Читать книгу His Trophy Mistress - Daphne Clair - Страница 8

IT WAS a kiss that took her breath, her heart, her soul. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, except to lift her arms and cling, as if she were drowning in the wine-dark sea of desire and he was her only hope of survival.

The blood running through her veins sang his name, her skin was licked by fire, her limbs turned to liquid flame. The taste of him was an intoxication, the hard length of his body against hers a ravishment.

She opened her mouth to him and he took swift advantage of the invitation, making the kiss deeper, unashamedly sensual, a merciless invasion of her senses.

His hand pushed aside the front of her robe and settled on her breast, his thumb and forefinger finding the budding center, making her moan with ecstasy and arch herself against him, triumphant when she recognized the thrust of his arousal pressing at the apex of her thighs.

She brought one hand down to his bared chest in imitation of his caress, reveling in the heat and slight dampness of his skin against her palm, once as familiar to her as her own body.

Then his mouth left hers and his arms lowered, lifting her. She gasped, clutching at his shoulders, and his lips closed over her breast. With an inarticulate cry of pleasure, she let her head fall back. Dizzy and disoriented, she was wholly given over to sensation.

She hardly realized he had swung them round until his mouth momentarily left her and they fell together onto the bed. Before she’d drawn breath he impatiently untied the belt of her robe and bared her body to his hot, questing gaze. She stared back at him boldly as his hands traversed her from neck to knee, rediscovering the shape of her breasts, her hips, her thighs. There was color on his lean cheekbones, and his fingers were unsteady, his eyes heavy-lidded and glowing with desire. That look had always filled her with wonder—wonder that she could do this to him. That he wanted her so much.

One hand slipped between her thighs, and the other left her to undo his belt. He stroked her softly until she was wild with need, then stood for a few seconds to shuck the remainder of his clothing and sheath himself. Watching, she was briefly thankful that he’d thought of it, then he was beside her, taking her again into his arms, answering her frantic, silent plea to let her take him in, to experience the whole of him, and at last, without equivocation or delay, filling her with himself, driving her to the pinnacle and beyond, to that nameless place where past and present and future didn’t exist, but only the blinding, transcendental moment.

While the world drifted back into focus Paige resisted opening her eyes. Her cheek rested on Jager’s shoulder, and her legs were still tangled with his, his arm warm around her.

He moved, and she held her breath, afraid he would leave, but he only settled closer, enfolding her again. He kissed her closed eyelids, then feathered more tiny kisses along her cheek, and down her neck to her shoulder. She smiled, and he kissed her lips, long and tenderly, with an underlying hint of passion. Against her mouth, he murmured, “Tissues?”

Paige gave a little laugh, and reached without looking for the drawer of the bedside table.

Eventually she had to open her eyes. Jager was on his way to the bathroom, giving her a heart stopping view of his naked back, but in minutes he returned. She said sleepily, “Turn off the light.”

He detoured to do it, then came back to her, drawing her again into his arms and pulling a sheet over them both. “That was to dream of,” he said. “But too damn quick.”

His palm spanning her belly, he teased her navel with his thumb, while his lips wandered along her shoulder, nuzzling and nibbling. Her eyelids fluttered down, and a deliciously lethargic pleasure rippled all the way to her toes. As Jager’s hands and his mouth pleasured and tantalized, she moved her body subtly under his ministrations, allowing him better access there, hinting that some attention would be appreciated here.

He had always been good at this, she thought, a hint of sadness penetrating the dreamy aura he was creating. A silent tear trembled at the corner of her eye and coursed into her hair.

Jager found the salty track with his lips, and murmured, “What? Crying?”

“No,” she denied, not wanting to think about what had been or what might have been, or what might still be. She turned her head and met his lips with hers, aligned her body with his, thrust her knee between his thighs, to blot out the thoughts, the memories.

Jager responded with a surge of passion, and when she opened herself to him again and welcomed him with a sigh of satisfaction, he came to her as deeply and completely as before, but until the moment when he shuddered uncontrollably against her, a muffled sound tearing from his throat, there was gentleness in him this time, a tender concern in his touch.

Afterward he didn’t leave her side, holding her close in his arms until she drifted into an exhausted, velvety sleep. Her last thought was that he’d be gone by morning, and her heart gave a small throbbing ache at the prospect.

When she woke a weak morning sun was streaming though the window. Jager, fully dressed but without tie or jacket, leaned on the window frame, watching her.

“Oh, God!” She closed her eyes again, hoping he was a figment of her imagination. Or perhaps she was still dreaming.

“I didn’t think I looked that bad,” he said.

Paige opened her eyes again. He was fingering his chin, his eyes both wary and amused. He’d shaved, and his hair was damp and sleek. He must have used her bathroom, borrowed a razor, and she hadn’t heard a thing. “You’ve been here all night?” she said.

A dark brow rose. “You don’t remember? I’m disappointed. Shall I tell you what we did?”

“I know what we did!” Foolishly, she felt her cheeks burn. “I thought you’d leave before…now.”

“You mean before your parents find out I’m here.”

Paige clamped her lips. It was what she’d meant. No point in restating the obvious.

Vaguely she recalled hearing a car, the sounds of her parents’ return, but she wasn’t sure when. She’d been too engrossed in Jager, in the pleasure he was giving her, to even care.

She felt at a distinct disadvantage, lying naked in bed while he stood there patently at ease, his arms loosely folded. Clutching at the sheet for modesty, she sat up and looked around for something to put on.

Jager moved, a little awkwardly, stooping to pick up the toweling robe from the floor. “Is this what you want?”

“Thank you.” She had to drop the sheet to take it and pull it on, and he didn’t turn away.

Kicking away the bedclothes, she swung her feet to the floor, belting the robe. When she stood up he was close by, only a foot or two from the bed, his hands now thrust into the pockets of his trousers. “You should have told me if you wanted me to leave,” he said.

“Would you have?”

“What the lady wants, the lady gets.” The mockery in his voice reminded her that last night she’d wanted him—desperately, recklessly. Without any thought of consequences and repercussions.

Well, this was what she’d got. She looked at the clock. She could hear sounds of stirring in the house. There was little hope of spiriting Jager out without being seen. Being caught trying would be more embarrassing than fronting up about his presence.

Maybe reading her thoughts, he said, “I could climb out the window, but the neighbors might notice.”

Paige said stiffly, “If you wait until I’m dressed, we’ll go downstairs and I’ll explain we were involved in an accident and you were slightly injured so…as my sister’s room was free, you stayed overnight.”

Momentarily his jaw tightened. “And I’m supposed to go along with that?”

Her gaze fell away as she said, “I hope you will.”

“I don’t suppose they’ll swallow it.” He paused. “Will they tell your husband? Will you?”

Her eyes swung back to him, wide with shock.

“What sort of man is he?” Jager queried harshly. “If he hurts you…” His hands clenched into fists, and his expression turned dangerous.

Paige took a moment to orient herself. “Do you think I’d have slept with you if…?” Stopping short, she swallowed and took a deep, sustaining breath. “You have no idea,” she said, gathering dignity to herself like a shield, “what you’re talking about. My husband died six months ago.”

For once she saw Jager rocked off balance. His expression went totally blank, his cheeks almost colorless. The firm, stubborn chin jerked up as if he’d been hit, and his body seemed to go rigid.

Before he could pull himself together, she’d marched across the carpet into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

When she came out Jager had recovered his equilibrium, although he looked a trifle paler than usual. His eyes were shuttered, with the watchful, not-giving-anything-away look that he’d worn for much of the previous day. He had taken up a stance near the door to the passageway, his back to the frame, hands in his pockets.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked her.

Paige was opening a drawer to pull out undies. “I was trying to when we crashed. When I realized you didn’t know.” She went to the built-in wardrobe and opened the double doors. They made an effective screen as she blindly reached for a pair of jeans and hauled them on.

“You didn’t say anything last night…here.”

Paige found a sweater and pulled it over her head. What was she supposed to have done? Paused in the middle of that mind-blowing lovemaking and said, By the way, did you know my husband died?

She adjusted the sweater over her hips. “The subject didn’t come up.”

Stepping out of the screening doors, she closed them with a snap. When she went to the dressing table she could see Jager behind her and to one side. She picked up a hairbrush and flicked it cursorily over her hair. Last night she’d omitted the customary fifty strokes, but with him watching she wasn’t inclined to make up for it now.

“We might as well go down,” she said, replacing the brush.

“And get it over with?”

Paige shrugged, on her way to the door.

His hand on the knob, Jager said, “I should say I’m sorry about your husband.”

That was an odd way of putting it, but he looked sober, even genuinely sympathetic. She nodded. “Thank you.”

For a long moment he stood just looking at her, his gaze probing and perhaps puzzled. Then he opened the door and waited for her to precede him.

Their appearing together in the breakfast room caused a distinct shock to her parents, but on the face of it they seemed to accept Paige’s explanation. At the mention of an accident her mother was more concerned with any likely injuries than where—or how— Jager had spent the night. She peered at Paige’s face anxiously. “You might have been scarred!”

“I’m not,” Paige pointed out. “We were lucky.”

She invited Jager to sit at the table, and offered him toast and coffee. Her mother, after a minute or two, switched to hostess mode and asked if he’d like bacon and eggs.

“No, thanks,” he answered. “Coffee and toast is fine.”

Her father turned to Jager. “You hurt your leg?” he asked gruffly.

Jager had come down behind Paige and she hadn’t noticed anything wrong. She looked at him. Was it an act to back up her story?

“Nothing’s broken,” Jager answered her father, just as he’d told her. “I’m a bit stiff after last night.” He glanced at Paige, and she looked hastily away. “I seem to have muscles I never knew about.”

“What about you, Paige?” Henry asked. “Perhaps we should take you to a doctor just in case.”

“I’m all right. The impact was mostly on the driver’s side.”

Jager had made sure of that, turning the wheel as far as he could before the other car hit. Startled by the thought, she looked at him. “Were you trying to save me?”

He looked back at her for a moment, then shrugged. “I was trying to save us both. Instinct took over.”

An instinct that put him directly into the path of an oncoming car? Paige curled her hand around the cup of coffee she’d poured for herself. He’d have done it for anyone, she guessed. Any woman, at least. A natural male reaction maybe, latent even in twenty-first century man.

“I’m grateful anyway.”

Her mother said, “I’m sure we all are.”

Jager’s mouth twitched at the corners as he turned to Margaret. “Thank you, but I don’t need gratitude, Mrs. Camden.” His tone, although perfectly courteous, implied he didn’t need anything—not from her nor her husband. “And Paige has already shown hers.” His eyes sought her apprehensive gaze and he continued smoothly, “She patched up my wounds, such as they were, and insisted I stay the night.”