She was already as fragile as a house of cards. One harsh breath of air and she felt as if she would come undone.
He had never refrained from telling her what he thought, never held back the force of his passion, or fury or anything.
Holding one edge of the towel over her breasts, she pressed it to her midriff, and suddenly realized he was within touching distance. A soft gasp fell from her mouth as he plucked the towel from her hand, threw it behind him. His long fingers clasped tight around her wrist, he pulled her forward until she landed against his chest, splashing his unbuttoned cotton shirt with drops of water.
Her fingers latched on to the soft fabric, her nipples tightening into needy little points. And then and only then did she realize the storm of fierce emotion that he was holding at bay with sheer will. It was in the way his fingers held her hips—pressing, possessing, branding instead of caressing, in the way he pushed the rigid length of his arousal into her belly, in the way he shivered, as if it cost him every ounce of control not to snap.
Her legs trembling under her, she gazed up at his face and an answering shudder went through her. He looked gloriously angry, every inch of his angular face taking on a forbidden cast.
And still, she was not afraid; still, she did not ask him to release her as every rational instinct in her was urging her to; still she did not try to pull herself from his grasp. Instead, she listened to the primitive one, the one that had roared with anger and ache that long-ago day when she had met the doctor in New York, the one who she had shut away behind a cage of practicality and duty with the chains of her will.
It made her stand her ground, it made her clasp his cheek in a brazen challenge.
He inhaled in a long-drawn breath. His thumb moved over her cheek, her jaw, before settling on her lower lip. If she had felt the anger simmering in his eyes, just before his thumb pressed against her bottom lip, she didn’t know. She could only feel the little shivers spewing into life all over her, could only feel her breasts getting heavier, a rush of wetness gathering at her sex.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders as he continued to trace the shape of her lip, pushed his thumb inside her mouth. Heat bloomed low in her stomach and she sucked his finger into her mouth.
Instinct drove her and she pressed herself into him, the hard, pulsing weight of his erection leaving an imprint on her belly. Shock waves pulsed between her legs and she clutched hard with a moan.
She bent her head and licked the crook of his neck, pulled the scent of him deeper into her lungs until all she could feel was him. She wanted to say something, ask him what was wrong, comfort him if she could, and yet words would not come, as if her body was drowning under the avalanche of sensations, as if she was finally incapable of processing a thought, much less speaking it.
His hand around her waist, he suddenly moved and tugged her along with him. Anticipation and need burst into flames under her skin, heating her up as he positioned them in front of the huge marble vanity, facing the mirror.
The glitter from numerous gilded light fixtures above the mirror bathed them in golden light. She pulled another breath through her parched throat, and he shrugged his shirt off his shoulders.
She feasted her eyes on his chest, on the dark nipples, the hunger in her rising, her skin feverish with need. When he dropped his loose trousers and his erection grazed her buttocks, she gasped, as if she was drowning. Or maybe she was. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything, couldn’t think of anything except the thought of that rigid, velvet weight pushing inside her, filling all the empty places she had covered up.
Her breasts became heavy, her nipples turning into unbearable points of need at the luscious gleam in his eyes.
“Have you ever spoken the truth with me?”
His question shattered the silence and yet she couldn’t digest the weight of it as his finger drew maddening circles around her nipple. The anticipation coiling inside her lower belly was too much to bear, as if the cognitive part of her brain was struggling to react under so much sensory input.
She let out a long, keen moan as his fingers finally pinched her nipple. Tremors arrowed down, drenching her sex in wetness. Her spine arched into him, she grasped his wrists to keep his fingers on the tight buds, needing more, ready to beg for more.
But he didn’t comply and disappointment cut through her. With his hand at the base of her spine, he didn’t let her arch into him. His fingers moved restlessly over her breasts, touching, not touching her nipples, moved over to her stomach, never still, never touching her where she wanted to be touched. An anguished sob rose through her the moment she realized.
He was punishing her. This, tonight, it was not about making love. This was about the fury that was bursting inside him seeking an outlet. And not because he was denying her what she wanted.