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‘You won’t be for long,’ he said. Her fingers released of their own accord and he dragged the towel away. Lifting her against his chest, he carried her into the bedroom.
Her mind struggled to fight the sensual lethargy as he tumbled them onto the bed, trapping her beneath his body. She could feel every single inch of him, all firm muscle and lean masculine strength. She flattened her palms against his chest. ‘Don’t. I don’t want you.’ Her body screamed ‘liar’ as her mind struggled with the feeling of powerlessness, of being under his control.
He stiffened and something flashed in his eyes. ‘I think you do,’ he said, his voice strained. He took a condom from the dresser.
‘You can’t make me.’ Her voice rose as she watched him sheath himself with single-minded efficiency.
‘Make you?’ He raised his head, one eyebrow bobbing up as his hand swept into her hair, cradled her head. ‘I would never make you,’ he said carefully, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. ‘You must know that. But you’re lying to yourself as well as me if you say you don’t want me, angel.’
Strong hands gripped her thighs, angling her pelvis. ‘Tell me again you don’t want me and I’ll let you go. I’ll not force you,’ he said.
She could feel the heat pulsing at her core, her chest heaving with longing, and knew she couldn’t lie a second time. Couldn’t bring herself to say the words that would deny her the pleasure he would give her.
The huge head of his erection probed. The pressure was immense as the slick folds of her sex tightened around him, but then he stopped.
The yearning to feel that one strong thrust that would force him deep, impale her, consumed her. But he didn’t penetrate any further, the sinews in his neck taut as his eyes locked on hers.
‘Ladies’ choice, angel,’ he murmured. His lips touched hers in a mocking kiss, tension vibrating through him. Now you tell me what it is you do want.’
Her hips flexed instinctively, and the delicious heat speared through her as he sank a fraction deeper. His fingers tightened, holding her still. She bit hard into her bottom lip, trapped and tortured by her own desires. Her own weakness.
‘I want to hear you say it,’ he said.
Her whole body clamoured for the release, for the blessed joy that only he had ever given her—and he knew it, she realised. She groaned, desperate to force the yearning back. Why was he making her beg? Hadn’t she admitted enough? Hadn’t she given him enough power? If she begged him now she’d be no better than a mistress—and maybe a great deal worse.
‘Tell me you want me,’ he demanded, his raw pants matching her own.
A staggered moan of surrender escaped her lips. ‘Please…Do it. I want you. You know I do…’
A sharp dart of shame pierced her heart, but her mind disengaged as he thrust fully into her at last. He drove in up to the hilt, spearing through the tight, tender flesh and hurtling her over the edge. The orgasm burst free so much faster and stronger than before. She cried out, clutching his shoulders, clinging on as her legs locked around his waist. He pumped in and out in a furious, frenzied rhythm, filling her with an intensity, a ruthlessness that dragged her back with alarming speed and forced her over again—and again.
Finally, as she shattered into a million tiny glittering pieces, drained and exhausted from the relentless waves racking her body, he shouted out his own release—and shattered too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CONNOR collapsed onto his back, flung his arm across his face and struggled to draw a steady breath as his heartbeat battered his chest like a heavyweight champ’s punching ball.
Where the hell had that come from?
One minute he’d been teasing her, enjoying the way her eyes darkened with desire, and the next he’d been gripped by a possessiveness, an intensity he didn’t understand.
His affairs with women were always casual and fleeting. Sex was fun, fulfilling and must never be taken too seriously. He didn’t do intense. So why had he turned into such a caveman when she’d told him she didn’t want him?
The minute she’d said the words, he’d known she was lying. He’d seen the desire in her eyes, known all he had to do was touch her and she’d respond. But even so, he should have backed off, left well enough alone. Instead, something had welled up inside him, a bitterness, a resentment, a feeling of inadequacy he recognised from his childhood—and he’d been overwhelmed by the need to prove her wrong, to make her admit the truth.
He glanced across at her. She’d curled away from him, her shoulders trembling. He rose up on his elbow. Hell, was she crying? His heart clutched in his chest.
He pulled the quilt up to cover them both, smoothed his hand over her hip. She shifted away.
‘Daisy, are you all right?’
‘Of course,’ she said, but her voice sounded small and fragile. He studied the sprinkling of freckles across her shoulder blades, the way her damp hair was already springing up around her head. She looked so delicate to him all of a sudden. He winced. She’d been so tight around him and yet he’d taken her like a man possessed. Had he hurt her?
‘Are you sure?’ he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
She didn’t reply, just sat up with her back to him, and pulled the thin cotton shift she’d left beside the bed over her head. He watched her movements, jerky and tense. The urge to hold her, to comfort her, to make up for what he’d done, blindsided him.
He stiffened. What the hell was happening to him? He didn’t even recognise himself. She’d done something to him. Come to mean something he didn’t understand.
