“Oh, Marissa,” he whispered, the words barely coherent. He covered her hand with his and she felt him shaking.
“Can I touch you?” she said, but she was already doing so, unable to stop herself any longer. “I want to touch you, Valentine.”
“I’ll spend in your hand,” he groaned.
“Can I do that to you?” she said, eyes bright as she looked up at him. “I want you to lose control, Valentine.”
She saw the sudden flare of passion in his face. He caught her upper arms and dragged her against his chest, and his mouth came down hard on hers. He was kissing her as if he wanted to swallow her up, his tongue in her mouth, his lips covering hers. Her breasts were jammed against his chest, and the abrasion of his hair and her nipples made her squirm, gasping. Clasping her buttocks in his palms, he drew her hard against him, and she felt his cock settle in the niche between her thighs.
Marissa squeaked. Pleasure threatened to overflow, trembling on the brink, and she moved against him, the friction edging her toward the desired peak.
In their efforts to get closer he lifted her higher and she shifted the angle of her hips, and suddenly he slid inside the slick, tight sheath of her body. Surprise stopped them. Panting, Valentine looked down into her eyes, his own startled. She licked her lips and pushed against him, feeling him enter her another inch, filling her in a way that was new and exciting.
“Marissa, I can’t,” he groaned. “I won’t take your virginity.”
“I want you to,” she said quietly. Reaching down, she clasped her hand about the root of him. “And you want to. Please, Valentine. If it is what we both want…”
He bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth, drawing on it while Marissa’s head fell back and she gasped. Her body arched toward him, only her fingers clutching his shoulde
rs and his hands on her buttocks keeping her on her feet.
Such sweet pleasure. Couldn’t he see how perfect they were together? That it was meant to be? Marissa’s thoughts were barely lucid as his hand slid between her thighs, and his fingers dove into her slick core. She cried out as the climax took her, shuddering in his arms, beyond all thought now.
When at last she came to herself, he was sitting on the chair with her gathered into his arms, holding her close, his chin resting on top of her head.
“Valentine?” she managed.
“Hush.”
“No, I want you to—”
“I want to teach you about pleasure.”
“But I want you to be my lover!”
“I am your lover.”
“No, you’re not. Not completely. Not properly.”
She stood up on shaking legs, angry and tearful, and began to gather up her clothing, pulling it on as best she could. And all the while she spoke in a trembling, angry voice she hardly recognized.
“I don’t want you to protect me. I don’t need your protection when it comes to my virginity. It is mine to give and I give it to you. Don’t you see that? I’m not some silly young thing who doesn’t understand what she’s doing, I’ve never been that sort of woman. I make my own decisions, Valentine, and I want you to respect them.”
She reached the door and turned the key. Her hair was in her eyes but there was no time to tidy it. She thrust it back over her shoulder and stared back at him, where he remained in the chair, watching her, expressionless.
“I don’t understand,” she said, her lips trembling, and then she was outside, the door was closed, and she was hurrying through the silent house to her bedchamber, tears already pouring down her cheeks.
Chapter 17
Valentine stood alone in the darkness. The night air was meant to cool his blood—or so he’d hoped when he stepped out here into the inner courtyard—but so far there’d been little relief. Above him the sky was ablaze with stars and the scent of the night-perfumed plants in the walled garden threatened to make him swoon.
Or was that the memory of Marissa wanton in his arms?
His body began to throb again and he gritted his teeth. This was madness. He was suffering. And yet he could not seem to stop himself. Despite his doubts about his own capacity as a lover and a man—Vanessa’s legacy—he felt remade when he was with Marissa. The way she gazed at him, the way she made him feel, was like a healing draught.
And now he’d arranged matters so that he could keep her by his side, at least for the foreseeable future.
But he wasn’t healed completely—the scars were still there.