of sorts, though she didn’t know why she felt compelled to give it. Perhaps because they were both finally running out of disguises and balanced on the razor edge of truth.
His hand tightened around the bedpost. “In the gut.”
“Did he suffer?”
He released that white-knuckled grip. “Yes.” But then he was in the bed and silencing her questions with kisses.
Then she discovered why Senorita Dona Maria Bianca had begged that he be spared, for Jack Beaufort knew how to touch a woman. He knew when to be strong and when to be gentle, and he gave his knowledge as a generous gift this Christmastide.
And Justina found it was a gift she could not spurn. Her long-neglected body responded to him as a parched man might respond to a fountain of sweet water.
She hardly noticed when he stripped away her last trivial disguise, her shift. She made no complaint when he pushed back the covers to absorb her with his all-too-perceptive eyes, for it let her study him in turn. When he ran his hand over her body, she moved toward it like metal to a lodestone and only wanted to touch him as he touched her.
She didn’t, though. That would be too weakening. When his hands and mouth began again to play on her most sensitive spots, she sank into herself, observing with amazement the slow flowering of budding senses she had never known existed. . . .
But even as she inhaled at the wonder of her body, and reveled in its pleasuring, she fought to keep a part of her mind clear. She must not forget her purpose. If she understood this business between men and women at all, at some point he too would fall victim to sensation, and far more deeply than she.
When that happened, she would destroy him, despite this skillful pleasuring. She was more ruthless than Dona Maria.
She couldn’t help hoping, however, that her buds would flower before that moment came.
Then she realized that flowering and clearheaded vengeance just might be incompatible.
Without conscious intent, she was sliding her hand over his body—hard muscle and bone under silken skin. Though she knew she should stop, she couldn’t. What was worse, she longed to taste his salty sweat. She wriggled closer, then paused, tongue on skin, struggling to remember why she shouldn’t entirely surrender. . . .
She did remember.
As his hand slid again between her welcoming thighs she gathered her wits and studied him, desperately seeking signs of his dissolution. She saw only dark-eyed attentiveness, as if she were a delightful book under study.
“Shouldn’t you enter me now?” she asked, deliberately trying to break the spell.
His expression lightened to smiling. “Not yet. Not for a while yet. I’m enjoying this far too much.” His eyes brightened with mischief and his fingers moved so that she gasped.
She seized his wrist. “Where is the pleasure for you?” Her small hand still didn’t encircle him, however, and he twisted free without effort.
“It is pleasure to touch and taste you, Justina, and to see you move to my touch.” Skillfully, he made her move again. “But the real joy is wakening you to this. Truly,” he added with a grin, “it is better to give than to receive at Christmastide.”
Afraid she’d grin back, Justina turned her head away, but he captured it and turned her back to face him as his fingers worked magic. “Look at me, Justina. Please.”
Look at him.
Yes.
How could she tell when he was vulnerable if she did not watch him?
But in the end she did not watch him. Instead, she became lost in him, lost in those dark eyes that seemed to see within her and understand all the newfound mysteries.
With an artist’s skill, he stripped away layer after layer of restraint, coaxing her past every hesitation, pushing her over each barrier, until the Justina entwined panting around him was a new creature entirely, a stranger to herself and to the world.
And then the world itself was gone.
And at the last moment, a tiny protesting part of her
His hand tightened around the bedpost. “In the gut.”
“Did he suffer?”
He released that white-knuckled grip. “Yes.” But then he was in the bed and silencing her questions with kisses.
Then she discovered why Senorita Dona Maria Bianca had begged that he be spared, for Jack Beaufort knew how to touch a woman. He knew when to be strong and when to be gentle, and he gave his knowledge as a generous gift this Christmastide.
And Justina found it was a gift she could not spurn. Her long-neglected body responded to him as a parched man might respond to a fountain of sweet water.
She hardly noticed when he stripped away her last trivial disguise, her shift. She made no complaint when he pushed back the covers to absorb her with his all-too-perceptive eyes, for it let her study him in turn. When he ran his hand over her body, she moved toward it like metal to a lodestone and only wanted to touch him as he touched her.
She didn’t, though. That would be too weakening. When his hands and mouth began again to play on her most sensitive spots, she sank into herself, observing with amazement the slow flowering of budding senses she had never known existed. . . .
But even as she inhaled at the wonder of her body, and reveled in its pleasuring, she fought to keep a part of her mind clear. She must not forget her purpose. If she understood this business between men and women at all, at some point he too would fall victim to sensation, and far more deeply than she.
When that happened, she would destroy him, despite this skillful pleasuring. She was more ruthless than Dona Maria.
She couldn’t help hoping, however, that her buds would flower before that moment came.
Then she realized that flowering and clearheaded vengeance just might be incompatible.
Without conscious intent, she was sliding her hand over his body—hard muscle and bone under silken skin. Though she knew she should stop, she couldn’t. What was worse, she longed to taste his salty sweat. She wriggled closer, then paused, tongue on skin, struggling to remember why she shouldn’t entirely surrender. . . .
She did remember.
As his hand slid again between her welcoming thighs she gathered her wits and studied him, desperately seeking signs of his dissolution. She saw only dark-eyed attentiveness, as if she were a delightful book under study.
“Shouldn’t you enter me now?” she asked, deliberately trying to break the spell.
His expression lightened to smiling. “Not yet. Not for a while yet. I’m enjoying this far too much.” His eyes brightened with mischief and his fingers moved so that she gasped.
She seized his wrist. “Where is the pleasure for you?” Her small hand still didn’t encircle him, however, and he twisted free without effort.
“It is pleasure to touch and taste you, Justina, and to see you move to my touch.” Skillfully, he made her move again. “But the real joy is wakening you to this. Truly,” he added with a grin, “it is better to give than to receive at Christmastide.”
Afraid she’d grin back, Justina turned her head away, but he captured it and turned her back to face him as his fingers worked magic. “Look at me, Justina. Please.”
Look at him.
Yes.
How could she tell when he was vulnerable if she did not watch him?
But in the end she did not watch him. Instead, she became lost in him, lost in those dark eyes that seemed to see within her and understand all the newfound mysteries.
With an artist’s skill, he stripped away layer after layer of restraint, coaxing her past every hesitation, pushing her over each barrier, until the Justina entwined panting around him was a new creature entirely, a stranger to herself and to the world.
And then the world itself was gone.
And at the last moment, a tiny protesting part of her
Similar Books
