Page 128 of Once an Angel
Not just any man, her heart cried. Only him. He slid his tongue between her lips, taking her mouth in deep possessive strokes as he eased her back on the bed. She felt herself sliding irrevocably beneath the lean, hard planes of his body. His hands glided down her sides, grazing the swell of her breasts, the slender dip of her waist. His palms cupped her rear, molding her for his pleasure, the sheer dress a gossamer web between them.
Emily felt herself losing to the consummate seduction of this cool, practiced stranger. Losing everything she had fought so hard to win. Her pride. Her independence. Even the anger that had kept the world at bay until she had washed up into Justin's waiting arms. She had outwitted the sea, only to find herself drowning in a deeper pool. She had leaned over to find her reflection in its still, cool depths and been dragged into a whirling maelstrom of passion. If she couldn't kick her way to the surface, she knew she would die a thousand shuddering deaths beneath his artful touch.
She tugged her mouth away from his. She was crying in earnest now, small convulsive sobs that
wouldn't stop. "Please, Justin. Not like this. '
"Shhh," he whispered. He gently stroked her breast, soothing her puckered nipple beneath his thumb.
His other hand wandered lower. "That's it, darling, open your legs for me. You're so sweet, Em. So
sweet and hot . . . and wet."
Her sob broke on a moan.
Justin smothered it with his lips, further beyond her reach than she realized. He had intended only to frighten her, to teach her a lesson. To show her she couldn't persist in her madcap schemes without suffering the consequences.
He had expected resistance to his crude assault. But when her soft, trembling lips had parted beneath his, he had become more lost than she. The lesson was out of his hands now. A primal lust overpowered
him. He had wanted her for so long . . . forever, it seemed.
Maddened by the promise of heaven cupped in his palm, he pressed his fingers deep inside of her, shamelessly ravishing her quivering warmth.
It was then that he realized how still she was lying beneath him. He lifted his head. She lay shivering,
her eyes shut, tears sparkling like gilt on her lashes. Dear God, she was going to allow him to do it, he thought. To take her in the punishing heat of anger. Her abject surrender was so alien to her proud
nature that he felt something inside of him twist in anguish.
Was it any wonder she was confused? One minute he was berating her like a child, the next fondling
her like a whore. He hadn't the courage to treat her like a woman because that might mean losing her forever.
Blood pounded through his groin in a primal protest, but he knew to take her now would somehow be
as cruel or cruder than rape.
She kept her eyes pressed shut as he wrapped his cloak around her and lifted her. Her arms crept around his neck with a lingering trust that reopened a raw wound in his heart. As Justin strode through the parlor with his burden, Mrs. Rose's clientele fell into an awed hush. Emily burrowed her face into his chest and he eased a fold of the cloak over her, shielding her from their stares and whispers. The footmen hastily stepped out of his way. Not a soul dared protest as he carried her into the sheltering darkness of the night.
* * *
Penfeld, God bless his proper English soul, didn't utter a word of reproach when his wild-eyed master came pounding on his bedroom door near midnight.
"Please," Justin said, holding out a warm, sleepy bundle. "Take her. '
The dire consequences of his refusal were clearly implied in Justin's gaze. Penfeld adjusted his nightcap, set his chimneyed candle on his washstand, and gently removed Emily from his arms. A corner of the cloak fell back to reveal an angelic countenance, marred by grubby tear stains.
As they disappeared down the shadowy corridor, Penfeld waddling in his long nightshirt, Justin sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. When the valet returned after tucking Emily into her bed, Justin was gone and the wild, wistful strains of Chopin's "Fantaisie-Impromptu" were pouring through the silent house.
Justin slammed the chord home, ignoring the unharmoni-ous groan of the piano. His fingers tore over the keys, no longer content to coax or cajole. They plundered each note, driving the music into the air with the force of a blow. The fine bones in his hands ached. Sweat trickled from his temples. But still he played on, fighting to drown his own wild despair in the crashing magnificence of the music.
He had thrown open a window, hoping the icy air might cool his fevered senses. The night was moonless. A single candle flickered on top of the piano, bathing him in a pool of fragile light. His battered fingers struck yet another blow, clumsy in their thwarted passion. The many faces of the women he had seen in that long day floated past him. Once he might have been the sort of man who could drown his desires in the perfumed arms of a stranger, but instinct warned him he needed far more than a shuddering spasm of relief to ease his longing for Emily. The music thundered to a crescendo. The shadows danced around him in macabre relief. In that half-beat of peace between one note and the next, he heard it—the faintest whisper of a sigh.
He was not alone.
His hands froze above the keys. Who in this household would be mad enough to approach him now?
The candle guttered in a gust of wind, and the shadows closed in with the silence. The harsh rasp of his breathing was the only sound.
