She scowled, her skin itching for his touch, a heavy, yearning weight in her belly. A braver woman would own her desire. Cowardice won out. “I have no choice.”
His eyes narrowed. “Yes, you do.”
Was he a monster or was he everything she’d always wanted? Her heart insisted that she couldn’t love him so much if he was truly evil.
“Devil take you, Leath,” she grated. “Do what you must.”
“Only if you agree.” His jaw was iron with determination. She knew him well enough to recognize that when he looked like that, she had no hope of prevailing.
Still, she could try. Very deliberately, she stroked his length. Even through his breeches, she felt his pulsing heat. She meant to claim some power in this battle—because for all the passion, it was a battle. She underestimated her reaction to the audacious ploy. Before she’d completed the leisurely caress, her knees threatened to buckle beneath her.
He caught her hand before she could repeat the action. “One small word, Eleanor.”
On a sob, she released the breath she’d held and sagged into him. She hooked her free hand around his neck and the softness of his hair against her fingers was her final undoing.
He didn’t feel like a monster. He felt like the man she loved. Her sigh was laden with tears. “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Relief punched the air from Leath’s lungs. Roughly he tore at the strings of her drawers until they sagged about her ankles. Eleanor stepped free as she fumbled clumsily with his breeches. He wasn’t in much better case as he brushed her hands away and unfastened the front fall.
A downward glance tinged her cheeks with pink, a reminder that she remained in so many ways an innocent. The tenderness that he experienced only with her surged, but he beat it back. Be damned if he’d be gentle. If she was so determined to believe him a heartless seducer, he’d seduce her heartlessly. Her suspicions made him want to howl with pain and rage.
The memory of the doubt in her eyes, eyes that had held such wonder the last time they’d been together, made him ruthless. He hitched her up, cupping her bare bottom in his palms. She gasped with surprise.
The gaze that met his was feverish with excitement. She clutched at his shoulders and laced her legs around his waist. “Leath?”
Last time, she’d called him James. It hadn’t missed his attention that she’d used his title all night. James would coax her to arousal, awaken her gently but thoroughly, make magic. Leath was a barbarian. Leath cared only for his own pleasure.
“Hold on tight,” he snapped, anger flaring as he recalled her accusations.
He turned, feeling the delightful tumble of her weight, and pressed her against the wall. He waited for her eyes to darken with fear, as they had when she’d tried to run. Instead he caught another unearthly blast of excitement and she wriggled down, almost taking him.
No, my lady, I’m in charge here.
He rubbed against her until she moaned with frustration and tore at his hair. How he’d love to keep torturing her. Except torturing her, he tortured himself.
“Damn you, Eleanor.” He thrust powerfully.
She was tight, so tight, but sleek as oiled satin. When he was sheathed to the hilt, she clung, crushed between the wall and his body. Every breath pushed her breasts against his chest. He held still, claiming her without words. Then remorseless, he moved in and out, forcing rhythmic gasps from her. Those husky little sounds punctuating his ferocious possession made him crazy.
Soon, far too soon if she hated him as she declared, the ripples began. On another guttural curse, he tightened his hips and pushed so deep that she lifted against the wall. Then he kissed her to muffle her cries of completion as he pumped into her. In an ecstasy of release, he flooded her.
As he slumped, she kissed him back just as ardently. Her arms tightened with a trace of what his needy heart read as care.
Triumph rang out. Then he looked down into her shocked face, saw her great eyes bruised with anguish, and a trace of blood on her reddened lips where he’d kissed her too hard.
Acrid shame at his wild abandon clenched his gut.
Roughly he pushed free, breaking the connection. He held her waist until she found her feet. He stepped back, wanting to appear controlled, but he couldn’t steady his hands as he fastened his breeches.
She watched without speaking, leaning against the wall and panting. He couldn’t read the expression in her eyes. They were dazed with sexual satisfaction, but the line of her voluptuous mouth hinted at tears.
Of course she wanted to cry. He’d treated her like a doxy. Right now, he couldn’t see that he was much improvement on his despicable uncle.
Her pale hair tumbled about her shoulders. She looked untouchable when she put it up, but when it fell about her shoulders in a silvery shawl, she always looked like a wanton. She made no attempt to cover her sweet white breasts with their proud raspberry crests. Renewed shame stabbed Leath as he noticed a bruise on one pale slope.
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