‘Now,’ he demanded softly. ‘Tell me that you know who I am. Say my name.’
The soft words rippled against her ear, as innocent as a wave caressing the beach, but waves could be dangerous, treacherous, and Sara felt her body tremble in apprehension as it recognised the willpower cloaked by the gentle whisper.
She found she was swallowing, her throat tight with nerves, tight and dry, far too dry for her to say anything.
‘Say it. Say my name.’
He wasn’t even watching her now; instead his attention seemed to have strayed to her body, his voice deceptively light and expressionless. His hand moved, making the nerve endings under her skin pulse and flutter.
Drawn against her will to watch what he was doing, Sara saw his hand stroke from her stomach up to her breast.
Hot colour sprang into her cheeks as she saw the way her nipples hardened in exultant anticipation of his touch.
‘Your body wants me, doesn’t it, Sara? He never possesed it, never taught it the pleasure of which it was capable. You want me.’
She had intended to deny it, to fight him every inch of the way, so whose was this voice that ached and cracked with longing?
‘Yes… Yes…’
His hand had reached her breast now, sliding warmly beneath it, cupping it so that she could feel the faint callouses against her more tender skin. He moved, dipping his head, and her whole body quivered in anticipation of the sensation of his mouth against her breast.
Little shock waves of mingled arousal and frustration exploded through her as he murmured, a breath away from her skin, ‘Yes, who, Sara?’
Like Shylock, he wanted to extract every last ounce of retribution, to wring from her payment in full for letting him think she had pretended he was Rick.
And the longer she withheld his victory from him, the more he would make her pay. Every second that ticked past accrued interest on the debt, and she shivered again. Not in desire this time, but in despair, sensing the abyss opening up in front of her. To admit that it was Jonas who aroused her body, who made her ache and cry out for fulfilment, was to lay herself open to unimaginable pain, but if she refused, if she pretended she was not in the least affected by the warm pressure of his hand against her breast, or by the promise implied by the proximity of his mouth and its moist heat, then he would go on and on, until she was forced to concede.
Surely it was better to give in now, while she still had some last remnants of self-control, when she could get away with admitting merely that sexually she found him desirable? If she withheld that admission, who knew what she might be driven to betray to him in the intense paroxysm of pleasure she knew all too well he could drive her to?
And yet one part of her wanted that from him, wanted him to make slow and languorous love to her until both of them melted in the fierce heat of culmination, until neither of
them had the willpower to resist the force they had built together.
Sanity urged the former course. Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, she whispered huskily, ‘Yes, Jonas.’
She went limp with relief as his hand left her breast, and yet part of her ached for him to go on touching her. He moved, rolling his weight off her body, but as she made to scramble away his arms came round her, securing her against him, taking her with him as he moved so that she lay sprawled on top of him, chest to chest, unable to even take a breath without becoming excruciatingly aware of him.
‘What are you doing? You got what you wanted.’
Panic made her voice high and tremulous, the deep sound of the laughter rocking his chest making her tense, her eyes widening on his face.
‘I’m not as easily satisfied as your precious Rick,’ he told her mockingly. ‘That was just a small foretaste of what I want from you, my lovely.’
She saw then that he had just been playing with her, that nothing less than her total subjugation would satisfy the blow she had struck his ego, and she began to fight against his imprisoning arms, gasping out in panic as she felt them tighten round her, effortlessly constraining her, every frantic movement of her body serving only to enforce on her the masculinity of his.
He waited until she was breathing in harsh sobs of exhaustion before saying softly, ‘Now we’ll begin. Say after me, I want you, Jonas.’
The words stuck in her throat, held prisoner there not so much by fear but by the awful realisation of how true they were. She did want him; shamingly, shockingly so.
Logic and sanity were ignored now. Something more primitive ruled her senses. Her mouth locking in a hard line of denial, she turned her head away.
‘Cat got your tongue, has it? Maybe this will help.’
He moved, and she had to tense every muscle against the slow exploration of his mouth as it caressed her throat, its pressure subtly increasing until he reached the pulse at its base. The sensation of his mouth closing over it and sucking her skin in a rhythm that quickly matched the frantic throbbing of her vein made her go weak with longing, but she still refused to give in.
‘Well, if that didn’t appeal to you, perhaps you’d prefer this…’
Not appeal to her? Sara shuddered as his mouth left her throat. He knew exactly what he was doing to her; she had betrayed herself physically even if she had remained silent verbally.