The Midsummer Auction Part 4

He couldn't walk away from her. No matter how childish his motives were, she was a demon from his past that had to be exorcised. And there was only one way to do it. Tonight she would find out who he was, this man she had sold herself to and desperately wanted inside her, begged him to come inside her. All for the money. Would she draw the line at him? He doubted it, but she had slapped him last night, had lectured him like a schoolboy. He had been tempted to haul her back into the room by her hair, tell her who he was, and f.u.c.k her till she couldn't walk. Tonight he would remedy that oversight.

It was raining, coming down in thin, wintry sheets, the kind of rain he hated because it seemed to have no particular purpose except to annoy, delay, and cause accidents. The drive back took almost twice as long and did nothing to lighten the foul mood that had plagued him since last night. He parked his Aston Martin in the garage and let himself in, using his private entrance. Save for the dim glow of the sconces along the corridors, the house was in darkness. Hanging up his raincoat, he made his way to the drinks cabinet in his suite, picked up a gla.s.s and a bottle of brandy and took them over to the desk by the window. He stood at the window, looking out at the rain, drinking, and feeling the liquid curling down into his stomach, licking his gut like heated tongues.

He finished it off and poured himself another shot. He stared through the window, not seeing the rain now. Thoughts ran through his head about what would she say, about what would she do when she realized who he was? Was he really prepared to face her scorn or, more devastating still, her laughter that he should presume that his accidental social status made him her equal? There was only one way to find out. He tossed back the brandy and shut his eyes as it seared his throat and pooled in his belly like a lake of fire. Setting the empty gla.s.s down on the desk, he headed into the corridor and mounted the stairs to her room.

He opened her room door quietly and stood still just inside for a few moments so his eyes could adjust to the darkness. To his surprise the bed was empty. Then he saw her, standing by the window watching him. She had known that he would come, then.

He flicked the switch, flooding the room with light. She was wearing a longish tailored white shirt, b.u.t.toned up except for the two top b.u.t.tons. The sleeves were casually rolled up to just below her elbows, a masculine style that on her was contrarily and utterly feminine. Certainty that she was wearing nothing under it ran across his mind, and l.u.s.t whickered treacherously inside him. He reined it in. He was going to dictate the pace here.

He strode across the room and stood facing her. She flinched slightly and dropped her gaze. He reached out and tilted her chin with his hand. "Do you have any idea who I am? What do you see when you look at me?"

Her heart was pounding so erratically it felt like it would explode out of her chest. He would see right through her, see that despite her attempt to be in control that he unnerved her. He was so near and the shirt, which was supposed to cover her up, actually left her feeling naked.

Placing one hand on either side of the window frame he leaned over her and stared into her eyes. Her pupils were dilated, large and black and ringed with jade, and his c.o.c.k strained against his trousers at their unmistakable indication that she was s.e.xually aroused. Her lips were parted, and he fought down the nearly overpowering desire to crush them under his, aware that despite his determination to cling to the illusion of self-control, the last shred of his restraint was dissolving, leaking out through his pores. Knowing he was fighting a losing battle and that defeat was imminent, he forced himself to hold back, tensing every muscle in his body in a superhuman effort to stop his raging hormones from overpowering his mind and having their way with her.

She saw it in his eyes, the l.u.s.t that he could neither conceal nor control, and her own traitorous body responded, s.e.xual hunger roaring to life in her nether region and clamoring to be satisfied. She knew what was coming, and in spite of her bold decision to be take-it-or-leave-it, offhand, to act like a woman of the world, she wanted it and longed to feel his mouth there again, making her quiver. But not yet. Not yet. She was still smarting from last night.

"What I see?" she repeated. "I see a man who would starve for s.e.x if he didn't have a wallet." She flung the words at him.

To her surprise he threw his head back and laughed, a dry bark of a sound. "Do you know why I bought you?" he asked. "Because I can. It all comes down to pride of ownership. Have you any idea what that means?" He stroked the entire length of her left arm, up, and down, his hand finally coming to rest on her breast, cupping the soft mound under the fabric of her shirt. Her breathing grew shallow, sharp, and uneven. He resisted a mad desire to squeeze the juicy globes just for the pleasure of feeling them give under his touch like overripe mangos.

"It means that I like to own beautiful things," he continued, leaning into her and aware of the last pitifully slender thread of his self-control slipping away. "Beautiful things I have the right to touch, how I want, when I want, where I want." He ma.s.saged her nipple, rubbing them with the flat of his hand, feeling them stiffen. "Some of those things I simply want to fondle, feel them come alive when I touch them," he continued, smoothing his thumb repeatedly across the rubbery nub. His hair brushed her face, teasing her with its vibrant male scent as he bent his head and nipped her other nipple through the shirt. She gasped as a shard of exquisite pain furrowed through her. Convulsing with delicious agony she inadvertently measured her body along the length of his, only to recoil instantly at the heated intimacy of the connection.

He clenched his jaw against the stark l.u.s.t howling inside him as his hand strayed deliberately downward, caressing her belly. "Some things make me want to slide against them, feel their smooth wetness slipping past my skin," he went on. He bunched the shirt up to her navel and fingered her, stroking the wet center of her s.e.x, making her quiver with agonized pleasure.

"But do you know what my most precious possession is? I'll give you a hint. It's the warm cave in your belly where my c.o.c.k can't wait to be. But first my tongue wants to suck and lick that sweet little door to it between your legs, making it wet and ready for my c.o.c.k to slide inside and f.u.c.k you for hours and hours. And I'm territorial," he breathed hotly.

Pressing her against the windowsill he dropped to his knees, pushed her legs apart, and shoved his face into her very center, drinking her in like a thirsty traveler who has stumbled on an uncharted oasis in the middle of the desert. Gripping her b.u.t.tocks and haunches he gave himself up to completing the dark fantasy that had been eating away at him for the past twenty-four hours.

The unerring touch of his seeking mouth ripped a guttural cry from her throat. In response he pushed her leg higher till she was almost spread-eagled over him as he wedged his head between her legs and sent his tongue and nose burrowing inside her cleft to tease her nub. He was eating her up like a hungry lion at a fresh kill, delivering a ma.s.sive stimulation that targeted the sensitive nerve endings inside the perimeter of her s.e.x so acutely her groin seized, and she began to shake. She lost her balance, and she tilted, one leg dropping heavily across him. She grasped his hair to keep from tumbling down as a juggernaut of release rolled through her in a gigantic unending spasm, obliterating everything in its path, so powerful she was surely going to pa.s.s out, or die. Her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth, which had gone completely dry. From far away she could hear her own voice, disembodied and barely human, crying out in some primitive tongue as her body began to disintegrate, coming apart like the patchwork of auto gla.s.s in a head-on collision as liquid poured out of her s.e.x and onto his tongue like life-affirming tropical rain.

Her other leg buckled and she drooped like a sack over his back, robbed of all volition. He stood up with frenzied haste and with her practically slung over his shoulder, carried her to the bed, and dropped her in it. He fell on top of her, raining kisses on her eyelids, her face, her neck. She recovered quickly, feeling his c.o.c.k throbbing against her s.e.x, unchaining a mouth-watering friction that made her shiver as her pores opened to release the heat under her skin. She knew just one thing. She wanted this man inside her more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She shifted underneath him, rotating her hips under his and stimulating them both to a frenzy with the urgency of her need.

Hastily he shed his clothes, she tore off her shirt, and they were together at last, skin to skin. He buried his face against the hollow of her neck, sucking the tender skin into his mouth, burrowing his arms underneath her to align her body with his. She parted her legs, and he slipped between them as her arms tightened reflexively around him, currents of desire surging through her veins. He broke out in goose b.u.mps from the stimulating sweetness of his c.o.c.k riding between her folds and was powerless to pull away because no part of him wanted to leave her, and in any case, she wouldn't let him go.

"I'm going to come inside you," he warned jaggedly into her ear. He felt her nod in response and her arms tightened around him still more as he pushed urgently, eager to be all the way inside her, to be sheathed in her warm pa.s.sage. He heard her cry out. The sound was unmissable, and he stopped, momentarily confused. She tightened her grip, and his focus returned to his need to get inside her as he pushed until he had broken through her hymen.

With him deep inside her, filling her so completely, Nicola felt her pain melt away as though it had never existed. Pain forgotten, she began to thrust back in hedonistic response, every nerve ending humming as she heaved her hips up to receive and return each primal thrust, her soft inner thighs straining against his hard, muscled legs.

A silken heaviness descended on them, coc.o.o.ning them in its languorous embrace. There was no other reality but the melting sensation of him deep inside her as they succ.u.mbed to the spellbinding rhythm. His mouth claimed hers once more, eager to recapture the wet warm taste of her he could still feel on his tongue. Coherent thought deserted them both, leaving only some kind of primal understanding that they had been born for this.

Simultaneously, they began to bear down on each other until her insides contracted, wrapping him tightly in her protective sheath as she brought him to the brink of a soul-searing, urgent fulfillment. It was starting again inside her too, the melt-down that turned her into a helpless marionette, her body arching and bowing, her arms and legs jerking like sticks, her mouth watering and then drying up instantly, the inarticulate, achingly guttural moans of raw carnal ecstasy issuing from her parched throat. She stiffened reflexively and then shuddered as her o.r.g.a.s.m rolled through her like a rogue scavenger wave, gathering all her shredded and trembling nerve endings in an unending rippling s.e.xual orgy. Then the wave crashed down, racing to capture his spilling seed as they came together in a gut-wrenching, sweat-drenched climax.

For several minutes they lay inert, castaways washed up on sh.o.r.e after a violent storm. He recovered before she did and spent several minutes watching her. In repose, she had the face of a sensuous angel. Looking at her, who had just made him feel what no woman had ever made him feel, he knew he would never be able to just f.u.c.k her and walk away. He had tried to do that the first time and had failed miserably. No wonder, heading into his thirties, with his pick of women, he had never found one he wanted to marry. He felt older than his years, because of life, his life, and, because he had grown bored and cynical, had resorted to playing games, occasionally renting women for six months at a time to kill the emptiness inside him. And all this time, when he had forced his mind to erase the memory of her, his heart must have known she was somewhere out there.

The discovery that she was a virgin had stunned him momentarily, and he had become confused, wondering if he should stop. But then she made it clear she wanted him to go on. Now he was more deeply puzzled than ever. She was completely inexperienced, yet she had chosen to become a player in this high-stakes game. What possible reason could she have for doing this? He would find out why, and whatever the reason, she would have to stop. He simply wasn't having it. He was the beginning and the end of her line. He would make sure of that. He watched her, his mouth set in determination.

Nicola opened her eyes and found him staring down at her. He looked stern and her heart sank at the realization that she had done it again, become too aroused, too needy, had acted as though they were lovers, which he had made quite clear was absolutely not the case. Last night he had let her know that the only connection between them was s.e.x, s.e.x that he had paid for. She was ruining the game, ruining his fantasy. Well, she could fix that, because she couldn't afford to lose sight of her goal either. She swallowed to make sure her voice would work, because her throat felt all clogged up.

"If that will be all for tonight, I'd like to be alone now, if you don't mind. It's been a long day."

For a few seconds he continued to regard her in silence. The he rose from the bed. "'Til tomorrow night, then," he said before walking out, wickedly leaving all his clothes where they lay on the floor and her door wide open.

She watched him through half-closed eyes as he went out, taking him in. He was well proportioned with no unrealistic bulges. He wasn't a body builder. All the parts seemed to belong together, the nicely muscled shoulders, slim hips, well-developed legs, the firm hard b.u.t.t. She sensed he knew she was watching and was enjoying the idea of her watching his naked b.u.t.t as he walked away from her. Exhibitionist! And right then it hit her. He was sneakily mooning her, that's what he was doing. No way was he getting away with that!

She leapt out of the bed, sped around it, collected his trousers, shirt, and shoes, and balled them up as she rushed to the door. He was almost halfway up the corridor.

"Hey, you there," she called out.

He turned around questioningly.

"Put some clothes on," she yelled and hurled the ball of clothing down the corridor with manic strength. With the weight of the shoes giving it ballast, the bundle flew through the air and landed at his feet with a satisfying thunk. If she had put her back into it just a little more she would have got him square in the face, she thought regretfully. Too bad! As he stared down the corridor at her, she raised her hand and gave him the finger.

For an infinitesimal second their eyes locked and intuition told her it wasn't her nakedness he was studying. She knew exactly what he was thinking. I bet I could take her before she makes it back inside. And she wouldn't put it past him. With that thought she darted back inside, slammed the door and locked it. Just in case.

She stood there for a few seconds, grinning and savoring her victory until, unexpectedly, her mood changed, and she sagged against the door, weighed down by a kind of sadness, as though she had lost something precious and would never find it again.

Moments pa.s.sed. Then she straightened up. This wouldn't do at all. She had to focus, concentrate on what all this was for. A means to an end, that's all it is. She walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucets to fill the tub. When it was full she stepped in and eased herself down into the hot water. She felt a little sore down there, but she knew it would pa.s.s. She leaned back in the tub as her body acclimatized to the water temperature. In spite of the depression that was building inside, waiting to take over, she thought of what Lacey and Erica would say when she told them she had finally broken into the big leagues and a little smile tugged at her mouth. For some reason, despite what he must think of her, something inside her was secretly happy he had been the one. She hadn't been his first, that was pretty obvious, but he had been hers. She wondered whether he had even realized that.

Chapter Eleven.

She felt changed when she awoke. Nothing she could put her finger on but it was there. She got out of bed and went to the bathroom to examine herself in the mirror. As she expected, she looked the same on the outside. Only she knew that on the inside, she was forever changed.

Last night she had finally taken the big step, had discovered what it felt like to have a man inside her, hot and hard, turning her into jelly with each powerful thrust. But in her heart she knew the truth. He wasn't just any man. It was because this man had done it to her, had made her feel he belonged inside her, had the sole right to lick and suck her and then slide into her wetness to f.u.c.k her, to mix his fluids with hers. He had said he was territorial and had put his stamp on her, branded her as his woman. But only for the next six months. When she heard that little voice whisper in her head, the reflection in the mirror blurred suddenly. Quickly she bent over the sink and splashed some water on her face.

Her watch said it was just past eleven. She had slept right through breakfast, but she wasn't hungry. Perhaps a run would help her work up an appet.i.te, put everything into perspective. A quick look out the window confirmed that it was still raining, not heavy, more like a fine mist. No matter. She had packed a tracksuit and runners just in case, and her windbreaker would keep her dry. The thought of being outdoors lifted her spirits. This was her third day at Astonville Manor, and she hadn't so much as put her nose outside since she arrived.

As she crossed the foyer leading to the front door Hodgett materialized. She had half-expected him. He seemed to possess that uncanny butler ability to be everywhere at once, and she couldn't imagine anyone entering or leaving the manor without him being aware of it.

"Good morning, miss," he said brightly. "Going for a walk, then?"

"Just a short run. I'll probably be back in twenty minutes."

"Fine, miss. Just be careful out there. Follow the gravel road and you'll be all right. Once you lose sight of the manor it's easy to get yourself turned around. It's a bit chilly out and you don't want to be wandering about lost in this weather."

"Thank you, Hodgett. I'll run along the road for ten minutes or so then turn around and come right back the same way."

"Very good, miss. There'll be a nice hot brunch set out in the dining room for you," he said, opening the heavy door for her.

She was back in almost exactly twenty minutes. Going for a run had been a great idea. Far away from the hustle and bustle of traffic, Astonville Manor was buffered by acres of parkland in every direction, leaving the rain-washed air so pure that every breath she took was like an infusion of some sweet, cooling draught, whistling cleanly past her nostrils. The rush of oxygen induced a runner's high, and her brain responded, putting all thought on hold to focus solely on the physical demands she was making on her body. As a result, by the time she returned to the house, twenty minutes had elapsed during which she hadn't once thought about Anthony or the threat of losing her land.

Waving to Hodgett, who just happened to be walking by in the far corridor, she ran lightly up the staircase and down the hall to her room. It took about twenty minutes to shower and wash her hair. Refreshed and ravenous she made her way to the dining room.

Hodgett had laid out a veritable buffet-eggs, sausages, ham, bacon, beans, toast, buns, jams and jellies, fruit, tea, coffee, the works. Name it and it was there, enough to feed an army, and she felt completely up to soldiering on. As she filled her plate, she couldn't help but smile as a naughty little thought ran unbidden through her mind. Sir Anthony must want her to keep her strength up. And just like that, he was back inside her head, teasing images turning the little flicker in her groin-the one he had ignited that first night and that she instinctively knew would never be extinguished-into a steady flame once more.

Oh G.o.d! Was this what it was going to be like for the rest of her life? Constantly aching for his touch, hungering to be in his arms, suffocating from the heat eating her away inside?

A place had been laid for her at the head of the enormous dining-room table. Setting down her plate she pulled out the chair and sat, but instead of beginning to eat she propped her elbow on the table, her forehead resting in her hand. Her appet.i.te had vanished. Depression had rolled in without warning like a fog over the moors, and it was crushing her. This couldn't go on. There had to be another way out, one that didn't involve having her heart and soul ripped out of her every time he touched her. Soon, she would be nothing but a mindless thing, an instrument for him to play on, to bring to life at his will.

But there is no other way. This is your chance and you must take it, her mind whispered back insistently.

Taking a deep breath she lifted her head. She had to go on because losing her land simply wasn't an option. She had to be strong, do exactly what she had planned, which was to be careful not to make this personal and to lock down her emotions and get on with it. She would tell herself that as many times as she needed to. Her face resolute, she picked up her fork.

Half an hour later there was a soft knock on the door. She knew who it was.

"Everything all right, miss?" Hodgett asked as he entered. Without waiting for her reply he crossed the room to the sideboard and picked up the coffee pot. "More coffee?"

"Yes, thank you, Hodgett. Everything was lovely."

"You can take your coffee into the library, miss. There's a good selection of books."

"That's a great idea, Hodgett. Thank you."

Chapter Twelve.

She opened the door to the library and stepped inside. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the large oil on canvas over the fireplace on the far wall, and she experienced a familiar little rush of pleasure. The Hay Wain. Although he had chosen to make his home in Jamaica, her dad had been adamant that both his daughters be knowledgeable about English art and literature. As a young girl the paintings of John Constable had fascinated her endlessly and on one of their trips to England she insisted they had to visit the actual location on the banks of the River Stour, where Constable executed the initial sketch for the painting.

Impulsively, she walked across the room and stood for a few minutes behind the low settee in front of the Victorian fireplace, lost in the timeless landscape. Even now, she still had that feeling of being drawn into it, of belonging, almost as though she had lived there once upon a time.

She surveyed the rest of the room. It was a typical English reading room. The fireplace was flanked by two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were filled with books. There were corner windows next to each bookshelf, hung with heavy intricately patterned drapes held back by silken rope ties. Along the hunter green walls were intimate nooks for an undisturbed read or even an afternoon nap had been created, with works of art illuminated with picture lighting above, and comfortable armchairs with small tables nearby to hold reading lamps and cups of tea below..

In the center of the room was a good-sized antique wooden worktable with six chairs. Small piles of books lay in random heaps on the table along with a beautifully bound maroon leather and gold volume that stood alone. It was impossible to miss, and she knew immediately that he had intentionally placed it there.

Setting her cup of coffee on the table she drew out one of the chairs, sat down and opened it. It was a volume of The Thousand and One Nights. As a child she had read and thrilled to the ma.s.s-produced Tales of the Arabian Nights, in which Aladdin could summon a genie by rubbing a lamp and Ali Baba foiled and boiled the forty thieves in vats of oil. But what she was looking at now was clearly an original execution. The frontispiece was a beautiful ill.u.s.tration of a bare-breasted Scheherazade lying against King Shahriyar on his bed, beguiling him with never-ending tales so she could live to see another day. The lettering of the t.i.tle page was calligraphy of the highest order, bordered by exquisite ill.u.s.trations on all four sides.

Thumbing carefully through the pages, she could see the book contained stories that she would not have been allowed to read as a child, sensual stories that had either been deliberately expunged from the sanitized Tales or possibly not yet translated into English. Holding the book carefully she picked up her cup of coffee and walked over to one of the reading nooks. Comfortably settled, she opened the book and was soon lost in Scheherazade's fascinating world.

She awoke with a start. She must have dozed off. She felt rested but it was impossible to know when exactly she had fallen asleep. Her watch indicated it was four thirty. She stood up and carrying the book carefully, returned it to the table. She gazed down at it reflectively. Was this his way of letting her know that he enjoyed fantasies, her fantasies and that like Scheherazade, relating them to him night after night would keep the arrangement alive? She shook her head, unwilling to accept that. There was no need for him to be so manipulative to get such a straightforward message across. If he wanted a steady stream of fantasies, all he had to do was ask, for heaven's sake.

Somewhat impatiently, she turned to leave the room, slowing down a little for one more pleasurable look at The Hay Wain. As she did so an object on the low coffee table between the fireplace and the settee caught her eye. It looked like some kind of loose-leaf folio. Curious, she walked over to the settee, sat, and opened it. There were several sheets of old parchment paper inside the cover. The top sheet was inscribed with a couple of lines in illegible hieroglyphics. She turned the sheet over, and her heart thumped against her rib cage and began to race. It was a large sheet of paper folded into four squares, and each square contained a realistic reproduction of men and women dressed in oriental or Middle Eastern garb from days of yore. There was no doubt about what they were doing-ill.u.s.trating different positions for s.e.xual intercourse. A quick perusal told her there were about twenty such sheets. Leaving the folio flat open on the table she began thumbing through them one by one.

Gradually, as she absorbed the images, time and place seemed to fade, and it was as though she were suspended in time, enclosed in a bubble of s.e.xuality so heavy she could barely breathe. Her hand strayed under her dress, and unconsciously, she pulled away her panties so she could touch herself, little pants of air issuing from her mouth as her fingers connected with the slippery wetness. Her panties became an unnecessary restraint, and lifting her bottom off the couch she drew them off, leaned back into the settee, and propped her feet up on the coffee table. Within seconds she induced a shuddering o.r.g.a.s.m that turned her insides to mush. She collapsed against the settee, gasping audibly. Her heart was hammering, slowing gradually as her tremors began to recede like the series of aftershocks that follow an earthquake.

After a while she sat up, only to jump to her feet in dismay as the back of her thigh connected with a damp spot on the settee. Mortified and praying desperately that Hodgett wouldn't pick that exact moment to check in on her, she s.n.a.t.c.hed her panties off the floor and began using them like a sponge, blotting and rubbing the spot to try and get rid of it, or at least make it less obvious. c.o.c.king her head at different angles, she examined the spot anxiously. Was it so obvious, or was she only seeing it because she knew it was there? Oh well, there was nothing more she could do about it, she decided eventually.

She closed the folio and replaced it, she hoped, in its exact original position on the table. Carrying her cup in one hand and her balled up underwear in the other, she went to the door, opened it, and almost collided with Anthony.

"Oh, there you are," he exclaimed. "Hodgett told me you might be here. I asked him to take something to your room, and he said you hadn't answered his knock. He didn't want to disturb you in case you were having a nap. He said you were in the library earlier so I thought I'd better check on you myself."

"Yes, I was just going back to my room," Nicola mumbled, her heart still banging unpleasantly from the shock of opening the door and finding Anthony on the other side. She knew her face was flaming.

"Are you all right? I hope I didn't rattle you." His eyes raked her face.

"No, no. Not at all. I'm fine," she stuttered, her left hand creeping surrept.i.tiously behind her back. She tried to maneuver her way around him, but he shifted and blocked her.

"What's that you're hiding behind your back," he demanded, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Nothing," she replied, sounding absurdly childish.

"Oh really. Well if it's nothing, let me see," he demanded. Reaching around her, he seized her hand forcefully by the wrist and brought it around.

"Well, well," he exclaimed teasingly as he removed the panties from her nerveless fingers and shook them out. She lunged for them, but he was too quick and turned sideways, raising his hand in the air, taking them out of her reach.

Facing her directly again, he looked at her intently. "What have you been up to, Nicola?" His eyes held a gleam.

"None of your business," she retorted.

"I disagree," he countered, and before she realized what was happening, he had somehow backed her into the wall just outside the door.

"What are you doing? Get off me!" she ordered furiously. She kept her voice low. It would be embarra.s.sing if Hodgett overheard her telling off Sir Anthony.

Without answering, he buried his face in the side of her neck and gave her a love bite.

"That isn't all you want, is it? You want more, and I must confess, so do I. We'll fix that later," he whispered in her ear. "I've planned a special dinner for us tonight. Hodgett will serve it in the oriental room."

"The oriental room?" she gasped out. Her heart was still racing, her chest heaving in frustration.

"Yes. It's the room right next to yours. I thought it would make a nice change. We'll eat early, around six thirty," he said and began walking down the corridor.

"Are you planning on keeping my underwear as a souvenir?" she threw at his departing back resentfully.

He hesitated then faced her with a tantalizing smile. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."

Chapter Thirteen.