Brittle Bondage Page 12

  ‘Can you walk across the grass?’ Ben asked now, and because she was still bemused by the natural beauty of the setting Rachel didn’t think before nodding. It was only as she followed him across the spongy lawn that she remembered she was eager to get away from here. But having committed herself, she was obliged to go on, through a gateway in the hedge, and into the blossoming orchard.

  ‘Apples—pears—and these are plum trees,’ announced Ben threading his way between the maze of trunks. ‘There are cherry trees, as well——’ he grimaced ‘—somewhere. And there’s bushes of raspberries and blueberries in the vegetable garden. And a couple of greenhouses, which Mrs Morris’s husband looks after. He’s the gardener here, by the way. And her daughter helps out at dinner parties.’ He grinned. ‘It’s sort of like a family concern. The Morrises have probably been here longer than the Armstrongs.’

  Rachel kept her face straight with an effort. When he was being nice, the urge to respond to him was almost overpowering. It was with the utmost difficulty that she directed her gaze away from his lean, attractive features, and she wasn’t aware of any danger until his hand came to rest on the bark of the tree beside her head.

  She turned automatically, her shoulders coming up against the trunk behind her, and he moved to block her escape. His other arm made her his prisoner, and she realised how naive she had been to think he was trustworthy.

  ‘Don’t you think this is rather silly?’ she asked now, remembering her words had had more success than her physical strength. All right, there had always been Daisy or her mother in the background before. But for her to attempt to fight with him here was obviously doomed to failure.

  ‘I agree,’ he said, and for a moment she thought he was agreeing with her. ‘We shouldn’t be fighting, Rachel,’ he added, and his lips curved in mocking intent. ‘There are so many other, pleasurable things we could do. Like this, for example.’ He touched the honeycomb of her ear with his tongue. ‘I’ve always loved the taste of your skin.’

  Rachel breathed shallowly. ‘Shouldn’t that be a woman’s skin—any woman’s skin?’ she suggested pointedly, hanging on to her composure for grim life. ‘Elena’s, for example. How did Elena’s skin taste? Sweeter, I suppose. Well, she was much younger.’

  ‘I have no idea how Elena’s skin tastes,’ he replied, a scowl briefly marring the dark beauty of his features. ‘As I said then, and as I’ll say again now, I never touched Elena. I did offer to help her, however. Before she told you all those lies, of course.’

  ‘To help her!’ Rachel was scornful. Then, realising she was getting emotional again, she daringly took another tack. ‘What do you want, Ben?’ she demanded. ‘One last—screw—for old times’ sake? Well, go ahead. Why don’t you do it? If that’s what it takes to get you off my back, I guess I can stand the inconvenience.’ Ben’s lips tightened, and for a moment she thought her ploy had worked. No man, she assured herself, not even Ben, would want her on those terms. It had been an inspired move to challenge his masculinity. It was obviously the last thing he’d expected, and she felt a momentary swirl of relief. But only momentary …

  ‘You flatter me,’ he said suddenly, silkily, and removing his hand from where it rested on the bark, he stroked his knuckles down her cheek.

  His hand was cold, but where it brushed her cheek it left a trail of fire. Heat, hot and strong, surged into her face at its passing, and the urge to twist away from him was practically uncontrollable.

  But she stayed where she was, stiff and unresponsive, as he allowed his hand to trail along her jawline. She had to do this, she told herself, as his thumb brushed her lips and his finger touched the tender lobe of her ear. Unless she could convince him she meant what she said, she’d never be free.

  ‘Do you mean it?’ he asked softly, and Rachel’s attempt to swallow almost choked her.

  ‘I—yes. Of course I mean it,’ she got out at last, even though this was not going quite the way she’d imagined. Some other insult was called for, and she struggled to find the words. ‘If you’re so desperate for someone to have sex with.’

  ‘Right.’ Ben’s mouth flattened. ‘Unbutton your blouse.’

  Rachel gagged. ‘I beg your——’

  ‘I said, unbutton your blouse.’

  ‘I know what you said, damn you.’ Rachel pushed her shoulders back against the hard wood. ‘But—you don’t mean it.’

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said you did,’ he reminded her, and her knees went weak.

  ‘I know, but——’

  Rachel broke off abruptly. Of course, she thought fiercely, this was just another attempt to provoke her. He didn’t really intend going through with it. Particularly not here, in the Armstrongs’ orchard.

  Moistening her lips, she started again. ‘I didn’t imagine you meant here,’ she declared, proud that there was practically no tremor in her voice, in spite of her inward panic.

  ‘Where, then?’ For a moment she couldn’t think what he meant. ‘Your house? I doubt your mother would approve. My hotel? Aren’t you afraid your farmer might find out?’

  Rachel managed to get the saliva past the constriction in her throat. ‘Somewhere else,’ she said wildly, already planning never to let herself get into such a position again. She wasn’t as dispassionate as she’d thought. And she certainly doubted her ability to convince him.

  ‘Not possible,’ he intoned, running one finger under the collar of her blouse, and somehow managing to dislodge the top button. ‘Open your blouse, Rachel. We haven’t got all night. Much as the knowledge pains me, there’s a limit to how long we can comfortably stay in the garden.’

  ‘Before Mrs Morris comes looking for us, you mean?’ Rachel asked eagerly, wondering what her chances were of distracting him for a while.

  ‘Before we get chilled to the bone,’ Ben amended smoothly. ‘Come on. What are you waiting for? I can see you still wear a bra.’

  Rachel caught her breath. ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Hey.’ Ben looked aggrieved. ‘You started this. You can’t blame me now because I’m taking you up on it.’

  Rachel gazed at him with glittering eyes. ‘You don’t really want to do this.’

  ‘Oh, but I do.’ He was infuriatingly intent. ‘How was it you put it? One last—well—for old times’ sake? Yes. That seems fair. I like it.’ He took one of her cold hands and brought it resistingly to his lips. ‘Don’t keep me waiting. I may decide that once is not enough.’

  ‘I won’t do it.’ Rachel pulled her hand out of his grasp and pressed it against her midriff.

  ‘Oh, you will,’ he informed her softly. ‘It seems like the only way I can get to you. You don’t want to talk, and you won’t listen. So I’m driven to other methods.’

  ‘I’ll talk.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘I’ll listen then.’

  ‘Oh, Rachel, stop prevaricating. We both know you’re only stalling. You don’t mean a word you say.’

  ‘I do——’

  ‘Do it, Rachel. Don’t make me do it for you. I may just decide to rip the buttons off, and how would you explain that to Mrs Morris?’

  ‘You—pig!’ Rachel’s trembling fingers sought the placket of her blouse, and she slowly removed the buttons from their holes. ‘I’ll never forgive you for this. Never!’

  ‘Then I’ll just have to live with that, won’t I?’ he essayed huskily. ‘Oh, Rachel’ He drew an uneven breath as the creamy mounds of her upper breasts were revealed. ‘Unfasten the bra. Then let me look.’

  Rachel reached behind her, under her jacket and the now loosened blouse, and unhooked the bra. Her fingers were shaking so much, it took her several attempts to do it, and by the time she’d succeeded Ben’s hands were already peeling the white cotton out of the way.

  Then, with almost reverential care, he cupped the two globes in his hands, weighing them with evident satisfaction, rubbing his thumbs across the treacherously swollen tips.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said thickly, transferring h
is gaze to her flushed face, and Rachel wondered how long her legs would continue to support her. His abrasive thumbs were causing more than just a tingling in her upper body. Deep in her stomach, a smouldering ember of awareness was threatening to burst into flame.

  ‘Do you like this?’ he asked, brushing his lips against hers, before bending his head to take one straining nipple into his mouth. He laved the sensitive peak with his tongue, and then sucked on it strongly, causing that curl of awareness to shoot down to her toes.

  ‘I—no,’ she got out hoarsely, but she knew he knew she was lying. Already her hands itched to slide into his hair and bring his head closer to her body. Already her lips were parting, anticipating the wet invasion of his tongue.

  ‘Undress me,’ he said, lifting his head from her breasts, his lips moist from his hungry possession, and the resistance drained out of her. With his eyes on hers he brought her hands to his chest, and, although she’d sworn to herself she wouldn’t do this, her fingers fumbled to obey him.

  Jerking her eyes from his, she tried to concentrate on what her hands were doing to the exclusion of all else, but her gaze was instinctively drawn to the taut fabric of his trousers. His manhood thrust against his zip, and she hadn’t even tried to arouse him, she thought unsteadily. Dear God, what was she doing? She couldn’t allow this to go on.

  But the urge to touch him was growing stronger, and she dragged her eyes away before she gave in to the temptation. His unbuttoned shirt revealed his flat stomach, and the arrowing of hair that thickened below his navel. She remembered that distinctly—without the unmistakable evidence of his sex.

  Ben moved closer when his shirt was unfastened, and his fine chest hair was absurdly sensuous against the tender swell of her breasts. He rubbed himself against her, until the needs he was arousing threatened to overwhelm her, and then jammed his thigh between her legs as his mouth came down on hers.

  His kiss was hard, yet soft, aggressive, yet amazingly sensual, drawing a response from her she was incapable of holding back. With her skirt rucked up above her knees, and his thigh riding against the sensitive heart of her femininity she was powerless to resist him. His tongue in her mouth was playing a tantalising game of advance and retreat, and the fists she’d balled against his chest slid helplessly about his neck.

  Everything was tactile, from the heat his thigh was generating, to the virile softness of his hair. Its silky strands wound themselves about her fingers, and she abandoned any hope of deliverance. Digging her nails into his scalp, she held his lips to hers, opening her mouth wide to the power of his possession.

  ‘You do like it,’ he whispered tormentingly, when the need for air forced him to pant unsteadily into the hollow of her shoulder. ‘Oh, God, do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?’

  Rachel thought perhaps she did, if it was anything like what his mouth and hands and leg were doing to her. And when she felt his hand against the back of her thigh, pushing her skirt even higher, she was fairly positive.

  ‘Suspenders,’ he said unsteadily, not without some satisfaction, when he discovered the bare skin her stocking-tops exposed. His fingers moved possessively to the moist junction of her thighs, and he uttered a shaky laugh. ‘Oh, God, baby, you’re ready for me. Your panties are wet!’

  She should have been embarrassed, but she wasn’t. When his fingers slid into the moist cleft he had prepared for them, she couldn’t stop herself from arching against him. Sensation, like an ever-expanding circle, was spreading out from that sensitive core. When he rubbed his fingers against the slick nub, the excitement was all-enveloping, and when he lifted her leg and wrapped it around him, her senses swam dizzily to the edge.

  ‘One minute, just one minute,’ he muttered unevenly, his own fingers fumbling now as he sought to release his belt. The buckle jammed and he swore softly, but eventually he succeeded in his task.

  ‘Let me,’ said Rachel, in a voice she hardly recognised as her own. Brushing his hands aside, she eased the zip carefully down its length, and then caught her breath convulsively when his sex spilled into her hands.

  ‘No underwear,’ she said almost matter-of-factly, but Ben only pressed himself against her.

  ‘No time,’ he said unsteadily, delivering hot, drugging kisses to her mouth. ‘You do it,’ he added, tearing her panties in his haste to get inside her, and with infinite care, she brought him to her sheath.

  Amazingly, it was like the first time they ever made love. Three years since the separation—and much longer than that since Ben had possessed her body as well as her soul—his invasion was initially that: an invasion. She was still tense, in spite of her body’s readiness for him, and when Ben eased his way inside her he sensed her instinctive resistance.

  But it didn’t last. Their need for one another was overwhelming, and when he crushed her back against the trunk of the tree behind her, she wrapped both legs about him.

  And it was good, so good. Fast, and hot, and sensual, but so wonderfully satisfying that Rachel couldn’t help the breathless cries that sprang from her lips. He was big and strong, powerfully muscled, but so smoothly formed that his skin slid slickly into hers. And he filled her completely, stretching the space that had been empty for so long, causing her muscles to expand, then clench tightly around him.

  He tried to be gentle, but it wasn’t enough, and pretty soon he was thrusting heavily against her. And she didn’t care. She welcomed his hunger. She was hungry, too. And in any case, her senses were already spinning far beyond her control.

  It was soon over. The shuddering, shattering climax that enveloped her was matched by Ben’s own groan of release. She felt his seed, felt its warmth spreading inside her, and the after-shocks of his lovemaking lingered sweetly in her bones …

  CHAPTER TEN

  RACHEL lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She had been lying there for the better part of three hours, and she was no nearer going to sleep now than she had been when she climbed between the sheets.

  But how was she supposed to sleep? she wondered bitterly. How was she supposed to relax, when all she could think about was what she had done that afternoon? She wasn’t naturally a deceiver, and it sat badly with her that she had had to lie to Simon that evening. But if she’d told him what had happened he’d never have forgiven her.

  And who would blame him? she thought unhappily. Being unfaithful to the man you loved was just as damning, even if the man you had cheated with was technically still your husband. And, no matter how she tried to wriggle out of it, she had been as much to blame for Ben’s behaviour as he was. She’d invited him to do it. Whatever defensive motives she might attribute to the suggestion, she had put the idea in Ben’s head.

  Of course, it had probably been there already. She knew that. But without her co-operation it might never have been put into action. It didn’t matter that her intentions had been good, or that she’d never really believed he’d take her up on it. He had. And what was worse, she’d actively encouraged him to do it.

  Which was the real crux of the matter, she acknowledged, punching her pillow hard before turning on to her side. If Ben had taken advantage of her in the truest sense, she wouldn’t be lying here now, feeling as guilty as a rattlesnake. If he’d forced her to have sex with him, she might, she just might, have been able to justify her behaviour.

  But he hadn’t. Not really. Oh, he’d made her unbutton her blouse and her bra, and at that moment she had wanted to crucify him. But, after he touched her, after he bent his head and kissed her breasts, the will to resist him had left her.

  A shiver slid down her spine at the memory, and in spite of herself her fingers sought the sensitive tips of her breasts. They were still tender, and if she’d allowed Simon the same sexual freedom she’d allowed Ben he’d have seen it for himself. Her nipples were red and sore, and there were marks from Ben’s evening stubble on her skin.

  Bruises on her thighs, too, where he had gripped the tops of her legs as he drove himself into her. Her hand stra
yed lower, finding the muscles that still protested at the invasion. Between her legs, a pulse was racing, matching the rapid beating of her heart.

  She allowed her breath to escape in a shuddering sigh. Lord, what was she doing, lying here, thinking about a man who had probably betrayed her time and time again. Ben was just the same. He had always been good. The trouble was, she wasn’t the only woman to know it …

  He was probably gloating now, lying in bed—if he was in his own bed at the hotel—enjoying the satisfaction of knowing he had called her bluff. He must have known she’d lost control, known the moment when studied resistance became active participation. However determined she had been to show him she found his advances distasteful, ultimately he’d had the final victory. It was she who’d cried aloud at the sensations she was feeling, she who’d wept in silence at the beauty they had lost.

  Not that he’d said a lot as they walked back to the house. When she’d been expecting him to glory in her defeat, he’d made no reference at all to what had gone before. After adjusting his own clothes, he’d waited with his back turned for her to do the same. Then, they had walked back to the conservatory, just as if all they’d been doing was exploring the grounds. He’d been polite to Mrs Morris, and subdued on the journey home. And although Daisy had come dancing out to see him he’d refused her invitation to come in.

  Of course, Rachel had been grateful for his silence. Even if she was somewhat puzzled by his restraint. It might have been easier if he had said or done something to arouse her anger, she reflected now. She badly wanted to hate him, but as it was she just hated herself.

  She rolled on to her back. But what of it? she asked herself impatiently. What was she making such a fuss about? Dear God, all he’d done was have sex with her. If she’d been a little more generous with Simon, she might have found a better way to forget.