She was gone when he woke. Somehow she’d managed to get out of the bed without waking him, had dressed and left already. He swore softly. Perhaps she’d already even left the estate. He sat up abruptly and pushed the thought aside. No – she couldn’t have gone. He could not have waited three years for this, only to have her slip away. She’d already left him once – she never would again.
With another small curse James swung his feet over the side of the bed, stood, and stretched. His gaze fell on the pair of handcuffs lying on the ground and he smiled slightly to himself, his cool green eyes mocking and bitter. Perhaps he should have kept her handcuffed to his bed – that way she would never be able to leave him, ever…
With a small shake of his head, he headed towards the shower. If Emma had already left, he would track her down. If she hadn’t, well, there would be time enough to make her his… truly his.
Oh god, oh god, oh god, Emma chanted to herself as she sat on her bed, dishevelled and still rather in shock. She’d been sitting there since almost dawn, replaying the events over and over again in her mind, and as yet did not seem to show any signs of moving anywhere anytime soon. The mind numbing mantra served to send her into a realm where her only thoughts seemed to centre around the words “oh god”, which really, wasn’t all that helpful, seeing as to how she must have screamed them out five times last night.
Last night. Good lord, had it really happened? If it weren’t for the fact that she could still smell the scent of James and their coupling on her, she would have doubted her own mind.
Even now, she struggled to accept it. It all seemed so farfetched, so ridiculous, so… cruel. Whilst Kit had been using her, stringing her affections along in order to make his real love Mary jealous, James had been sleeping with her in his brother’s place, so as to not make her suspicious when Kit refused to sleep with her in order to remain faithful to Mary… It was all such a soap opera, she could not believe it was the truth.
And yet, why would James lie? What did he stand to gain from it? She was already in a far from charitable frame of mind towards Kit, and he had already demonstrated that if all he wanted was to get inside her pants all he had to do was handcuff her… no, there was nothing in it for James. He was telling the truth. Instinctively, she knew that while James would evade and omit, he would never lie outright to her.
And thus, if he was telling the truth about that matter, it stood to reason that he had been telling the truth about the other. He claimed to love her. Did he really? Did she really want to know?
There was nothing for it, Emma decided, sitting up determinedly. She was leaving. There wasn’t a chance in hell that she was about to stay here a minute longer.
She emerged from the shower, naked and rather wet still, since her hair simply refused to dry, no matter how vigorously she towled it, and opened the door which connected her bedroom to her bathroom in the opulent Brandeworth mansion. Lost in her thoughts, she wandered over to the chest of drawers where she had left her clothing, and bent to open the draws, completely unaware of the rather large, lean, masculine form lying sprawled on her bed, watching her.
“I see that you seem to have recovered your equilibrium remarkably well,” a throaty, deep masculine voice drawled from the bed.
Emma shrieked, spun around and instinctively covered her naked form with her arms.
“Its a bit late for that, don’t you think?” James remarked dryly, cocking one arrogantly slashing eyebrow. His glittering eyes gleamed with something that made her want to shudder.
Emma said nothing, merely began backing away towards the door. James leapt out of the bed and advanced towards her, shaking his head at her. “I wouldn’t do that, my darling… you belong to me, you see, and I do not intend for a single other soul to ever lay eyes upon you in all your glory… and if you keep walking in that direction, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take steps in order to prevent just that from happening.”
“I – I don’t belong to you,” Emma said her voice wavering slightly. She tilted her chin. “You – you oaf!”
“Come here and say that,” he invited silkily, still advancing.
“What do you want?” Emma said desperately, a slightly hysterical note in her voice.
“What do I want?” James replied musingly. “Well, lets see. I’d like you to stop covering yourself. I’d like you to stop moving away. I’d like you to love me, and… oh yes. I want to be inside you.” There was a tiny warning glimmer in his eyes, before he struck.
“No,” Emma breathed, but it was too late. He had launched himself towards her, heaved her over his shoulder and dumped her onto the bed. He was on top of her before she had time to regain her breath.
He was heavy, and incredibly aroused, she realised, feeling the bulge against her stomach. She struggled, wriggling against him and watched in fascination as he groaned, his eyes closed and his face tortured. “Stop that,” he hissed, gripping her wrists and holding her to the mattress. Defiantly, she bucked, enflaming him further.
“Good lord,” James muttered. He let out a tortured breath through his teeth, his eyes still closed. “Will you stop wriggling?”
Emma stilled, watching his expression with interest. “Why?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to come in my pants, that’s why!”
A small, triumphant smile lit Emma’s features and with calculated intent, she wriggled slightly, testing him. When his features contorted further, she deliberately ground her hips against him, and he swore, rocking his own hips in response. Pleased with her success, she kept up the motion, sure of herself now.
He stopped, suddenly, pressing her so hard into the mattress that she could not move at all as his full weight rested on her. Her eyes widened in surprise and dismay. “No,” she said desperately.
“Oh, yes,” he said grimly. “You will not find me quite so easy to manipulate, my dear. I want to be inside you – and inside you, I will be.” His mouth hovered, close to hers, then settled ever so gently, over her lips. His lips were soft, velvet soft, and warm, brushing back and forth against her mouth. Then tentatively, she felt the hot lick of his tongue at the seam of her mouth – her lips opened, and suddenly the kiss was no longer gentle, but hard, and punishing. His tongue slid inside her mouth with insolence, stroked roughly at hers with demanding caresses, and his mouth was sealed to hers with an almost bruising violence, as bit by bit, he ripped her wits from her, turning the tables. Even as she whimpered in fear at his rage, her mouth opened wider, sought more of him, more of his taste. And then, quite suddenly, he was gone.
He sat up, shrugged quickly out of his shirt and the warm, musky male scent of him, spiced with a tang of soap and aftershave, filled her nostrils. His chest was wide and broade, his hips lean, his shoulders strong. He knelt up, and seizing her chance, Emma heaved, unbalancing him enough for her to scramble off the bed. He did nothing, merely watched, amused as she wavered, uncertain of his response, and continued to strip, until he was as starkly naked as she. Then, methodically, he advanced towards her, picked her up, and set her back on the bed again.
“We would really save a great deal of time, Emma,” he remarked conversationally as he climbed on top of her and spread her legs. “If you would simply get on the bed yourself and save me the bother of having to carry you.”