Chapter Five
* * *
WHEN I AWOKE the next morning, it was still raining. The power was still out. Sam had still hurt me—I hadn’t forgotten or imagined it. There was an ache in my muscles and bones and bruises on my arms and breasts. Someone I loved had hurt me. That hadn’t changed.
I closed my eyes, foolishly hoping that would make it all go away when I opened them again. But the memories were still sharp and fresh: the taste of beer, the stubble scratching my skin, his weight bearing down on me, the hard brick wall at my back. Thank God he stopped before it went further.
But what if he hadn’t stopped?
I’d be wrecked.
Rolling over to my side, I noticed Duke wasn’t in bed. I got up, found his Stanford sweatshirt, put it on and went out to the kitchen.
“So I got up early to make coffee with the idea that I would bring it to you in bed,” Duke said. “But the power is out.”
“I know.”
We both turned to stare at the machine.
“I need coffee before I can figure out how to make coffee without the machine,” Duke muttered, pushing his fingers through his hair and mussing it up.
“There must be a way. People have made coffee for hundreds of years without electricity,” I said, staring blankly at the machine. “We’ll have to improvise. And while we’re at it, we might as well cook up everything in your fridge. That is, if your stove still works.”
“It’s gas, so as long as we have matches it should.” Duke ambled off to find some. I rolled the waistband of the pants he’d given me to wear; they were giant and falling down.
Then I opened the refrigerator and my heart sank.
There was plenty of beer. One carton of organic milk, three quarters full, fortunately not expired. There were also delivery leftovers that I was not yet desperate enough to try—who knows how long they’d been in there? I smiled when I saw a bottle of the wine I liked. Fortunately, the Britta filter was full—but it was all the water we had for the foreseeable future.
In the cabinets, I found a few boxes of cereal. In the freezer there were a few frozen meals.
“Why don’t you have more food?” I called out to Duke. “We’re going to starve.”
“We’ll just order some take out,” he said with a shrug. In Duke’s world, food only came from restaurants or Seamless.com.
“With what cell service? And power?” I asked.
“There’s got to be some service,” he grumbled as he walked around the apartment with his iPhone out, searching for a few bars.
“Shouldn’t you turn that off to conserve the battery?”
Duke looked up at me, with a wounded expression as if I suggested we drown kittens for fun.
“Turn it off?” he gasped. Well, someone had to be the voice of reason. I smiled faintly and rolled my eyes. He kept walking around the apartment with it, looking for service before finally conceding that we were totally cut off from contacting the rest of the world.
Just like Prudence and her hero, Castleton.
Dejected, he joined me next to the coffeemaker. We stared at it. If wishes and will power were enough we’d have a freshly brewed pot.
“If only you could come up with an idea of how to make the coffee,” I said.
“What did people do in days of yore in your books?” he asked.
“They asked the servants,” I answered.
Yes, I wrote historical romance novels. But most readers, like me, were more interested in the emotional turmoil of the characters—and let’s be real, the sex—than the details of housekeeping and coffee-making. In the end, we poured boiling water over the grinds, making two strong and steaming hot cups of coffee with milk.
We curled up on the couch with our mugs, under a blanket, huddling together for warmth. We stared out the window at the rain.
“It doesn’t look so bad,” I said. Being in possession of an active imagination, I had assumed the worst of a Category 4 storm. I had pictured glass windows of Fifth Avenue shops shattering, tree trunks snapping and falling into buildings, or flooding that sent cars floating down Broadway and into the Prada store. This looked like any other rainstorm.
“Before we lost power last night, I checked Twitter,” Duke said. “Because the storm hit at high tide, there’s a lot of flooding in lower Manhattan and in the subways.”
“How long do you think this will last?”
Duke went to check his iPhone for the answer and he swore when seeing the blank black screen. We had no connection to the outside world. We had no new information. It was just us. Unplugged.
“The last report I saw said rain until this evening.”
“I wonder how long the power will be out,” I said, glancing longingly at the computer. I wanted to know how much of manuscript I had lost. And I wanted to keep writing.
“I’m sure it won’t be too long,” Duke said. Neither of us believed him.
“What should we do until then?”
“I have an idea,” he murmured.
His idea was kissing.
His mouth brushed over mine and instead of opening up to him, I found myself pressing my lips into a closed line and turning away. I wanted to kiss Duke. There was so much longing inside of me, bottled up and wanting release. But even Duke’s sweet, loving kiss reminded me of the night before. I remembered the taste of stale beer and fear, Sam’s stubble abrasive against my cheeks, my heart pounding so hard I felt like I was choking.
Duke then reminded me why I loved him. When I was scared and uncertain, he laced his fingers through mine and just held my hand.
Later that day
THE HOURS PASSED. The rain kept falling. The power did not return.
Duke picked up his Kindle and I tried reading the few paper books he had—all of which were about business, sales or web development. Not exactly riveting stuff. My mind kept straying to the novel I had started last night. My heroine, Prudence, had suffered horribly. It was something she’d been able to push to the dark corners of her mind until a looming school anniversary party would force her to recognize what had happened to her and how she couldn’t move on.
Rather than stay in London, this wallflower ran away. She found herself stranded at a country inn during an epic rainstorm.
Her hero was there with her. John Roark, Lord Castleton, had a secret past. Perhaps not unlike my own hero—I hadn’t forgotten about that tell-all book about Duke. Oh, how I wished I had stayed at home and read the rest of that awful article or even bought the book and took it to bed.
Speaking of books, Duke was very happily reading his. I desperately wanted to be writing mine. I glanced over at his laptop with the dead battery.
“I think I’m going to have to write the old fashioned way. Do you have pen and paper?”
We both glanced around his sleek, modern apartment. There was no clutter and no paper lying around. He didn’t have a lot of stuff.
“Oh my God, you don’t even have paper,” I muttered. It made sense; he read everything on his phone or Kindle, probably never printed anything at home. Even his light bulbs and TV were controlled by apps on his phone.
“I’m sure I do somewhere,” he said. A few minutes later, after looking through closets and drawers, he returned with a Moleskine notebook emblazoned with the logo of some startup or VC firm I didn’t recognize.
“I got this at a conference,” he said. “I’m sure there is a pen around here somewhere.”
Sheepishly he glanced around his apartment, which probably held as many pens as the Regency-era inn where my characters were stranded.
“I always carry one in my bag,” I said. I found my handbag near the elevator. Amongst all the crap I carried around, I found one blessed pen.
As Duke reclined on the couch with his Kindle, I sat beside him and wrote the old-fashioned way. By hand, with pen, on paper.
My characters were eating lunch. A freshly made lunch, the likes of wish I would have killed for right about now.
“Would you care for some wine?” Roark asked.
“No thank you,” Prudence replied politely. She was always polite.
“Just a sip?”
“My friend Olivia’s mother says it makes a Lady forget herself,” she said.
“Is that such a bad thing?” Sometimes he wanted to forget himself. Wine helped. Whiskey reliably got the job done, too.
“Yes, it is a bad thing. At least for ladies,” Miss Merryweather informed him. Then she pointedly took a sip of water.
“And what does wine do to gentlemen?”
“It makes them more foolish and at a higher volume,” she answered primly.
He laughed. “Spot on.”
“Sometimes, it makes them beasts,” she added. There was something in the darkness of her voice that brought an end to his smile and laughter. He pushed his wine glass to the side.
“How was your day, darling?” John asked, changing the subject.
Her lips quirked up in a faint smile. “Uneventful.”
He thought about mentioning the encounter on the stairs this morning. Her panicked reaction raised questions in his mind. Not wanting to send her running again, he didn’t ask.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Wet.” He explained about taking care of the animals in the stable, and his two horses, named Snow and White.
“How imaginative of you,” Miss Merryweather said dryly. “Why did you name them that?”
“I didn’t. I won them in a game of cards,” John explained. He’d managed an invitation to a bachelors- only house party at Lord Collin’s country seat where they drank excessively, dined exquisitely and when they weren’t winning and losing fortunes over cards, they were availing themselves to the prostitutes who’d been invited. Well, the others did. John kept his drinking to a minimum and his eyes on his cards. That’s why he left that party with two prize-winning stallions and three hundred pounds richer.
“A gambler, are you?” Miss Merryweather asked with the disapproving look of a temperance-minded matron, which oddly made him grin.
“You could say that,” he answered. The extent of his gambling was possibly unparalleled. His was also not something he was prepared to let known.
“You’re one of those,” she said. “I should have known.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are the lords who tend to their estates,” she explained. “And then the ones who gamble them away.”
And then there were the ones, like him who—John didn’t even finish that thought on the off chance that Miss Merryweather had mind reading capabilities. He didn’t fit into her either/or view of Lords, but wasn’t about to enlighten her.
So just grinned and asked, “Can’t a rogue have it all?”
I GLANCED OVER at Duke—his head, hair tousled, was bowed over his Kindle. He reclined on the couch in his fabulous penthouse apartment, a girl by his side. He was unimaginably successful on his own terms. That rogue certainly did have it all . . .
He glanced up, caught me staring and gave me that smile of his that had a way of making me feel
“Hey girl,” he drawled. I had to laugh. Just gazing at him made me happy. There was something wonderful about being alone with him during this storm. I felt connected to him. And yet, I couldn’t shake questions about that tell-all book . . .
“What is it?” Duke asked.
“Nothing,” I replied, shaking my head.
“Aw, c’mon Jane,” he teased. “I can see when your imagination is at work. You’re thinking about something.”
“I was just wondering how well I knew you.” It was as much about that new book about him, as it was about Prudence’s mysterious hero.
“Is this research for your book?” He eyed the notebook open on my lap, full of probably illegible cursive.
“Maybe.”
“And does this have anything to do with Felicity’s book?” Gawd. Her name on his lips made me cringe. That somehow made her real and not just someone the tabloids invented.
“Maybe,” I said. He moved over to sit next to me, gaze into my eyes and hold my hand.
“Here’s what you need to know, Jane,” he said. “I was a f*ck-up until I met you. Yeah, I accomplished a lot but what does that matter if you throw it all away and don’t enjoy it? All I want now is to just be with you.”
A LITTLE WHILE later we took a break to heat up on the frozen food that was currently thawing in the uncooled freezer. We fried up Applegate Farms chicken nuggets on the stove and tried to heat frozen pizzas from Amy’s over the burners. It was not ideal. I missed the microwave. And the oven. And come to think of it . . . I missed electricity and hot running water, too.
We sat down to lunch. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
“How is the book going?” Duke asked.
“Good. The hero and heroine are trapped at a small country inn during a torrential rainstorm.”
“Have you ever considered drawing on your real life for inspiration?” Duke asked dryly. I gave a little laugh. My “inspired by real life” stories had gotten us into trouble before. But sometimes, you just can’t make this stuff up.
“The heroine was . . . attacked,” I added softly. “That makes her not the typical, innocent romance heroine. But I had to write about what happened to me.”
“Did Sam . . .?” Duke asked, his voice low.
“No. But I think he would have. He unbuttoned my jeans,” I said my voice cracking as I remembered. I didn’t want to remember. “His hands . . .” I couldn’t even say it. “Then I kneed him in the balls, hit him in the nose and ran.”
It was the vague and distant look in Sam’s eyes that struck me as I recalled that night. Sam hadn’t been Sam. That had been terrifying.
“That’s my girl,” Duke said softly, smiling slightly. But there was tension in his jaw and sadness in his eyes. I could see that it was burning him up inside that he hadn’t been there to protect me. But he was stifling that because this wasn’t about him. It was about me. “I wish I had been there for you. I could have stopped it. Hell, it never would have happened.”
“I know. Me too,” I said in a small voice. “I thought I could trust him.”
It wasn’t just the violence of what Sam had done. It wasn’t just the pain and the fear. The betrayal of it all cut the deepest. Someone I had once loved and trusted with my safety and happiness had violated my body and violated my trust.
“It makes it hard for her to be alone with the hero,” I said, my voice faltering slightly. I used my characters as a way to talk about me. Perhaps I should be in therapy for that. “She wants to. But she’s not quite ready.”
“Are you OK now, here with me?” Duke asked. The concern in his eyes was reassuring.
“Yeah,” I replied softly. “I feel safe with you.”
“Good. You should feel safe,” he said firmly, holding my hand and gazing into my eyes. “I’ll never hurt you Jane. I couldn’t.”
I knew he wouldn’t. What Sam had done to me wasn’t about insatiable, uncontrollable passion. I knew he stopped lusting after me a while ago—years before we broke up, even. What he had done to me was just about power. He must be feeling so helpless—alone, living with his parents, his career prospects dim, and all the rejection of Kate and the jobs he’d applied for. By overpowering me, he could feel like a man again. Or whatever.
I understood it, rationally. That didn’t excuse him. Or justify it. Or make me ache any less. Why should I bear his burdens?
But Duke . . . he’d been down, he’d been up and he’d been walking the razor’s edge of complete disaster or unfathomable success. And he did it all with a bone deep confidence and certainty in himself. He didn’t need to bring anyone down to raise himself up. That is what made him so damn sexy.
I gave that confidence to Prudence’s hero. It wasn’t his wealth or title that attracted her. It was his certainty, his kindness and his consideration of her. That, and his sparkling blue eyes that were a lot like Duke’s.
After lunch, Duke went back to reading and I went back to writing. We were never far from each other and Duke was generous, as always, with small, gentle caresses and other little signs of affection.
I kept writing until my hand started to cramp and I had to pause to shake it out. How did people write so much in days of yore?
Then Duke’s Kindle battery died.
With nothing much else to do, we stood in front of the floor to ceiling windows and looked out at the rain.
“Do you think the rain is easing up?” I asked hopefully.
“Hard to tell,” he said. But really, the answer was no. This storm wasn’t going to end any time soon.
“It’ll be dark soon. I don’t suppose you have candles?”
“Of course not,” Duke said grimly. We both fell silent, presumably thinking about all the Storm Prep Tweets and articles that he’d ignored. It went without saying that my apartment was pretty well stocked with candles, matches, flashlights, food, bottled water, and fully charged appliances.
“What about a flashlight? That’s a gadget. Do you have one?”
“On my phone,” Duke said grimly.
I couldn’t help but smile. My billionaire tech entrepreneur was so out of his element.
“I’m sorry, Jane. I’ll go out. See if a store is open.” It was just the sort manly, heroic protective thing a guy would do. Offer to venture out into a category 4 storm to get a girl some chocolate. It was also ridiculous.
“Are you crazy? The city has shut down.” I pointed outside. “Look. Everything is shut. It’s pouring rain.”
“It’s New York City,” Duke said. “Someone is making money off this. Look—there are still taxis driving around.”
I looked and indeed, every once in a while a yellow cab slowly cruised through the desolate streets. It was comforting, that. No matter what happened, the city carried on. Maybe I could, too.
We had a long kiss goodbye, as if he were going off to war or something. My guy was venturing out into the unknown. If something went wrong, there’d be no way of knowing. Using the last of his phone battery, he used the flashlight function to light his way down the pitch-black stairwell. I didn’t envy his walk back up to the penthouse—hopefully with bags full of food and candles.
My phone still had a bit of battery since I had sensibly switched it onto airplane mode last night. I kept checking the time while Duke was out. First he was gone for a half hour. Then an hour. Then I started to panic. In addition to checking the time, I also watched my dwindling battery.
Then another hour passed.
I was alone. The apartment was getting darker and darker as the hours passed. Eventually the sun set, taking daylight with it, leaving me alone in the dark.
The rain kept falling.
Eventually, I decided a glass of wine was in order to soothe my nerves. Where the hell was he? In fact, I wanted wine to soothe my temper. What was he thinking to go out in the damn storm? In the dark, I made my way to the kitchen. On my way, I collided with someone.
I screamed. Bloody-murder-call-the-cops screamed.
I felt a man’s hard wet chest. I felt a man’s hands close around my arms . . . just like last night. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I struggled to free myself and stumbled backwards.
“Jane! It’s me, Duke.”
His voice didn’t register. I tried to break away. I wanted those hands off. We stumbled together in the darkness, all tangled up until my back hit the wall.
“Jane it’s me. Duke. It’s ok.”
But it wasn’t. This felt all too familiar. The wall at my back, the man’s weight against me and arms blocking me in. His mouth, inches from mine. His hands, holding me up. I couldn’t tell what was real and what was my memory. I couldn’t breathe. My heart was pounding. I felt trapped, suffocated.
It could have been ten seconds or ten minutes, I don’t know, but I wrenched myself away.
“Jane it’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know,” I gasped. “Just . . . flashback.”
In the dim light I saw Duke’s jaw tense. Then he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. He didn’t even flinch, he was angry at the situation. I knew that. Seeing such a display of violence didn’t exact soothe my nerves or calm my racing heart.
“You scared me,” I said in between gulps of air. “When you came in. And when you grabbed me. And when you nearly punched a hole in the wall.”
“I’m sorry. I just hate that I wasn’t there to protect you and I hate I haven’t been able to give him the beating he deserves.”
“You might get the chance,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he’s somewhere in Manhattan.”
The truth of that made me shudder
“You’re safe here,” Duke said firmly. “You’re safe here with candles and tons of junk food and candy bars.”
“You found a store?”
“Yeah. I didn’t have much cash and of course credit cards and ATM machines aren’t working, so I had to promise some stock in Project-TK. Some bodega guy just got real lucky. And now we have tons of supplies and prepared for the storm.”
“Some good news,” I whispered.
“I told you, I have enough good luck to spare,” Duke said.
“Unless my bad luck rubs off on you.”
“Nah,” Duke said easily. “Come on, let’s open a bottle of wine and eat all this crap while you tell me what people in days of yore did to amuse themselves without TV and the Internet.”
We did just that—sipped lukewarm white wine and dined on potato chips, pretzels, and candy bars.
“In Regency times, people often played cards after dinner,” I said as I indulged in a bar of Green & Black’s organic dark chocolate.
“Strip poker?”
“No,” I said laughing and rolling my eyes. “They played whist. Or vignt-et-un which is basically the same as Blackjack.”
“Do you fancy a game of strip vignt-et-un?”
“You and the stripping! It’s too cold in here for that,” I said, shuddering for emphasis as a Regency heroine might have done. Without heat or even sunlight to warm the place up, the chill had seeped into my bones and I began to have a new appreciation for laments about drafty ancestral estates.
“I’ll warm you up,” Duke murmured, sliding his hand around my waist and pressing a kiss against my lips.
“Or they danced,” I whispered. “But we don’t have any music.”
“We don’t need music,” Duke whispered. He stood, and clasping my hand, pulled me to my feet.
With one hand around my waist and the other clasping mine, at his lead we began to dance. Neither of us knew the steps to a quadrille or a reel or any other days-of-yore dances. I tried to teach him how to waltz but in the end, we relied on instinct and somehow just knew how move together in the same rhythm, at the same time.
For some moments I wanted to rest my head against his chest, close my eyes and forget everything except the beat of his heart and our bodies moving in time together. But the moment was always ruined by the recollection of Sam . . .
I tried hard to breathe. I closed my eyes, hoping to shut out the memories of Sam’s assault . . . the way he grabbed me . . . holding my arms . . . holding me close . . . his body pressed against mine . . .
I wanted to enjoy this moment. But it was hard.
Breathing. It was difficult at the moment.
But I didn’t want to lose my future to one dark Chapter of my past. So I opened my eyes and gazed up at Duke. He looked at me with affection and lust, with kindness and promises. Perhaps even love. With all sorts of good things.
My heart was pounding. This could be the moment that I panicked, ran away and let walls go up between a really good man and me.
Or this could be the moment that I choose love instead of fear.
So Duke and I danced around his kitchen, banging into the countertops and tables because the candles didn’t provide much light.
I let him lead me down the hall to the bedroom, dancing all the while.
After crossing the threshold, we both paused. It was unspoken, but understood: I wasn’t sure I was ready to make love or let myself go enough to enjoy it.
“Don’t be nervous,” Duke said softly. “Don’t be scared.”
He looked so earnest. I believed him. I had so much faith in him that I could exhale the breath I’d been holding and even breath normally. But then I glanced up and noticed Duke was biting back words.
“What is it?”
“I will wait for you, Jane,” Duke said plainly. “As long as it takes.”
“But . . .” The protest was a rush of breath over my lips. It could be forever. I might never be ready. A wave of sadness hit me as I considered the prospect of never being able to make love with abandon again. What a bleak existence was ahead of me if I let Sam’s rough touch possess me forever.
I couldn’t.
In fact, what if I could take it back? My heart started to pound. What if I could reclaim me, for myself? It was a question I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even think about it because what Duke said next took my breath away.
“I want to touch you, Jane. I want to erase all the bad memories and remind you of pleasure.” I was uncertain, scared and not so pure and not so innocent. I was a mess, but still, Duke stood there and promised me love.
Was I really going to live the rest of my life without a lover’s touch? Was I really going to let Sam have this power to take away my pleasure? I couldn’t. Just couldn’t. I knew that.
But that didn’t mean letting go was easy.
“But I don’t want to hurt you,” he continued. “Or scare you. I just want to touch you.”
Duke’s blue eyes smoldered at me. There was no denying it: He wanted me. He knew what had happened, and he was willing to wait for me to be ready. I wasn’t damaged in his eyes. To him, I was still desirable.
Would I ever find another man like him? Probably not.
Would I ever have another chance to try to reclaim myself? Of course—as long as I didn’t allow fear to hold me back. But why not start now? Why not seize this moment? I thought of excuses but dismissed them.
“How? How would you touch me?”
“I would start by pushing aside that strand of hair that’s been falling in your eyes all day,” he said softly. “And I’d let my fingertips graze your cheek as I did.”
That was gentle. That was safe.
“Like this?” I asked, as I enacted the movement he described. My hair was soft. How many times had I pushed my hair away from my face? Countless. And how many times had I noticed that the skin of my cheek was soft and sensitive and responsive to a light and gentle touch? Once. Now. The slight caress of my fingertips against it sent a little shiver down my spine.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Like that.”
“What else?”
“What do you want?”
I didn’t know what I wanted. I glanced around the room, looking out the windows at the darkness beyond. The faintest bit of moonlight illuminated the bed, the bedside tables, Duke’s suitcase on the floor, and a dresser with opened drawers. One was ajar, and a certain grey silk tie haphazardly spilled over the edge. I had bought him that tie . . . but I had been the one to wear it.
I trusted him, truly I did. But I couldn’t shake the thought of tying his hands. I reached over, picked up the tie, and asked for Duke’s permission with my eyes.
“If that’s what you want, Sweater Set,” he whispered. We knelt before each other on the bed as I wrapped the length of grey silk around his wrists and tied it tightly. Duke was a strong man, this wasn’t a real restraint. But it was something . . . Tonight I was only going to feel what I wanted to feel, and from my touch alone.
“Tell me how you want to touch me,” I whispered.
“I would drag my thumb across your lips, to rub away the bad memories.”
I did just that, imagining that I could wipe away the past, as I felt them tingle from the friction.
“What would you do next?”
Our gazes locked. I focused on his familiar features: the blue eyes and dark lashes, the strong line of his jaw and the dramatic slant of his cheekbones, his firm mouth that often curved into a smile that made me feel warm inside. In this moment, I felt undeniably connected to him, even though we weren’t even touching. Just kneeling opposite each other on his king-sized bed.
“I would run my fingers through your hair,” he said softly. “And cradle your head in my hands.”
I slid my fingers along my scalp, feeling that lovely sensation of fingers delicately running through soft strands of hair. I closed my eyes and imagined it was Duke’s touch. My lips parting, awaiting a kiss.
“I would kiss your neck first, just where it curves into your shoulder.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Imagine it, Jane.”
“Would you kiss me now?”
“No.” His voice was low and rough with desire. I felt the vibrations of it deep inside.
“No?”
“No. Next I’d want to kiss you all along the curve of your shoulder.”
Keeping the touch of my fingertips light, I dragged them back and forth along my shoulder, and down across my décolletage. Duke’s eyes darkened with desire. His hands moved as if he wanted to touch me, but they remained bound by that grey silk tie. I remained in control.
My skin, it had to be noted, was warm and soft and responsive to my touch. It felt the same as before.
“I would want to touch you lower. Feel your breasts in my palms.”
I touched myself like that, cupping my breasts in my hands, feeling the soft cotton of his T-shirt between my palms and bare skin. But I really wanted to feel everything. And I wanted to test Duke’s control. So I stripped off the shirt and let it fall to the side.
He wanted me. I could see it in his eyes. I might have felt dirty and damaged, but to this man I was still beautiful. And as my fingers roamed over my abdomen, my breasts and all over, I had to note that I felt the same. Perhaps I felt more because I appreciated every little touch. And it wasn’t just a little touch; I was taking myself back.
“I would touch you with my hands . . . my mouth . . . taking the center of your breasts in my mouth. Teasing you with my tongue . . .”
My fingertips made slow circles of ever-increasing pressure around the center of my breasts until my nipples were stiff peaks and suddenly more sensitive. I inhaled sharply.
“Yes,” he hissed as my fingertips traced along the swell of my breasts to find the pink peak in the center. I knew it was right because I felt a spark of electricity rocket through me. Duke gave me more instructions: “Circle slowly. Yes. Like that.”
I couldn’t help it, but I moaned. Because I knew what that felt like and I could imagine it so well that it almost felt real. Almost. I needed, I wanted the real thing.
“God I want to feel you . . .” Duke groaned. His hands were clasped hard together and I could see him struggling slightly against the silk tie.
I bit back the words “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare say the words,” he growled, reading my mind. “This is about you. And it’s turning me on.”
I glanced down. He was aroused. That only turned me on more.
“I want you to touch me,” I whispered as my fingers toyed with the knot I’d made in the silk tie. “But I’m not ready yet.” I started to loosen the knot. “I want you to touch yourself. If you want.”
He reached out for me as the tie fell slack onto the bed, but then he stopped himself. There was nothing holding him back now, other than his self-restraint.
“Where do you want to touch me?”
“Your stomach. My mouth. Kisses.”
I imagined his head, with the dark unruly hair, bent over my belly pressing his mouth there. He’d be so close to my breasts. He’d go lower, too. I knew how all of this felt because we had done it before. Any trepidation I felt about being touched was starting to pale beside the fiery hot need I was starting to feel all over.
I touched my belly. It wasn’t as flat as most models. But it was lovely all the same.
“And then what?” I asked, my own voice sounding rough now.
“You tell me,” he said. I lowered my gaze to his hands, around his cock. My own hands went lower, past my belly, down a little further.
“Lower?”
“Lower.”
The pressure building inside of me. My temperature was surely rising. I felt the heat building, scorching away all the bad memories, leaving nothing but desire in its place. I knew how hot this fire could blaze and what would happen as the pressure intensified to the point of explosion.
There was no turning back now.
“Close your eyes,” I told him.
“Yes ma’am,” he growled.
“You can’t yes ma’am me at a time like this,” I protested, eyes opening to see him on his knees before me.
“Yes, Miss Sparks,” he murmured.
He was so close, and he could just reach out and touch me or just have me. But he didn’t because he loved me and wanted me to feel pleasure on my own terms. I felt another surge of desire.
“That’s more like it,” I murmured.
“Where are your fingers, Jane?” His voice was lower now, rougher now. He sounded positively tortured. But I was in a state of bliss.
“I can’t say.” But I touched myself around where Sam had tried to violate me. I knew just where to stroke and tease. Every little touch made me feel hot and electric.
“Slow circles,” Duke murmured. “Use a light touch. Feather light. So light you can hardly feel it. Just how you like it.”
“Yes,” I gasped. That was just how I liked it.
He groaned. “How does it feel? Please, tell me how it feels.”
That was desire in his voice. I cracked my eyes open, glancing at him in a heavy-lidded haze of pleasure and self-discovery. Everything about him was dark and hard and tense. He desired me and this—my own pleasure—was arousing to him.
“Tempting,” I said. “And wet. I feel wet.”
He groaned and said, “Keep going, Jane. Please.”
As if he had to ask.
I kept going with the light circles around this magical place of insane feeling not because he asked but because something instinctive compelled me to keep going.
“I want to kiss you there,” he said. “I want to taste you. I want to tease you until you just can’t help but cry out.”
He wanted these things, and I did too. But it was only my hands on my body. My fingers were bringing me closer and closer to the brink.
“Jane, what do you feel? Tell me.”
“I feel like I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t stop.”
“You’re close. God, you’re close. Press harder now, Jane and let go.”
I pressed harder, groaning under the pressure of my touch and the pressure of something building inside of me. It wasn’t a bad pressure at all. It was lovely, like fireworks on a hot night and because he said to let go and I trusted him, I let go and then—
The force of it took my breath away. Vaguely, I heard him cry out too. There was nice and then there was pleasure so intense and overwhelming that it took my breath away, cleared my thoughts and ricocheted over every last inch of my body in the most exquisite way.