Anew: Awakened Part 2

My c.o.c.k, which has been hard since she walked out onto the gallery, jerks. I shift in my seat, suddenly fighting for control.

She opens her eyes, looks straight at me, and smiles. "More?"

Oh, yeah, baby, definitely more.

She gets all the steak, every little morsel of it along with most of the cabernet that I give her in small sips from my gla.s.s. In return, I get to watch her. That's enough for the moment, if only barely.

I've never seen a woman do better justice to a meal. The little sounds of delight that I don't think she even knows she makes are uncannily like the run up to o.r.g.a.s.m. I'm having trouble breathing when, with a last lick of her lips, she sighs in contentment and sits back.

"That was so good," she says.

My mind is staggering from her natural eroticism to the fact that I'm never going to be able to look at another steak without getting a hard on.

"Dessert?" I ask.

Her eyes widen as she suddenly seems to remember herself. Staring at me, she turns red. Not a delicate blush but the real deal that flows down her slender throat and all the way to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Through the fabric, I can see her nipples harden.

Apparently, I've pushed a b.u.t.ton but how exactly? Purely in the interest of scientific inquiry, I sit back and study her.

"A fruit tart perhaps," I suggest. "Filled with big, ripe raspberries brushed with apricot glaze? Or a creme brlee, so smooth and creamy that it slips right over the tongue and down the throat?"

She squirms in the chair and shakes her head.

Undeterred, I persevere, grinning. "Perhaps a cannoli? Or we could share a banana split."

She looks so d.a.m.n delicious. I lean forward a little, holding her gaze. My voice drops a notch. "With a shiny round cherry on top? You know the kind I mean, drenched in thick, sweet syrup?"

That last bit seems to push her over the edge. She breaks eye contact and takes several deep, ragged breaths. Softly, she says, "Thank you but I'm really quite full."

The devil who's sitting comfortably in his usual perch on one of my shoulders launches a laser missile at the angel whose got barely a toe hold on the other, effectively vaporizing it. Not even a feather is left.

I stand and hold out my hand. "In that case, let's take a walk."

Chapter Four.

Amelia What is wrong with me? I should be focused on making it clear to him that I'm not some helpless female to be kept in ignorance and ordered about at his beck and call. Instead, I'm a slave to my own appet.i.tes. Not only did I eat all his dinner--allowing him to feed it to me no less--but I lied when I told him that I was full.

A hot, churning emptiness has been growing in me since I stepped out onto the gallery and saw him again. No food, however amazing, can slake that.

The memory of his fingers against my lips, the taste of him mingling with the lightly salted flavor of the steak, threatens to overwhelm me. I have a sudden image of myself succ.u.mbing to temptation, drawing those fingers into my mouth and sucking on them, his amber gaze darkening as I do so.

A tremor races through me. I am on the brink of something I can sense but not yet understand.

I should be focused on the matters that really concern me--who I am, why I am there, why I was asleep for so long, not to mention what is going to happen to me. Instead, all I am able to think of is Ian. With every breath I take, I am acutely aware of him.

In a desperate bid for distraction, I look around the garden and beyond. Clouds streak the blue-black sky directly overhead. A storm is moving in but I can still see the silver arch of the Milky Way spanning from north to south.

"We're in North America, aren't we?" I say. "Somewhere in New England?"

Once again, I seem to have surprised him. "How do you know that?" he asks.

"The stars." I nod to the east where Orion hangs beneath the bright beacon of Betelgeuse. Later, I can wonder why I have at least some knowledge of astronomy. For the moment, I just accept it.

We are approaching the small pavilion where I awoke. The floating bed sways in a sultry breeze that carries a hint of the tropics. Far off to the south, lightning flashes.

Ian pauses, one hand still firmly holding mine, and with the other gestures toward the dark expanse of forest and mountains beyond.

"We're in upstate New York, about two hundred miles north of Manhattan," he says.

I recognize the name of the island enclave that is home to the world's elite and those who serve them, a city equally of soaring gla.s.s towers and heights of privilege unimaginable to the vast majority of people who are kept well away from it.

Manhattan and the handful of other places like it are where the business of the world is done. All the rest--parliaments and congresses, the media, even the ritual of elections--are a distant second. If I have ever been there, I don't know it.

"Do you live there as well?" I ask.

He looks down at me, his eyes inscrutable in the darkness that surrounds us. "I keep an apartment in the firm's Manhattan headquarters. When I'm not travelling, I'm usually there."

"But not now?"

He hesitates a moment before he says, "I thought you would be more comfortable here." His tone turns rueful. "Now I'm wondering if I was right. You aren't at all what I expected."

Before I can ask what he means, he brushes a finger over my lips, a feathery touch but commanding all the same. "No more questions, not tonight."

My breath quickens. His gaze is so intense! For a moment he looks not quite so formidable, more young and even a little confused.

That vanishes as he moves the hand he still holds behind my back and joins it to my other. His fingers curl around both my wrists, securing them. His other hand grasps my hip, drawing me to him. I am suddenly, vividly aware of how aroused he is.

And of the effect that has on me. I do...do not...do...want this, want him, want...

"Don't," I murmur but it comes out as little more than a moan.

He stands perfectly still except for his hands. They both entwine with mine, our fingers meshing. There is something in this, some combination of his dominance and our mutual need, that draws a carnal response from me. To my embarra.s.sment, my hips begin to sway, rotating against him.

He makes a guttural sound and without breaking the contact between us, bends me backward so that my throat is bared to him.

"Ian..." His name is a sigh, a whisper in the dark, a prayer. I want...the caress of his lips, the sharp quick pain of his teeth, the heat of his breath marking me. Want, becoming desire, threatening to ignite a wildfire reflected in the searing heat of his gaze.

The first rumble of thunder comes over the mountains. A few steps from us, the floating bed sways again in the night breeze. He thrusts a muscled thigh between my own and pulls me upright so that I am crushed against him, our mouths almost touching, our bodies-- Suddenly, his features tighten, his mouth narrowing to a hard line. As though the admission is dragged from him, he says, "This is insane. I don't lose control like this, not ever."

Without warning, his hold on my wrists turns punitive. I cry out and in the next instant am free. He walks a short distance away, thrusts both his hands through his hair in a gesture of... Frustration? Disgust? Anger? At me? At himself.

He turns to look at me where I stand, panting more than breathing.

My eyes flit to the bed. For an instant, I see us entwined there, his far larger and more powerful body arching over mine, driving into me, both of us lost in the pounding rhythm of-- He follows the direction of my gaze and his body flexes, as though drawn into my own vision of us, helpless to deny me.

But only for a moment. In a visible exercise of his will, he takes control of himself and of the situation.

Harshly, he says, "Go to bed, Amelia. I want you clear headed in the morning."

So that I will be better able to accept what he has to tell me? I should be grateful that he has the self-control I so abysmally lack but it only serves to frighten me more about myself...and him.

"Go!"

The veneer cracks and I see the man beneath the elegant suit, the cultured manners, the worldly success. The man I saw coming toward me out of the shadows into light, armed with weapons I do not have. A man whose nature is to conquer and who I fear will overwhelm and utterly consume me unless I can find the means to conquer him in turn.

Driven by the most primal instinct, I gather up my skirt and flee down the length of the garden, across the gallery and along the arcade, up the curving staircase, and through the inlaid doors. I do not pause until I stand breathless in the golden room.

A sob breaks from me. I press my fingers to the lips he touched and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror where the reflection of the bed beckons. My eyes are unnaturally wide and dark, my cheeks flushed. I look as though I am unraveling.

Averting my eyes, I move into the dressing room where I tug with desperate urgency at the tightly binding sleeves until my arms are freed. The gown pools at my feet, followed quickly by the demi-bra and panties. Naked, I stand under the shower once again until I feel a little calmer. When I finally emerge, I discover that while I was at dinner, someone removed the white-and-gold counterpane from the bed and turned the covers down.

An ecru silk nightgown is laid out for me. When I drop it over my head, it cups my b.r.e.a.s.t.s above an empire waist before falling in graceful folds over my hips and down the length of my legs to my ankles. Small, puff sleeves just barely hold it in place.

I wonder who selected the clothes and all the rest that fill the dressing room, who designed the bedroom itself, who planned all this? Perhaps tomorrow I will find out.

Fatigue suddenly overtakes me. I crawl between the sheets. My last thought before my eyes close is that Ian was right, the bed really is comfortable.

Some unknown time later, I wake gasping for air, swept by a wave of panic that subsides only when I manage to untangle my body from the covers and sit up.

For a moment, I have no idea where I am. Gradually, the bed and the room resolve around me. I force myself to breathe slowly until my heart stops hammering against my ribs and I am reasonably certain that I can stand.

The rank wisps of a nightmare still cling to me. Afraid to chance returning to sleep, I leave the bed and pad over to the tall doors at the far side of the room.

Earlier, I observed that they give onto a second floor balcony overlooking the garden. I am about to open them when a sound stops me. It is faint but distinct, and very close. I strain, listening as it comes again, a little louder and more quickly. At first the intervals between the sound are random but then it becomes so steady that I finally realize what I am hearing.

Rain is splattering against the gla.s.s panes of the doors. Rain. As with so much else, I know what it is without having any memory of ever experiencing it. That at least I can remedy. Without hesitation, I fling open the doors and step outside.

The stars are gone, replaced by dark, roiling clouds backlit by streaks of lightning. The columned overhang above the balcony protects me until the wind, mounting in the heart of the storm, slants the rain past it. Drops fall across my face, against my body, warm and delicious, smelling of a distant sea and a lush, moist land.

I catch their taste on the tip of my tongue and laugh, stretching out my arms, holding them high so that the rain sluices down my bare skin, streaming in rivulets toward my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. That quickly, the silk nightgown dampens. The fabric clings to my nipples, making me suddenly aware of them.

Hesitantly, driven by curiosity about my own body, I touch one, then the other, watching as they harden. The sensation is startling.

Scarcely breathing, I skim my hands over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, noticing that they feel heavier and fuller. My fingers drift slowly downward, finding the contours of my waist, the dip of my naval, the flat, suddenly quivering plane of my abdomen until they come to the juncture of my thighs. Pressing lightly, I'm surprised to feel through the fragile silk a hot, satiny wetness that owes nothing to the rain.

Emboldened by the darkness, swept up in the fury of the storm, I grip the fabric of my nightgown. Slowly, I begin to raise it, baring my ankles, my calves, a little higher, until just as I raise the gown above my knees, I freeze.

Ian is standing nearby, watching me.

My entire body blushes. Too late I realize that his room must be only a short distance from mine, a s.p.a.ce that narrows to inconsequence as he comes toward me. His chest is bare above black pajama bottoms that ride low, exposing the V of his hip muscles and his tight, washboard abdomen. As the rain blows over his broad shoulders and cut torso, his skin glistens darkly.

A few feet away from me, he stops. "I told you to go to bed." His voice is soft and almost detached.

I drop the gown so that it falls once again around my ankles and lift my head. Quelling my embarra.s.sment, I return his stare.

"That's something you tell a child."

Reluctantly, the corners of his mouth twitch. "Your point being that you aren't one?"

"I'd say that's obvious. Besides, I couldn't sleep."

"Why not?"

"I have no idea. Perhaps I'll find out tomorrow, if you choose to enlighten me."

He needs a moment to realize what the defiant edge in my voice, the tilt of my head, the straightness of my back and shoulders mean. When he does, the heat in his eyes sends a ripple of dark excitement through me.

"Sarcasm, Amelia? You truly are full of surprises."

He closes the distance between us until we are separated by mere inches. If I swayed toward him even a little, my nipples would rake his bare, sculpted chest.

Softly, he asks, "Do you really want to challenge me?"

Of course not! This is a man to placate and soothe, above all to please. But when I open my mouth that isn't what comes out.

Instead, I hear myself say, "I told you earlier, being compliant isn't in my nature."

His grin is wolfish. Before I can even think of drawing away, he brushes his knuckles down my cheek, along the line of my jaw and throat to the soft hollow at the base of my neck where he presses lightly.

My breath catches. His touch is both arousing and strangely comforting. He holds me spellbound.

"I think you have a lot to learn about yourself," he says.

Step by implacable step, he backs me against one of the columns along the outer edge of the balcony. The sudden hardness against my spine comes as a jolt. I have a flashing image of myself secured to the column, my hands raised high above my head, fastened with silken bounds.

Slowly, holding my eyes with his, Ian reaches for the golden pins that still hold the coiled diadem of my hair. He pulls them out one by one.

As he does, I watch the play of emotion across his face. He looks like a man in the grip of a compulsion as irresistible as what I myself am feeling, a ravenous wildfire of hunger for each other that threatens at any moment to rage out of control.

Having freed my braid, he wraps it around his hand and gives a tug, drawing me even closer to him. A low groan breaks from him as his mouth claims mine, sucking at my lower lip. I feel the sudden, sharp nip of his teeth before his tongue plunges into me, exploring, stroking, demanding.

Abruptly, my legs give way. I catch hold of his shoulders just in time to avoid sliding down the length of his body to his feet.

A shudder runs through him. I can feel how desperately he is fighting for control.

"Last chance, Amelia," he says against my mouth. "Go back inside now."

I'm beyond being able to speak. All I can do is shake my head.