forced himself on her, made her touch him.
She suffered, choking in this atmosphere of unfamiliar vulnerability. Never in her life had she felt this way—weak, powerless, utterly hostage to the will and whims of another. But Conrad had made sure that she knew she could not fight him. That she could not defy him. And now that she was here, with this other man, she still felt defenseless.
There was something else tormenting her. Something she could not understand.
In spite of her anguished vulnerability, her fear of Vaughn was tinged with a different feeling. A peculiar longing—incomprehensible, yet undeniable.
This stranger in the woods was a curious package of contradictions. His powerful body incongruous with his calm and surprising grace of movement and his deep, resonant voice which, except for his moments of fury when they had first encountered 61
one another, was always low and soft. The sharp intensity of his eyes and the rigidity of his strong jaw and hard face went starkly against his tendency to quiet introspection through the days and evenings.
And never in her young life had she been so insistently and disruptively aware of a man’s physical presence. Of his body. As much as she dreaded his attention, his touch, whenever she was close enough to sense his heat she could not resist imagining pressing herself up against him. And in everything he did, his every movement, there was an alluring sensuality. When they were close she would watch his hands, with their long, graceful fingers, watching him turn the pages of a book, or kneading dough for a loaf of bread, or deftly maneuvering over his guitar, and without wanting to or meaning to she would imagine him touching her—an innocent caress of her arm, a delicate stroke as the back of softly curved fingers surfed the curl of her throat, less innocent touches elsewhere.
When she went to bed that night she lay awake, thinking about this strange man.
He was so different from that other, yet he aroused the same fear. And similar feelings that were…not fear. The memory of his strange eyes, always coldly flashing, sometimes like liquid pools of mercury, sometimes like metal disks rough and faceted with shards of graphite, seemed to prick her skin with countless tiny stingers, making her itch and burn. She had caught him looking at her, watching her, many times. Usually he did not even look away when she met his gaze. She could never fathom what he was thinking as he stared.
She thought of his body, so tall, and broad, and hard-looking. And his face. When he was calm, reading something or playing his guitar, he looked somehow…Homeric.
62
She laughed at herself, at the triteness of likening a man to a Greek god. But with his powerful form, his abundant dark hair, his rather prominent nose and angular jaw, he invited the comparison. Yet the similarity was even more apt in his embodiment of both a fierce physicality and a brooding calm. The thought of his size, his strength, made her stomach clench with a little ticklish spasm. She found herself powerfully aroused when she considered once again that, though he was being kind to her now, he could overpower her at any moment he liked, do anything to her.
She lay in bed, considering touching herself. The idea seemed strange to her.
Never before, except with him . She screened Conrad from her mind. Leaving her hands at rest, folded over her ribs, she squeezed her thighs together and released. A warm pulse of pleasure answered from between her legs. She raised her knees and parted them wide, considering the feeling of openness, of vulnerability it gave her, even alone in her room, under her covers. She stretched her arms back, over her head, arching her back, thinking about her breasts sticking forward, her bottom sticking back, the taut feeling of her stomach as she extended her torso. She flattened her back and brought her hands down to her stomach. It was warm, rhythmically rising and falling.
Trying to
She suffered, choking in this atmosphere of unfamiliar vulnerability. Never in her life had she felt this way—weak, powerless, utterly hostage to the will and whims of another. But Conrad had made sure that she knew she could not fight him. That she could not defy him. And now that she was here, with this other man, she still felt defenseless.
There was something else tormenting her. Something she could not understand.
In spite of her anguished vulnerability, her fear of Vaughn was tinged with a different feeling. A peculiar longing—incomprehensible, yet undeniable.
This stranger in the woods was a curious package of contradictions. His powerful body incongruous with his calm and surprising grace of movement and his deep, resonant voice which, except for his moments of fury when they had first encountered 61
one another, was always low and soft. The sharp intensity of his eyes and the rigidity of his strong jaw and hard face went starkly against his tendency to quiet introspection through the days and evenings.
And never in her young life had she been so insistently and disruptively aware of a man’s physical presence. Of his body. As much as she dreaded his attention, his touch, whenever she was close enough to sense his heat she could not resist imagining pressing herself up against him. And in everything he did, his every movement, there was an alluring sensuality. When they were close she would watch his hands, with their long, graceful fingers, watching him turn the pages of a book, or kneading dough for a loaf of bread, or deftly maneuvering over his guitar, and without wanting to or meaning to she would imagine him touching her—an innocent caress of her arm, a delicate stroke as the back of softly curved fingers surfed the curl of her throat, less innocent touches elsewhere.
When she went to bed that night she lay awake, thinking about this strange man.
He was so different from that other, yet he aroused the same fear. And similar feelings that were…not fear. The memory of his strange eyes, always coldly flashing, sometimes like liquid pools of mercury, sometimes like metal disks rough and faceted with shards of graphite, seemed to prick her skin with countless tiny stingers, making her itch and burn. She had caught him looking at her, watching her, many times. Usually he did not even look away when she met his gaze. She could never fathom what he was thinking as he stared.
She thought of his body, so tall, and broad, and hard-looking. And his face. When he was calm, reading something or playing his guitar, he looked somehow…Homeric.
62
She laughed at herself, at the triteness of likening a man to a Greek god. But with his powerful form, his abundant dark hair, his rather prominent nose and angular jaw, he invited the comparison. Yet the similarity was even more apt in his embodiment of both a fierce physicality and a brooding calm. The thought of his size, his strength, made her stomach clench with a little ticklish spasm. She found herself powerfully aroused when she considered once again that, though he was being kind to her now, he could overpower her at any moment he liked, do anything to her.
She lay in bed, considering touching herself. The idea seemed strange to her.
Never before, except with him . She screened Conrad from her mind. Leaving her hands at rest, folded over her ribs, she squeezed her thighs together and released. A warm pulse of pleasure answered from between her legs. She raised her knees and parted them wide, considering the feeling of openness, of vulnerability it gave her, even alone in her room, under her covers. She stretched her arms back, over her head, arching her back, thinking about her breasts sticking forward, her bottom sticking back, the taut feeling of her stomach as she extended her torso. She flattened her back and brought her hands down to her stomach. It was warm, rhythmically rising and falling.
Trying to
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