Delectably Undone! Part 13

Belle surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. She stood in front of him to unhook her dress, recalling how much he had enjoyed watching her disrobe that first night. How much she had enjoyed it, too. Watching his excitement mount served to increase hers, she had learned. Provocatively, she paraded in front of him, casting silk and lace and cotton and ribbons aside. Naked, she reached up to loosen her hair, stretching her arms above her head to tauten the line of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, watching Ewan through half-closed lids with immense satisfaction. He was positively devouring her with his eyes. A curl of excitement knotted tight in her belly.

Ewan strained at the ribbons. Forced himself to relax.

Belle laughed for the pleasure of it. She climbed onto the bed between his legs. Leaning over him, she allowed her nipples to graze the skin of his abdomen. She shivered at the contact and stooped down to lick him, tracing the line of his rib cage with her tongue. Stopped to watch him.

His eyes darkened with desire. She felt him strain at the ribbons again. "Kiss me, Belle," he whispered huskily.

She shook her head. Leaning over him again, she traced a path with her tongue down his stomach, cradling his length between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, teasing him with her nipples, relishing the feel of their hardness against his silken skin. Down she licked; the inside of his thigh then the other, revelling in the heat and maleness of him, feeling herself tight and wet, aware of his breathing becoming harsh and quicker as she lingered on the crease at the top of his leg.

"Do you like being my prisoner, Ewan?" she asked, her mouth against his skin.

Silence.

Her finger fluttering along the length of him. Circling the tip. Her tongue now, repeating the action, licking her way up, lingering, circling. Ewan groaned.

"Tell me you surrender, Ewan," she whispered.

"No," he managed through gritted teeth, straining at the ribbons.

Belle licked again. More than anything she wanted his hands on her, his lips on her, but that way lay capitulation and she was not ready for that. Not yet. Daringly, she put her lips around him and sucked gently. Silence of a different sort. She sucked again. Breathing so rapid she thought he was in pain. Looked up. Saw his eyes fly open.

"Don't stop."

"Say it," she insisted.

Her lips on him again. He thought he would die with the pleasure. Now b.u.t.terfly kisses and fingers stroking, her lips again. Now looking at him, demanding. Ewan closed his eyes and looked away, praying she would have pity.

She remembered last night. She could do the same to him. She could have him without allowing him to have her. It was a powerfully erotic image. Ewan was looking at her. She could see the plea in his eyes, though he would not say it. She touched him with her fingers, stroking until she could feel the blood pulse, stopping as it did, glorying in the exquisite pain she could see etched on his face.

She put her lips around him again, drew him in as much as she could hold. Sucking purposefully now, feeling him engorged in her mouth, aware of him straining, breathing, saying her name, but caught up in her own powerful need to control him, feel him, and then he came, and finally she heard him, over and over again, saying the words, I surrender, but she didn't care anymore and it didn't feel like a victory; it simply felt right.

She lay on his stomach. She could feel his heart beating hard. She was conscious of her own arousal, and wondered what to do about it. She could make him tend to her as he had last night, but that was not what she wanted. She wanted him inside her. Cautiously, she touched him. Wondering.

A throaty chuckle. "Give me a moment."

She looked up. "Fighting back, Ewan?"

He shook his head. "Simply trying to do your bidding, but I need time to recover. If you untied me, it would help."

But she would not. And it did not take so very long after all.

Lowering herself onto him, shivering as she felt him enter her, satin smooth and hard in contrast to her soft and wet core. Slowly, she sheathed him until he filled her, and she held him without moving.

"Belle," Ewan said urgently. "Belle, untie me."

She shook her head. Even that tiny movement reverberated inside her.

Ewan strained at the ribbons holding him but to no avail. Belle moved again, up, down, slow, too slow, tilting herself forward on top of him, nipples grazing his chest. She was doing something else now, so that he was caught in a vicelike grip inside her. He felt the blood rushing. "Let me go, Belle."

Still she denied him, squirming on top of him, enjoying the friction, enjoying the power she had over him, enjoying the power she had over herself. She lifted herself up again, then down, then writhed.

She could feel herself unravelling. She leaned forward using her elbows for purchase and thrust again. Ewan pushed up to meet her. His eyes on hers, dark amber, watching her, waiting for her, she realised. Finally, she kissed him. Deeply. Pa.s.sionately. Her tongue hot in his mouth. She thrust, could hold it no longer, came around him, gripping his shoulders, like a complicated knot untying, and felt him climax almost at the same time, so that she was lost, unable to tell which was her and which was he as they fell, glided, and soared.

Little kisses nuzzling her back to consciousness... Abruptly, Belle sat up. Reluctantly, she pulled herself away. She untied him.

Ewan smiled at her lazily. "How does it feel to win?"

"How does it feel to lose?"

"Surprisingly good." He sat up, ma.s.saging his wrists.

To her embarra.s.sment, there were red wheals where the ribbons had been pulled too tight when he had strained against them. "I'm sorry," she said contritely. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He shrugged and pulled her down on top of him. "It's of no consequence."

His hands stroked her back, pulled her close, so close she could hear the thump of his heart. Her head fitted snugly onto his shoulder. How could three days have pa.s.sed so quickly? Why could not the night last longer? She was dreading daybreak.

"Belle, about tomorrow," Ewan said.

"There is no need to say anything," she mumbled into his chest, unwilling to hear any reminder of their terms or, G.o.d forbid, his thanks or his excuses. She would leave without betraying herself if it killed her.

a.s.suming they were in perfect accord, Ewan smiled contentedly. She was right. There was no need for words to frame something so fundamental. But he would say them all the same in the morning. Unconventional this courtship may have been, but it must be formally sealed. He slept deeply and dreamt of their future together. When he awoke she was gone.

Chapter Six.

"Why did you leave without so much as a word?"

Ewan pushed pa.s.sed the maidservant and slammed the door of the small parlour firmly behind them. He was clearly angry. It showed in the hard glitter of his eyes, in the rigid way he held himself, leaning against the door, muscles tensed as if waiting to pounce, holding her in a gimlet glare she dared not break.

Isabella shook her head helplessly.

"I thought things were understood between us," Ewan said harshly, pushing himself from the door and closing the distance to her with three long strides. "Last night, you said we need not say anything, I thought you realised-" He stopped abruptly, ran a hand over his unshaven jaw, up to his hair, copper and gold in wild disarray, in tune with his mood. "Isabella, have you any idea how I felt? I did not even know where you live."

She smiled nervously. "We did not get around to such common place information."

"No. What we shared was rather more fundamental," he said, taking her hand. "Luckily, the footman who summoned the hackney for you this morning has an excellent memory."

Hope flickered in her breast, but she could not yet turn it into belief. "We certainly reached a-a frankness in a very short acquaintance which few people achieve in a lifetime."

Navy blue eyes met amber. Each searching desperately for rea.s.surance. It was Ewan who spoke first.

"Two days and three nights that is all, yet I feel I know you. I feel you know me, too."

He was frowning, his mouth a tight line. It was a look which could have been frightening, so fierce it was, but she was not frightened. Uncertainty, need, too, were reflected there. She had never seen him look so anxious. Never heard that note in his voice, not even at the height of their pa.s.sion. She recognised it all. A reflection of herself.

But still she sought rea.s.surance. "You said last night we had no need for words."

"You thought I meant no regrets," he said, understanding slowly dawning.

She gave a ragged laugh. "I thought you were reminding me of our terms. That you had had enough of me. I could not bear to say goodbye."

A smile lurked at the corner of Ewan's mouth. "Goodbye! One word we will never say. No, it was not that. It was just-something so elemental as we share, it seemed to me sacrilege to speak it."

"Elemental," Isabella whispered. "That is how it felt."

"An irresistible force. We called it a battle, but it was more like an explosion, so powerful it was, that thing which brought us together." He pressed her hand between his, then. knelt at her feet. "We fought for control, when we should have simply surrendered. We are two halves of one being, Isabella. One creation far more powerful than its components. Do you not realise that?"

She knew only too well. "My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears," she quoted softly. "I know that I love you, Ewan, if that is what you mean."

"I look at you and see me. That, my lovely Isabella, is exactly what I mean," he said. "And though our wooing has been rather unconventional, that is what it was after all, a wooing. So I would beg you in the most conventional way to be my wife, for the most conventional of reasons, that I cannot live without you and my life would be empty without you."

She fell to the floor beside him, wrapping her arms around him. "And I must reply in the most conventional of ways that I will, I will, indeed I will."

"I love you, Isabella," he whispered into her ear. "A mere three days we have spent together, but we have been meant for each other since the beginning of time."

Finally, his lips met hers. Tongues tangling. Breath mingling. Hot, hard kisses. Arms entwined. Bodies pressed so tight together nothing could ever come between them.

A mere two hours they had been wed. They left on the morrow for the New World.

"You're shivering," Ewan said, running his hands down his wife's arms.

"I'm nervous," Isabella replied. "I know it's foolish, but I feel as if this is the first time."

"It is. Before, we indulged in love-making. Tonight we will be making love. I am as nervous as you are."

Shyly, she untied the fastening of her chemise and let it fall to the ground. She came towards him, white skin, black hair, blue eyes, pink mouth.

"Beautiful," Ewan whispered. "Beautiful Isabella." He ran his hands down the line of her spine to cup the curves of her bottom, pulling her close against him. "My wife. I love you."

"My husband," she whispered, rubbing herself sensuously against him. "I love you."

He kissed her, and his touch sent a jolt of fire through her. Ewan's hair clenched in her hand. Herself pushing, arching her hips into his, relishing the hardness of him against her. He lifted her onto the bed. Touching. Stroking. Licking. Sucking. Her mouth. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Down to the heat between her legs. She moaned his name. Began to fall. Then he was on top of her, kissing her, thrusting deep inside her as she climaxed, arching against him, feeling him spill into her at the same moment, kissing, clutching. Calling her name. Calling his name. Drifting weightless, dispersed like a thousand stars into a new sky.

One. They were one. That is how it ended. And that is how it began. In a new world.

THE SAMURAI'S FORBIDDEN TOUCH.

Ashley Radcliff.

Author Note.

Welcome to the opulent world of medieval j.a.pan, where wealth dictates power and social castes are absolute. Here, the land's untamed natural beauty stands in stark contrast to highly ritualized rules of courtship, and an elite few rule the impoverished ma.s.ses with sword and bow.

In this complex feudal realm blossoms a tenderhearted yet spirited poetess, Miku. Orphaned and alone, she dreams of a love that transcends the oppressive structure of her warlord uncle's luxurious, yet intolerably restrictive, country estate.

Though Miku's journey occurs in a distant land veiled by mystery and beauty, I believe you will find her hopes and dreams intimately familiar. And please join me for future adventures in other equally exotic, sensual locales!

To my Favorite,

who reminded me of all that I'd forgotten and showed me truths I hadn't yet discovered.

1183 AD. The windswept mountains of northern j.a.pan. The cultural renaissance of the Heian period is fading as regional n.o.bles, fattened on the abundance produced by impoverished peasants, ignore the growing power of their samurai, hired warriors bound by tradition.

Miku's breath caught when she realized it wasn't a breeze moving the translucent silk panels that hung across the wide veranda doorway, hiding her chaste beauty from her uncle's garden and the world beyond his opulent estate.

Seated at her low, black-lacquered writing table, she'd first a.s.sumed that the shadow moving across the silk kicho was merely a wayward cloud dancing in front of the late-afternoon sun. But then the tip of a man's long sword curved against the edge of the elaborately painted golden drapes, and her calligraphy brush hesitated above the scroll. After being banished to her quarters earlier in the day by her enraged uncle, Miku had expected another quiet day writing. But the blade's startling appearance implied something much less predictable-and potentially more dangerous.

Yet danger-as well as love-was something she had only experienced in her poetry. Far from the wanton lifestyle available in the Emperor's glittering court, the cloistered life of an unmarried country n.o.blewoman offered little diversion beyond parlor games. Little diversion for most women, that was.

Miku, however, unlocked her silken cage each day with her calligraphy brush, writing poetry that freed her mind and soul, if not her body. Poetry that stirred her imagination and gave flight to her fantasies. Poetry that her decidedly practical uncle never appreciated-an uncle who now dared to imprison her in her own home for what he called unforgivable breaches of etiquette. Just the thought of his self-righteous pettiness made her free spirit seethe in revolt.

Perhaps soon, maybe even tonight, her dream of a life untethered to the hollow pomp of petty n.o.bility-a life where she was free to be herself, and even appreciated for it-would be fulfilled. Until then, though, at least she had her brush and ink.

But the armed man now standing silently just inches from her was no dream-not even a nightmare.

Miku's mind raced as she contemplated the gauzy screen, her only shield. Her uncle had taken all his servants when he'd left earlier to meet a distinguished-and politically connected-man journeying from the capital city of Heian-kyo. Though he would return the next morning, she was nonetheless alone now as the afternoon shadows lengthened. Alone, except for the single samurai her uncle had left to protect her in his absence. Or to guard her, she thought with bitter indignation.

Her uncle controlled hundreds of va.s.sals who worked the wide rice fields surrounding the thick walls of her home. Though lacking the more sweeping national power given occasionally by the Emperor to Shogun warlords, her uncle nonetheless wielded significant local power. And like so many other regional lords, he even commanded a private army of samurai, powerful warriors sworn to do his bidding alone.

The thought of one of these common soldiers lurking so near her private chambers sent a surge of anger through Miku. She had expected the samurai to remain a respectful distance from her the rest of the evening, as he had all day-far enough away, in fact, for him not to notice her escape from the manor once darkness fell. But was he now so bold as to step on to her veranda, mere inches from her hidden form?

Miku's eyes fell to the scroll spread open across the lacquered table in front of her. The verse she was composing spoke of cherry blossoms, long considered the most beautiful yet most fragile flower. In her poem, however, one blossom remained open as the first winter snowfall began to drift down, the flower's unexpected resilience against the frost magnifying its pale beauty.

Though her heart thudded wildly, Miku's resolve solidified. How dare this coa.r.s.e warrior intrude upon her private sanctuary uninvited, regardless of any edict given by her manipulative uncle? All trepidation was now replaced by a sense of smoldering outrage at the armed man's presumptuous arrival.

"Speak now, or leave," she said firmly.