words. She didn’t know where that uncertain affection had gone, but it had vanished in an instant.

Her hand faltered against his cheek. Still, she pressed on. “What do you suppose?” She dropped her voice to a sultry whisper. “I’m caressing you.”

He wrapped his wrist around her hand and pushed it into the mattress. His fingers bit into her—not ungentle, but so changed from the way he’d touched her before that she looked up at him in confusion.

“We agreed I wasn’t paying you for that.” His voice had gone hard.

For a second, Miranda almost doubted her judgment. He’d never said he cared for her. He’d never claimed to be kind. In fact, he’d insisted on almost the opposite. She’d presumed to know better, on the basis of evidence that was beginning to seem a bit thin in the face of his fierceness. He’d as much as said it was an act of commerce. Maybe…

But no. She was sure of this. She was sure of him, him and his lemon cakes and the cats that he’d fed in the alleyway. “We agreed that you couldn’t buy my affection. But that’s only because…” She choked. He’d offered her so much; she’d wanted to hold something back. Something valuable and precious, so she’d have something… She looked up at him. “I wanted to give it to you. As a gift.”

He didn’t release her hand. His chest heaved above her. She was beginning to feel trapped underneath him. Then he disengaged himself from her and pushed off.

“I told you.” His voice was as cold as steel in winter. “I’m not looking for affection. Damn it.” He started to sort through the pile of their clothing.

“I don’t believe you. Everyone wants—”

“I don’t.” Fabric rustled. “I told you already, and I meant it. That is the last thing I wanted from you.”

A slap on the face would have hurt less. She suddenly felt young and painfully inexperienced. He was older. How many women had he had? How foolish she was, to think that just because they’d shared that, it had meant something.