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Authors: Johanna Lindsey
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wanted did she continue,and he had no hope that she would not continue.
When she climbed onto the bed, he thrashed again, but she grabbed hold of his hips and hung on. And he could feel her nakedness now as she hugged him, her breasts pressing against his skin, nearly at his groin. This, too, merely aided her, forcing more blood to rush to that traitor, so he stilled again, hoping he was not hard enough to penetrate her, praying she was a virgin so she would not know the difference and would still fail.
She crawled up him, still holding on tightly in case he tried to throw her off again. Warrick groaned at this further stimulation. And then she was seated, and he was hard enough that she only had to nudge him in the right direction.
Heat. Scalding heat and moisture. Why could she not be dry? Why could she not…?
Her whimper went through him like a lance, even as he felt the cause of it. She was still trying to seat herself fully, but her maidenhead would not give, and she was progressing too slowly to do aught but cause herself pain. He felt a savage pleasure in that. So she was a virgin, and her own pain would defeat her where he could not.
To move now would truly aid her, so he remained deathly still. Yet she was so small and exquisitely tight, the urge was there, nigh overwhelming, to thrust deep into her. He killed it swiftly. He could not control that traitor, but he still controlled the rest of his body.
He heard another whimper, louder, and he opened his eyes to feed on her pain. Tears streaked her smooth cheeks. Her sapphire eyes, glassy with wetness, reflected that pain. But he had forgotten her nakedness.
She was a small woman, but she was generously formed, her breasts bountiful, her waist tiny. The spread of her hips over him, her splendid breasts bouncing with her soft panting, the feel of hot wetness squeezing only half of him—the sight of that part of him inside her…It was his undoing. He did not thrust. He did not have to. The blood rushed to swell him to his full, throbbing length, which pushed right through her maidenhead without either of them moving to help it.
She cried out as it happened, and her weight carried her down to sheathe him fully in her depths. Warrick ground his teeth against the gag in his mouth. His muscles strained, but he remained still otherwise. He fought now for impotence. He fought to ignore the powerful urges of his body. It was torture. He had never resisted anything so hard, never wanted anything so much that was so opposed to his will.
She moved on him, hesitantly at first, clumsily. She was still hurting, still crying, but still determined. Her breath, which was coming so hard, fanned his belly along with her hair, providing another caress, another torture. And he knew exactly when he lost the fight. He tried one last time to throw her off, welcoming the pain in his ankles and wrists, but she knew, knew , and she held fast to him. And then he nolonger cared, was mindless in the throes of primal instinct, which took over completely to drain his seed with explosive, unbelievable relief. Damn her, damn her!
Chapter 9
I am glad ’twas you .
Warrick would never forget those words, nor would he forgive them. He recalled them again and again in those next days while he lay chained to that bed.
She had collapsed onto his chest when it was over, her tears wetting his skin. She had found no pleasure in their coupling, but she had gotten what she wanted. And before she left him, she had touched his cheek and whispered, “I am glad ’twas you,” and his hate had increased tenfold.
Her servant had come after that, to tend his wounds. The older woman had clucked her tongue over what he had done to himself, but she had also found the blood-encrusted lump on his head and cleaned that, too. He had let her. Devastated by his failure, he no longer cared justthen what was done to him. Nor had it bothered him when the man came in still later to stare at the blood and seed still
When she climbed onto the bed, he thrashed again, but she grabbed hold of his hips and hung on. And he could feel her nakedness now as she hugged him, her breasts pressing against his skin, nearly at his groin. This, too, merely aided her, forcing more blood to rush to that traitor, so he stilled again, hoping he was not hard enough to penetrate her, praying she was a virgin so she would not know the difference and would still fail.
She crawled up him, still holding on tightly in case he tried to throw her off again. Warrick groaned at this further stimulation. And then she was seated, and he was hard enough that she only had to nudge him in the right direction.
Heat. Scalding heat and moisture. Why could she not be dry? Why could she not…?
Her whimper went through him like a lance, even as he felt the cause of it. She was still trying to seat herself fully, but her maidenhead would not give, and she was progressing too slowly to do aught but cause herself pain. He felt a savage pleasure in that. So she was a virgin, and her own pain would defeat her where he could not.
To move now would truly aid her, so he remained deathly still. Yet she was so small and exquisitely tight, the urge was there, nigh overwhelming, to thrust deep into her. He killed it swiftly. He could not control that traitor, but he still controlled the rest of his body.
He heard another whimper, louder, and he opened his eyes to feed on her pain. Tears streaked her smooth cheeks. Her sapphire eyes, glassy with wetness, reflected that pain. But he had forgotten her nakedness.
She was a small woman, but she was generously formed, her breasts bountiful, her waist tiny. The spread of her hips over him, her splendid breasts bouncing with her soft panting, the feel of hot wetness squeezing only half of him—the sight of that part of him inside her…It was his undoing. He did not thrust. He did not have to. The blood rushed to swell him to his full, throbbing length, which pushed right through her maidenhead without either of them moving to help it.
She cried out as it happened, and her weight carried her down to sheathe him fully in her depths. Warrick ground his teeth against the gag in his mouth. His muscles strained, but he remained still otherwise. He fought now for impotence. He fought to ignore the powerful urges of his body. It was torture. He had never resisted anything so hard, never wanted anything so much that was so opposed to his will.
She moved on him, hesitantly at first, clumsily. She was still hurting, still crying, but still determined. Her breath, which was coming so hard, fanned his belly along with her hair, providing another caress, another torture. And he knew exactly when he lost the fight. He tried one last time to throw her off, welcoming the pain in his ankles and wrists, but she knew, knew , and she held fast to him. And then he nolonger cared, was mindless in the throes of primal instinct, which took over completely to drain his seed with explosive, unbelievable relief. Damn her, damn her!
Chapter 9
I am glad ’twas you .
Warrick would never forget those words, nor would he forgive them. He recalled them again and again in those next days while he lay chained to that bed.
She had collapsed onto his chest when it was over, her tears wetting his skin. She had found no pleasure in their coupling, but she had gotten what she wanted. And before she left him, she had touched his cheek and whispered, “I am glad ’twas you,” and his hate had increased tenfold.
Her servant had come after that, to tend his wounds. The older woman had clucked her tongue over what he had done to himself, but she had also found the blood-encrusted lump on his head and cleaned that, too. He had let her. Devastated by his failure, he no longer cared justthen what was done to him. Nor had it bothered him when the man came in still later to stare at the blood and seed still
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