Anew: Awakened Part 11

I am still thinking about that when we finish dinner. The more I get to know Ian, the more rea.s.sured I am that my instinct to trust him comes not because of how I was imprinted but from my own growing confidence in the man he is.

"Would you like a brandy?" he asks when Hodgkin has finished clearing.

I shake my head. Honestly, all I really want is him. I can no longer avoid admitting, if only to myself, how deep that longing goes. I want to stand in his arms and feel the steady beat of his heart in rhythm with my own, to hear his laughter, to know what he thinks and feels, to ease his sorrows and bring him joy.

Heaven help me. What I'm experiencing feels perilously close to how love is described. But surely that isn't possible, not so quickly and perhaps not at all for me. I don't even know if I am capable of such a depth and breadth of emotion. But how I long to find out!

"In that case," Ian says, "there's something I'd like to show you."

He stands and holds out his hand. When I take it, he leads me into the shadows near the gallery, to a place where little light from the palazzo intrudes. His arm around my waist draws me close against his warmth. I feel the smooth fabric of his shirt and beneath it the taut, toned muscles of his chest and abdomen against the bodice of my dress.

A tremor runs through me. In response, he tightens his hold. Long fingers slip under my chin, pressing lightly.

"Look up," he says.

I do and a gasp escapes me. Streaks of light are falling across the sky, one after another in rapid succession.

"The Lyrids meteor shower," Ian says softly. "The dust of a comet that humans have been seeing and wondering at for thousands of years. Until a few centuries ago, whenever we saw something like this, we thought the stars were falling."

And we still wish on them as they leave the heavens and descend to earth. But I don't say that to him. I'm afraid I'll feel foolish. All the same, a wish forms in me, no less real for being held silently in my heart.

All the pain and helplessness of how I came to be, the childhood I was denied, the years spent floating in emptiness will be redeemed if I can find within myself the capacity to love and be loved.

"They're beautiful," I say, watching the streaks of cosmic dust, reminders of how vast and mysterious creation truly is.

"Beautiful," Ian agrees. He is looking not at the falling stars but at me. Softly, he says, "I've been remiss with you, Amelia. I didn't let myself take into account how new everything is for you." Is that tenderness I see in his gaze? "Every experience has been your first, hasn't it? Every sound, every taste, every touch--"

His hand strokes down my body, cupping my behind. "I've been selfish," he says. "It's time I made amends."

He draws back a little, gently clasps my face in both his hands, and looks into my eyes. The contact is so intense, so intimate that I forget to breathe.

Softly, he asks, "Do you still want to discover what it's like between us when you have control?"

I am suddenly, unaccountably shy. After all, I did rather boldly proposition him only a few hours ago, not to mention my earlier behavior in the shower. But now, feeling the heat and power of his big, hard body against mine, my imagination fires wildly. Ian on the golden bed, my hands, my mouth free to savor him as he has me-- I don't doubt the sincerity of his regrets or that this is difficult for him. But longing overwhelms me, overriding all else. Heart pounding, I look up at him through the veil of my lashes and nod.

Chapter Twelve.

Amelia Ian stands in the center of the golden room, watching me. My hand is still warm from holding his as he allowed me to lead him from the gallery, up the wide, curving staircase and through the bedroom's double doors emblazoned with a seash.e.l.l design evocative of Botticelli's Venus rising from the sea. I don't fool myself that we are there by anything other than his choice yet I feel almost dizzy with daring.

I wanted free rein and it seems that I have it but I have no hint of how to begin. All that knowledge I thought I possessed seems to have deserted me.

I'll just have to improvise.

I stand back a little and survey him. As nervous as I am, I'm also undeniably aroused. It occurs to me that I could enjoy this game.

"Don't you think," I begin, "that you're rather overdressed?"

"I suppose I am," he replies, playing along. "What would you like me to take off?"

I resist the urge to say "everything" and instead smile in turn. "Your shoes and socks."

He looks a little surprised but shrugs. With athletic ease, he stands first on one foot, then on the other, and unlaces the gleaming black leather oxfords, removing them both without taking his eyes from me. The socks follow. When he's tossed them aside, I moisten my lips and plot my next move.

"Your jacket," I say.

Before he can begin to remove it, I move closer and slide it from his broad shoulders, down his arms, catching it in my hands and laying it over the back of a chair. Standing in front of him again, I take his left hand in both of mine, raise it to my mouth, and trace my tongue over each of his fingertips before lightly biting the pad of his thumb.

He sucks his breath in sharply. Emboldened, I remove the silver-grey iridium cufflink at his wrist, noting as I do the light dusting of dark hair against his tanned skin. His gaze is smoldering by the time I free the second cuff and slip both into a pocket of his trousers. My fingers linger for just a moment, stretching down through the sheath of fabric toward his groin.

"You're good at this," he says warily as I reach up to loosen his tie. It's a rich, dark amber, the same hue as his eyes, and made of finely woven silk that has a soft l.u.s.ter and a lavish feel similar to suede.

I twine the tie around my fingers and slip it into his other pocket, again lingering for just a moment. Glancing down, I see his erection straining against the b.u.t.tons of his fly and wonder just how bold I'm prepared to be.

His shirt is next and I take my time undoing it one b.u.t.ton at a time, revealing as I do more tanned skin tautly drawn over sculpted muscles and fine, dark hair that thickens in a line toward his abdomen. I pull the shirt out of his waist band, ease it from him, and toss it on the chair along with his jacket. My breath catches. He is all hard sinew and muscles beneath taut, sun-warmed skin. His torso and limbs are long, perfectly proportioned to his height. He is muscular without being bulky, the epitome of masculine power and grace.

Gazing at him, I smile. "I think I have to sit down for a moment."

He laughs but stops abruptly when I perch on the edge of the bed and hold out a long mostly bare leg. "You're so good with shoes," I say. "Would you mind giving me a hand?"

Slowly, he wraps both hands around my ankle and pulls me a little further forward so that I have no choice but to fall back on my elbows. I'd remind him of who's in control here but his fingers stroking all the way up my calf to the sensitive skin behind my knee distract me. I have to fight the urge to squirm. Smirking, he undoes the fragile clasp and releases the strap, easing my shoe off.

I take a breath and hold up my other leg. "This one, too, please."

When that shoe follows its mate, Ian keeps hold of my ankle and moves a little closer so that my bare foot brushes his groin. I gasp as my toes wiggle against his erection.

"Anything else I can do for you?" he asks, holding me in that position.

I can't deny him a rueful smile, acknowledging the effect he's having, but I'm not about to concede the game. "Let me think," I say and take my time, all the while letting my happy little toes explore him.

It becomes a contest to see which of us will cave first. To my delight, Ian finally shoots me a wry look and releases my ankle. I can't help but notice that he's slightly flushed.

"Well played," he says.

I smile and get back up from the bed but I'm feeling far from confident. Without my shoes, the top of my head barely comes to Ian's shoulders. I'm all too aware of him gazing down at me as, concentrating intently, I undo his belt. Although I try to avoid direct contact with his skin, my knuckles brush against the hard muscles of his abdomen just above his fully erect c.o.c.k. He sucks in his breath even as I do the same.

I finally manage to slide his belt out of the loops of his waistband and am about to add it to his jacket and shirt when he takes it from me. For a moment, he stretches the leather strap between his hands, tugging hard, before tossing it on the foot of the bed.

"Just in case you get tired of being in charge," he says.

I know he's trying to fl.u.s.ter me and he's succeeding. The thought of what he could do with that belt is all too distracting. Once again, I feel the balance of power shifting inexorably back to him.

"That won't happen." I thrust my fingers into his waistband, making quick work of the b.u.t.ton there. That just leaves-- His impressive erection strains the b.u.t.tons of his fly. There is no way I will be able to unfasten them without caressing him.

"Please do continue," he says with a smile that is pure challenge.

I glance up at him, noting his amus.e.m.e.nt but also seeing the molten hunger in his gaze. He's not remotely as immune to this game as he would like me to believe.

I decide to find out just how much effect I'm having. Cupping my palm against his groin, I curl my fingers inward, letting his weight rest in my palm.

With mock concern, I say, "My, these pants are awfully tight. You really should have a word with your tailor." I throw in a soft tut-tut. "Getting these b.u.t.tons undone isn't going to be easy. I hope you're prepared to be patient."

He makes a low, primal sound deep in his throat. I watch fascinated as his hands clench into fists at his sides. It occurs to me that I don't necessarily want to discover how far I can push him. My eyes flick to the belt lying on the foot of the bed. I decide to ignore it.

"You know," I say as I tackle the first b.u.t.ton, "I've heard of this remarkable invention. It's called the zipper and it's been around for a couple of hundred years--"

"For G.o.d's sake," he mutters. "Are you trying to drive me insane?"

I've been bending over slightly to get a better hold on the b.u.t.ton but now I look up and see-- All my muscles clench at the sight of the fire burning in his eyes. I may be in trouble here.

I also seem to have developed a reckless streak. "You're a giving-up-control virgin, aren't you?"

The notion startles him. His breath hisses between his teeth. "Amelia..."

I'm getting a 'last warning' vibe. My instinct for self-preservation rears its head, better late than never. Tucking my fingers into both sides of his fly I pull hard. b.u.t.tons shoot off in all directions. In the next instant, he springs free into my waiting hands. Oh, my. I've never had a Christmas morning but I feel as though I am right now. I don't want to just unwrap my present, I want to unravel it.

His c.o.c.k fascinates me. It's such a study in contrasts, at once velvety smooth and hard as steel. And the way it transforms...!

I can't begin to imagine how nature came up with so unlikely yet impressive an appendage.

Rather than lose myself in my enjoyment of it, I slide my hands around to his sculpted a.s.s and ease his trousers and briefs down the long line of his legs. I can't help but notice how powerfully developed his thighs are, the muscles honed and bulging. Perhaps he skis? If he does , it must be with fierce, no-holds-barred intensity. I think of what else he does that way and flush.

"Step out," I say softly when the garments reach his bare feet. I'm on my knees as he does so. I can feel his gaze burning me but just then I don't have the courage to meet it. I need all I do have to accomplish what I want most.

Brief flashes of erotic images are all well and good but practical details would have been nice. Resting back on my haunches puts me at eye level with that magnificent c.o.c.k. I study it, trying to decide on the best approach.

Above me, Ian says huskily, "It might help to think of it as a popsicle."

"I doubt they make them this big," I reply but I take his point.

I've never had a popsicle or an ice cream cone but I can imagine what I would do with one. Daring greatly, I touch the velvety tip of his p.e.n.i.s with the tip of my tongue. Touch and taste and touch again until I'm licking him all the way around including an extra sensitive spot I discover on the underside.

I can't help but notice how stimulating he finds this. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see his fist clenched so tightly that every vein and corded tendon stands out in high relief. Clearly, he is fighting to stop himself from seizing control.

His willingness to resist his most primal urges in order to give me what I want thrills me but I suspect that I'm on borrowed time. Better make the most of it.

Licking is fun but taking his tip into my mouth and sucking it is funner still. Funner? My brain is shutting down or at least the portions that I no longer have any use for. Along with grammar, I've disconnected from shyness, embarra.s.sment, and any degree of reticence whatsoever.

On the other hand, even after all that's happened since I awakened, my capacity for s.e.xual exploration and pleasure comes as a shock.

And not just to me. Ian groans suddenly and opens his fisted hands to clasp my head at the same time he eases his c.o.c.k deeper into my mouth.

Thickly, he says, "Oh, yeah, baby, just like this."

Oh, no, not happening! I pull back immediately and look up at him. "Put your hands behind your back."

He blinks at me in disbelief. "What?"

"Hands, behind your back. I'm in charge here."

He takes a long shuddering breath and for a moment I'm certain that he's going to refuse. His eyes are blazing with a feral light that sends heat radiating through me.

At last, he says, "Fine. You. In charge."

Beyond the shadow of a doubt, I'm going to pay for my a.s.sertiveness but I don't care. This is liberating, heady, wonderful.

He wanted to be deeper. Let's see just how deep I can get him. I tilt my head back, creating a straighter path for his c.o.c.k. The result is all the more intensely arousing. Ordinarily, even the thought of swallowing anything so thick and hard would be off-putting but this is Ian and I crave him in every way possible.

Still, I have to breathe. Reluctantly, I draw back, releasing him just enough so that I can take a quick, deep breath, before sucking and swallowing him right back to where I want him.

The sounds in the room become primal--his groans, the soft gurgles that escape me, the wet slap of flesh to flesh. I adjust my position slightly, stroking my hands up his thighs and around to his b.u.t.tocks so that I can caress the seam of his heavy sack, scratching lightly along it with my fingertip. The effect is more than I could have hoped.

He lets out a strangled cry and gasps, "Stop now, Amelia, or I'm going to come down your throat."

I take him at his word and redouble my attentions. He curses and his hands, still behind him, grasp mine tightly. Fingers interlacing, we hold on to each other as the shudder that rips through him reverberates through my arms, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, down straight to the wet, clenched core of my being.

I would cry out but my mouth and throat are filled with his thick, hot come jetting into me. I swallow, adjusting to the musky saltiness even as I take it as my reward for what I can do to him. When it stops at last, he is still in me, still at least half-erect. I pull away slowly, look up into his eyes, and smile as I lick the last drops from my lips.

His eyes are wide and dark, his mouth slack. He stares down at me with a mixture of stunned amazement and awe.

"f.u.c.k, Amelia..." Abruptly, he shakes his head as though trying to clear it. A faint smile plays across his face. "Are you trying to kill me?"

He bends down and helps me to my feet. I'm grateful for that as I'm more than a little unsteady. Without letting go of me, he brushes his knuckles over my cheek. His voice is low, husky, and laced with a note of amus.e.m.e.nt that seems directed more at himself than at me.

"I'd just like to know," he says, "so I can plan accordingly."

I manage a weak laugh. The impact of my behavior is beginning to sink in. I did...that. Apparently rather well despite having no real clue when I started. After some initial discomfort and uncertainty, I enjoyed it. The only downside I can see is that it has left me squirming in the grip of acute, unsatisfied arousal.

"Something wrong, sweetheart?" he asks, giving me an all-too knowing look.

Hmmm...I can tell him the truth, in which case I'm willing to bet that I'm mere minutes away from a screaming, gasping, back-arching Ian-provided o.r.g.a.s.m. That's very tempting except it will put him in control once again.

Or I can... I run my hand down his chest, over his flat, sculpted abdomen and give his c.o.c.k a friendly pat. It nestles into my palm with what feels like real affection. We're really hitting it off.

"Not at all," I say, "except I think I'm the one whose overdressed now."

His eyes narrow, taking on a smoky cast. "What are you going to do about it?"

I take a step back and, holding his eyes, reach around to the zipper of my dress and slowly pull it down. When it's free, I slip the froth of silk and chiffon from my shoulders and let it slide past my waist and hips and onto the floor. Ian's quick intake of breath delights me. I'm left in nothing but a lacy bustier and a sc.r.a.p of panties that amount to little more than two triangles connected by narrow ribbons tied just below my hips.

Looking at me, Ian mutters, "I am a dead man."