replied baldly, and he was startled into a chuckle.
“Yes, certainly,” he said, amusement rich in his voice. “What else but money? How very obtuse of me. I beg your pardon. And your name is…?” he prompted.
“Melissa,” she replied.
“Just Melissa?”
“Yes. If . . . if you please.”
“If that is what you prefer. Melissa it shall be.” He leaned back into the settee, one arm resting along its back. His hand was very close to her neck. She wished she had given him a false name. It had not occurred to her to make one up. Truly she did not want him free with the name spoken only by close friends and family, a private possession.
“Sir, I do not wish to delay matters.” She could not bear the suspense of action. It must be done. Done and finished, and she gone from the site of the deed. “I would prefer to have things over and done. Perhaps we could proceed?” Now she sounded strained, despite every effort. She buttoned her lip and sat still, waiting to see how he would respond.
He looked her over, that single eyebrow raised again. The smile lingered on his lips. For a moment there was no sound but the cheerful crackle of the fire. It seemed incongruous. “Yes, perhaps we could,” he finally said.
She put her glass on a side table and reached up to untie the ribbons at the nape of her neck with clumsy fingers.
“Let me help you,” he said.
“I am quite capable, thank you.”
“Let me help you,” he repeated. His tone remained soft, but the command was clear.
Her hands dropped to her lap. After a moment she turned in her seat, facing away from him so he could reach the ribbons.
But he did not begin to untie them directly. Instead she felt his finger lightly stroke the length of her neck between her hairline and the top of her dress. She shuddered abruptly, deeply, as the sensation sent chills chasing all over her body.
“You have very soft skin,” he said. The warmth of his breath fell upon her, and she held back a second shudder.
His finger travelled along the top of her dress. Then she felt a tug within her hair. A second tug, and she realised he was taking out her hairpins. Her hands lifted, then fell back into her lap. She could not protest. He had bought her for the night.
Suddenly, finally, it seemed very, very real.
She was right here, this moment, with a strange man who might do . . . oh . . . anything. She knew not what he might do; truly, anything at all.
She panted with terror, trembling with the effort of holding still, quiescent under his ministrations.
Her eyelids closed as she sank inwards into darkness. Every muscle was taut in dread apprehension of what he would do next.
A man given such limitless power over her.
Slowly he unwound her hair from its thick coil on her head. The length of it came down over her back, reaching just past her waist. He eased his fingers through it.
She felt the sensation right through her. She was not used to being touched like this. Softly. Subtly. Her scalp felt as if it was on fire, hot and prickling intensely. She sat very straight, very still, as he separated the strands and spread it out like a cloak, then coiled it into a single long rope. What on earth was he doing? Playing with her hair? How strange.
It felt . . . it felt . . . soothing.
Like a kitten picked up by the scruff of its neck, she had the helpless urge to relax, melt, let go of all tension.
She fought it of course ; a silent inner battle for dominance over her body. This was a cold, inhumane bargain she was forcing on her own shrinking flesh for Peter’s sake. No more, no less.
Yet it was so . . . delicious. Even while her mind churned, her body responded with foreign knowledge, welcoming, softening under a sort of spreading lassitude.
He did not stop, but ran his fingers up over her scalp, tunnelling through the thick weight of hair, then running down to the tips where it curled. Again and again he did it. Melissa felt as if she were in a trance. She wanted to
“Yes, certainly,” he said, amusement rich in his voice. “What else but money? How very obtuse of me. I beg your pardon. And your name is…?” he prompted.
“Melissa,” she replied.
“Just Melissa?”
“Yes. If . . . if you please.”
“If that is what you prefer. Melissa it shall be.” He leaned back into the settee, one arm resting along its back. His hand was very close to her neck. She wished she had given him a false name. It had not occurred to her to make one up. Truly she did not want him free with the name spoken only by close friends and family, a private possession.
“Sir, I do not wish to delay matters.” She could not bear the suspense of action. It must be done. Done and finished, and she gone from the site of the deed. “I would prefer to have things over and done. Perhaps we could proceed?” Now she sounded strained, despite every effort. She buttoned her lip and sat still, waiting to see how he would respond.
He looked her over, that single eyebrow raised again. The smile lingered on his lips. For a moment there was no sound but the cheerful crackle of the fire. It seemed incongruous. “Yes, perhaps we could,” he finally said.
She put her glass on a side table and reached up to untie the ribbons at the nape of her neck with clumsy fingers.
“Let me help you,” he said.
“I am quite capable, thank you.”
“Let me help you,” he repeated. His tone remained soft, but the command was clear.
Her hands dropped to her lap. After a moment she turned in her seat, facing away from him so he could reach the ribbons.
But he did not begin to untie them directly. Instead she felt his finger lightly stroke the length of her neck between her hairline and the top of her dress. She shuddered abruptly, deeply, as the sensation sent chills chasing all over her body.
“You have very soft skin,” he said. The warmth of his breath fell upon her, and she held back a second shudder.
His finger travelled along the top of her dress. Then she felt a tug within her hair. A second tug, and she realised he was taking out her hairpins. Her hands lifted, then fell back into her lap. She could not protest. He had bought her for the night.
Suddenly, finally, it seemed very, very real.
She was right here, this moment, with a strange man who might do . . . oh . . . anything. She knew not what he might do; truly, anything at all.
She panted with terror, trembling with the effort of holding still, quiescent under his ministrations.
Her eyelids closed as she sank inwards into darkness. Every muscle was taut in dread apprehension of what he would do next.
A man given such limitless power over her.
Slowly he unwound her hair from its thick coil on her head. The length of it came down over her back, reaching just past her waist. He eased his fingers through it.
She felt the sensation right through her. She was not used to being touched like this. Softly. Subtly. Her scalp felt as if it was on fire, hot and prickling intensely. She sat very straight, very still, as he separated the strands and spread it out like a cloak, then coiled it into a single long rope. What on earth was he doing? Playing with her hair? How strange.
It felt . . . it felt . . . soothing.
Like a kitten picked up by the scruff of its neck, she had the helpless urge to relax, melt, let go of all tension.
She fought it of course ; a silent inner battle for dominance over her body. This was a cold, inhumane bargain she was forcing on her own shrinking flesh for Peter’s sake. No more, no less.
Yet it was so . . . delicious. Even while her mind churned, her body responded with foreign knowledge, welcoming, softening under a sort of spreading lassitude.
He did not stop, but ran his fingers up over her scalp, tunnelling through the thick weight of hair, then running down to the tips where it curled. Again and again he did it. Melissa felt as if she were in a trance. She wanted to
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