Knight's Mistress
Page 74

He knew, he always did. She shook her head and began untying the belt. Dominic had found her another quilted silk robe this morning, celadon green, warm. For winter, he’d said, wrapping it around her shoulders. It fitted perfectly, like the other one; she hadn’t asked why. She told herself she should ask, she shouldn’t so easily fall under his spell. But she didn’t do either. Instead, she freed the belt, slipped the robe from her shoulders and sat before him in only the sheer black silk bra.
‘I don’t know, Katherine,’ he softly murmured. ‘When you look like that – your ripe tits ready for nursing like you’re already knocked up – I’m not really sure I feel like giving you your birth control pill.’ The nursing bra left a portion of her breasts exposed. Her turgid nipples and rosy areolas were framed in sheer black silk, her breasts lifted high under the taut straps, the blatant display inspiring rash behaviour in a man who’d always viewed himself as an arch pragmatist. ‘If you were nursing my baby, you’d have to share those tits with me.’ Dominic’s voice was low, his gaze audacious, his cock rock hard and aching. ‘We’d have to put that in writing.’ He crooked one finger. ‘Come here.’ He pointed at a spot beside his chair. ‘We’ll discuss your birth control.’ Perhaps Katherine was right. Perhaps this was the ultimate control. He could possess her in the most primal, selfish way, make her pregnant, maybe even ignore the practicalities of his life and her and keep her. Make sure that he got his share of those tits.
She didn’t move, her body listening to him with a schizophrenic tension, and unreliable wildness, panting yes, yes, yes to all he wanted while her mind was screaming no!
‘You always hesitate, Katherine. I don’t understand,’ he sardonically murmured. ‘We both know you want to fuck. You can’t get enough. Are you tired of fucking me? Is that it?’
Every soft-spoken word jolted through her, every deliberate insolence was a controlled threat that aroused, inflamed, tantalized – made her think of what it felt like to fuck him, how he felt deep inside her, how he made her feel when she climaxed. She looked up, met his gaze, ‘No, I’m not tired of fucking you.’
He smiled. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. I could do you twenty-four seven if you’d let me.’
A very small smile in return. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ He tapped the blue plastic pod. ‘But we really should discuss this. Personally, I’m in some crazy baby zone. Come closer and convince me I’m wrong.’ It wasn’t all about sex, but what it was about eluded him. Perhaps it was buried too deep under the emotional debris of his life.
She came to her feet, drew in a small, shaky breath, urgent desire swelling inside her with a kind of primitive ferocity. Good judgement was flying out the window. ‘What if I’m in the same crazy zone?’
‘That could be dangerous,’ he murmured, turning his chair as she drew near. ‘One of us should be sane.’
She moved between his legs, leaned in, took his face between her hands and kissed him with tantalizing deference, offering herself to him. ‘You’re older,’ she said against his lips. ‘You be the sane one.’
‘Maybe we need a referee.’ He pulled her tight against his thighs as she stood upright, ignoring the devil-to-pay impasse, the danger, willing to take the risk. ‘Because I’m flipping out and thinking baby. Especially with your tits that close.’
‘This close?’ she whispered, bending.
His mouth closed around her nipple and they both felt the rush, the indescribable, spiking rush that always took them by surprise. The amazing pleasure that was new each time, staggering, electrifying.
Baffling, he thought. Lethal.
Awesome, she thought, and pushed against his mouth.
He sucked her until she was frantic, until he wasn’t far behind, until they were both breathing hard and he was wondering, sofa or chair? Would he actually make it to either one with his orgasm pushing him so hard?
She might have said something, although if she had, she had no recollection.
He wasn’t sure whether he heard it or thought it, but he suddenly spat out her nipple, sat back and grabbed the plastic pod from the table. Snapping the lid up with his thumb, he took out a pill and, with his heart ricocheting off his ribs, muttered, ‘Open up.’
When she did, he shoved the pill into her mouth, handed her his coffee cup. ‘Drink, swallow or I won’t fuck you.’
She drank instantly, so grateful for his intervention, tears sprang to her eyes.
‘Hey, hey, don’t cry.’ Taking the cup from her, he set it down, pulled her onto his lap and held her close, ‘I won’t let that happen again. It was my fault, not yours.’
‘Not all of it,’ she whispered, looking up, fear and desperation still glowing in her eyes. ‘I’m helpless to stop myself.’
‘We both are.’ He wiped away a single tear sliding down her cheek. ‘But I’m older,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s up to me to be the sane one. Right?’
‘OK.’
He laughed softly. ‘So if the crisis is big enough, you’ll fall in line.’
But she didn’t smile. She said gravely, ‘We can’t let that happen again.’
‘It won’t.’ But, he wondered what the hell he’d do tomorrow if the craziness didn’t go away. He thought about sending her home. Thought about not fucking her tomorrow, immediately nipped that particular train of thought in the bud.