Anew: Awakened Part 3

A long quiver of antic.i.p.ation runs through me as he grips the neckline of my nightgown. With his eyes locked on mine, he slowly pulls the garment down to below my naval. My wrists are caught in the sleeves, trapped against my hips. I feel the rain cool against my back, sizzling away the heat pouring from me, from him, from us.

Looking down at my exposed flesh, he groans. "You are so beautiful."

Releasing my braid, he wraps his fingers around the base of my breast, his long fingers squeezing lightly, caressing, and lowers his head. I feel the rasp of his stubble against my skin in the moment before he sucks my nipple into his mouth, swipes his tongue over me--once, twice--and sucks again hard.

A cry of mingled shock and pleasure erupts from me. I grab hold of his hair with both hands and pull. He releases me but only for a moment. Covering my breast with his roughened palm, he circles it against the hypersensitive nipple as he takes the other into his mouth and subjects it to the same exquisite torment. I writhe against the column as all thought of trying to stop him vanishes.

Abruptly, he lifts his head. What I see in his eyes should frighten me but I'm beyond that, driven by need for this man that eclipses all else. My throat is so tight that only a whisper escapes me.

"Please..."

For a moment, I am terrified that he will not respond, that he only means to toy with me, proving his mastery and leaving me to suffer for defying him. But if any such thought has occurred to him, he is beyond acting on it. Instead, he makes a low, guttural sound and bends, tucking an arm under my knees and lifting me effortlessly.

A few quick strides and we are in the golden room. He kicks the doors closed behind us, carries me over to the bed and drops me flat on my back. Before I can draw breath, he comes down on top of me, kissing me deeply if swiftly, his mouth trailing from mine down my body until he is stopped by the nightgown bunched around my hips. Sliding his hands under me, squeezing the cheeks of my derriere, he pulls the gown the rest of the way off.

He is still wearing the pajama bottoms but even so the combined sensation of his skin against mine with his weight and strength controlling me is more than I can bear. Desperate for what I can barely glimpse, I struggle to move as my hands push against his shoulders.

"Please...Ian...please!"

I'm not resisting...exactly. But I need...something...to touch him...to have some control over what is happening to me...

Against my throat, he murmurs, "Another time, luscious, I'll give you free rein but not now."

Before I can more than dimly realize what he intends, he grasps my discarded nightgown and coils the fabric between his hands, pulling it taut. An instant later, my arms are stretched above my head, my wrists secured to a column of the bed.

The sudden crash of reality with the fantasy image I had minutes before on the balcony sends a surge of panic through me. I cry out at my own helplessness and begin to struggle in earnest.

But not for long. His breath warm against my skin, he murmurs, "Easy, just breathe, Amelia. Breathe."

Gasping, I try to do as he commands. He smiles at my effort. "Good girl, so good."

His approval sends another deep quiver of pleasure through me that persists as he spreads my legs, bending them at the knees so that I am suddenly open and fully exposed to him. I feel the heat of his scrutiny in this most intimate place before he lowers his head between my thighs, the rough silk of his cheeks nuzzling me.

He looks up and his eyes meet mine down the arc of my body.

"If you touch me, I'll lose it," he says, almost apologetically for what he is denying us both. His voice rasps against my skin. "Even so this time is going to be fast."

The broad flat of his tongue lashes out, lapping my most sensitive flesh from top to bottom again and again in long, firm strokes before the tip suddenly plunges, swirling into the source of the wetness coming from deep inside me. The pleasure is unbearable. I writhe under him, moaning frantically.

In moments, I am on the edge of something agonizing yet exquisite that I cannot resist and desperately need. It is so close, so very close-- I mewl in protest as he stops suddenly and slides up my body. Teasing the tip of my tongue with his, he says, "Taste yourself, beautiful. You are so d.a.m.n delicious."

I all but buck off the bed as a hot, slightly salty flavor fills me. His hands on my hips press me down again. My breath is coming in sobs. I'm afraid that I'm going to black out when his thumbs spread me and his tongue finds the swollen nub where suddenly all the nerve endings in my body seem to come together. At the same time, he plunges two fingers into me, pressing against a spot of exquisite sensitivity that I hadn't known existed. At that touch, I contract around him in a long, rippling sensation of pure, unleashed ecstasy.

Distantly, I hear myself scream. Hear Ian, as well, as he groans, "f.u.c.k, you are so hot!"

His weight suddenly lifts from me. I force my lids open even as muscles at my core continue to spasm. He is standing beside the bed, staring down at me, with a look of fierce triumph. Quickly, he strips off his pajama bottoms.

At the sight of him, I bite down hard enough on my lower lip to draw blood. He is a tall, broad man and it seems as though everything about him is similarly proportioned. I entertain a moment of doubt but it vanishes when he comes down on top of me again.

Feeling him along every inch of me without any remaining barriers is more than I can bear but he still isn't done tormenting me. Taking his length in hand, he draws it up and down along my cleft, the velvety tip rubbing over my swollen c.l.i.toris. The sensation is too intense. Tears flow from the corners of my eyes.

"I can't," I sob. "Not again!"

Abruptly, he reaches up and frees my wrists. His voice is gruffly tender as he says, "Yes, you can. Put your arms around my neck."

I obey and am rewarded by the sudden thrust of his c.o.c.k as every slick, hard inch fills and stretches me. The small flash of pain is gone as quickly as I perceive it. But Ian curses under his breath and goes still.

"No!" He can't stop, I won't let him. My hips arch upward, demanding, taking-- A harsh groan rips from him. He begins to move again, his fingers digging into my bottom, raising me to meet his thrusts. An incandescent flare of pleasure uncoils inside me where his shaft touches that ultra sensitive place to such effect that I instantly contract around him. My sudden acute response doesn't go unnoticed. He pulls out almost entirely but before I can find the breath to protest, he returns, giving me just a few inches at a time until...

As he thrusts against the same spot again, wild, animalistic sounds erupt from me. From above, I hear a very satisfied male voice.

"That's it, baby, come for me."

I am transformed into pure sensation. Thought, reason, doubt, even need vanish. Only ecstasy exists, growing and growing inside me until it crests at a peak of incandescent bliss beyond anything I have yet experienced. Ian's final thrusts and his own throbbing release hold me poised there until at last I am gone, hurtled into oblivion.

Chapter Five.

Amelia Sunlight streaming through the French doors, creeping across the ivory and vermilion rug, inching up from the foot of the bed wakes me. I open my eyes.

The storm has pa.s.sed but the air remains charged with the electrical scent of ozone. Without warning, my body stretches, toes curling toward the foot of the bed, arms reaching until my fingers brush the column where a few hours ago my wrists were tied. A slow smile overtakes me.

Oh, my.

Hard on it comes shock. Did we...did I? The echoes of pleasure deep within my body compete with a lingering soreness to provide the answer. I am riveted by the memory of pleasure so intense that it floods me both with yearning and a deep, terrifying sense that I have stepped into a world I am unprepared to deal with.

If Ian were there to gather me in his arms, stroke me, soothe me, everything might be all right. But I am alone. Slowly, I force myself to breathe, seeking a center of calm. I have no choice but to regain control. This is, after all, the morning when I have been promised answers.

With that in mind, I abandon the bed and head for the shower. I keep it cold and set the jets to a punishing hardness. The shock of icy water hitting along every inch of my body isn't enough to banish memories of the night before but it does hold them at a distance.

Out of the shower, I undo my braid, give my head a vigorous shake, take a few swipes with the brush and leave my hair loose. In the mirror, I can see the untamed waves falling midway down my back. They will have to do.

In the dressing room, I rummage through rows of garments for day and evening, each more gorgeous than the last, before finding what feels right. Minutes later, I'm pulling on the ankle-high leather boots I've picked to go with soft pleated chamois pants and a tailored natural cotton shirt.

I've deliberately chosen an outfit that I think is plain and practical for what I expect to be a serious discussion. But a glance in the dressing room mirror makes me reconsider.

The pants hug the curve of my derriere and make my legs look even longer than they are. The dark leather belt emphasizes my narrow waist while the cotton shirt reveals more of the shape of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s than I'd realized when it was still on the hanger.

I shake my head, reminding myself that I really must find out who chose the contents of the dressing room and for that matter, everything in the golden room.

I'm bending down to fasten my boots when I notice a small gold plaque set into the wall near me, positioned so discreetly as to be concealed from any casual observer. It strikes me as a strange place to put such a thing. Peering closer, I make out a single line of elegant, cursive script etched into the gold: "The Cabinet of Secret Delights".

How odd. The dressing room is filled with built-in racks, drawers, and shelves but I don't see anything that could be called a cabinet. For anyone who enjoys beautiful clothes, and I've discovered that I do, the room contains many delights but 'secret'? That doesn't seem to fit.

Puzzled, I examine the plaque more closely. Where the words end is a small depression in the shape of a thumb pad. Tentatively, expecting nothing, I touch mine to the soft, gleaming metal. At once, I hear the whir of a scanner followed by a muted click. The wall I am facing swings open a few inches. Intrigued, I move closer and peer into a crack of light.

My eyes need a moment to adjust but when they do I gasp. I am looking into a room smaller than the golden bedroom behind me but not by much. Windowless, it is softly lit by recessed lighting in the ceiling and walls that must have come on when I touched the plaque. Overcome by curiosity, I ease the wall open a few more inches, wide enough for me to slip through.

My first impression is that the room is a study in beauty and opulence. Its size is magnified by the gilded mirrors hanging in ornately carved gold frames that cover almost all the walls from top to bottom. A soaring ceiling rises to the dome at its center. The floor is covered by a finely woven carpet in shades of hunter green, ivory, and ox blood red.

The same colors are picked up by the ceiling mural that depicts...is that Zeus?...in pursuit of various nubile females. Successful pursuit, it appears, as the G.o.d is shown plunging his impressive endowment into a succession of startled beauties.

Carnality hangs thick in the air lightly scented by leather and sandalwood. My first thought is that this is a private retreat, intended as a place for study or contemplation. Then I notice the odd furnishings.

In the middle of the room stands a golden cage. It is perhaps six feet in diameter and at least half again as tall, constructed of roped wrought iron curled into scrollwork. I stare at the it for a long moment, wondering what possible purpose it could serve, before my eye is drawn on.

Nearby is a rectangular bench upholstered in ox blood leather and set on black wrought iron legs. Iron rings are positioned at intervals along the bench. Several other pieces in the room are done in the same colors and style. One looks like a saddle horse, the other is more puzzling. It's a chair of some sort but divided so that the legs of an occupant would be spread wide. What appear to be stirrups or restraints of some kind dangle from this strange apparatus.

At least two other items in the room are more recognizable. One is a gracefully elegant chaise lounge, carved and gilded in the style of the room, a voluptuous piece of furniture filled with curves and pillowed surfaces. The other is a large chair, really a throne, set at the far end of the room and positioned to observe all parts of it. Directly opposite this is a polished wooden X more than six feet high. Secured to the far wall, it is padded with leather and studded with more of the iron rings.

I take in all this within moments of entering the room. Almost as quickly my mind does what it did when I first stood beside the golden bed. A series of images, in equal measure shocking and arousing, unfold. The golden cage, the chains, the strange furnishings and apparatus ...

I am left in no doubt as to the purpose of this room or the nature of its secret delights'. Truly, it is a 'cabinet' in the old use of the term, a private place intended for a very specific, in this case erotic purpose.

As though any confirmation is needed, in a large armoire carved with images of satyrs and nymphs I find an array of implements hanging from pegged racks and laid out in fitted drawers. More disturbing than the sight of these objects is the fact that I understand their use.

By the time I've gone past the floggers and crops, the tapered steel b.u.t.t plugs in a range of sizes, the sets of smooth ben wa b.a.l.l.s, the nipple clamps of various designs, the cuffs, collars and the extendable metal bars I've seen more than enough.

With a last stunned glance all around, I retreat back to the dressing room. The concealed door slides closed behind me. Staring at it, I realize that it gives no hint of what lies on the other side.

Questions clamor through my mind. Who created the secret cabinet? Who knows of its existence? Does Ian? That last thought sends a furious wave of heat crashing through me.

Whatever its secrets, they will have to wait. I have other, now even more urgent questions for him.

Back in the golden room, I am about to open the door to the hall when my glance falls across the rumpled bed. In the sunlight from the balcony, a splatter of small bloodstains stands out darkly against the pale sheet.

My hand freezes as I remember the moment of Ian's penetration, the sound he made between a groan and a curse, and his sudden hesitation.

In the reflection of the tall mirror opposite the bed, I see myself. My eyes are dark pools of confusion that mirror my thoughts. I possess a seemingly extensive knowledge of s.e.x and sensuality, including some of their more extreme manifestations.

That being the case, under what possible set of circ.u.mstances could I have been a virgin until a few scant hours ago?

Since the moment I awoke, questions have filled my mind. Now for the first time, I wonder if I truly want the answers.

Chapter Six.

Ian "Just coffee, sir?" Hodgkin inquires. He's a model of imperturbability apart from his frown. We both know it's not my breakfast order that he's concerned about.

I nod. "Just coffee."

I've retreated to the library, one of the few rooms on the main floor of the palazzo that isn't light and airy. The darkness of the mahogany paneling and the shelves of old-style leather bound books suit my mood. Not for the first time I ask myself what the h.e.l.l happened.

In the garden after dinner, I came within a hair's breadth of throwing Amelia down on the bed in the pavilion and f.u.c.king her senseless. Instead, I pulled back, re-established control after a fashion, and sent her away. That would have been the end of it if I hadn't stepped out onto the G.o.dd.a.m.n balcony a few hours later.

The memory of her catching the rain on her tongue twists through me. Her innocent delight coupled with the sight of her hands sliding down her body-- I stifle a groan. Self-recrimination barely gets close to what I'm feeling. I crossed a line that should have been a wall around Amelia, protecting her. Who takes a woman who doesn't even know who she is, much less has any understanding of her circ.u.mstances?

A real b.a.s.t.a.r.d, that's who.

Why the h.e.l.l couldn't I have waited? Given her time to come to terms with what I have to tell her before anything else happened?

I thought I was better than that. I've fought to be better. The sight of her, the sound of her voice, her scent--I could have resisted all that. But her courage and spirit, her intelligence and the strength I sense in her are all another matter. So, too, is the dark pull of desire that I feel with her, different in every possible way from anything I've ever experienced before.

But then I've never been in a situation remotely like this. So far as I know, no one has been.

The stark truth is that I'm completely unprepared for the effect she has on me. All too vividly, I remember every moment with her, every touch, every sound, the way her skin tastes, how she arches her back when she comes, how her thighs tremble, everything. Including the fact that she was a virgin.

That's the most mind blowing part of all, something I should have antic.i.p.ated and would have if my head had been screwed on remotely straight. Instead-- I've steered clear of virgins my whole life only to find myself buried b.a.l.l.s deep in one for the most explosively satisfying f.u.c.k I've ever experienced.

Worse yet there was more to it than just incendiary s.e.x. The harsh fact is that taking Amelia the way I did has stirred something in me I thought was long buried. The raw, primal possessiveness mocks every enlightened view I could claim to have. I'm more than a little thrown by that.

"You're looking a bit peaked, sir," Hodgkin observes. "Are you sure you wouldn't like something in the way of a restorative? b.l.o.o.d.y Mary, perhaps? Swift kick to the posterior? I'd be happy to provide either."

He's got his hangdog face on, the one that I recognize from long experience means he's p.i.s.sed at me. I can't blame him. He's known me a dozen years, since I was sixteen, and he's seen a lot. Through it all, he's been loyal and stalwart.

I respect Hodgkin more than I respect almost any other man. Ordinarily, I'd take his disapproval as a sign that I need to rethink what I'm doing. But I'm too far gone for that.

"Just keep an eye out for her," I say. "She's got to wake up sometime."

He frowns. "As you wish, sir."

There's still time to get things back on track. A week ago, I was shocked and furious at what Susannah had done. Nothing about the situation appealed to me. On the contrary, I was deeply resentful of what she'd saddled me with.

Now all I can think of is how to make this work.

Every a.s.sumption I had about how to handle Amelia is gone. So apparently is most of my self control. My response to her leaves me nothing short of stunned.

I want her under me. I want to be in her. I want to hear her moan and feel her clench all around me. To that end, I need her to accept the reality of her situation. The sooner she does that, the sooner...

I'm pondering at some enjoyable length exactly what her acceptance will mean when Hodgkin returns with the coffee.

Setting the tray on my desk, he says, "I knocked at Miss Amelia's door, sir, but there was no response. However, I did hear the shower running."

Amelia naked, the water sluicing over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, into the cleft between her thighs, down her long, tapered legs... I clear my throat.