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“I can see why you use sex when other weapons fail you,” she said. “You’re very pretty—I would think women would have a hard time resisting you. And men,” she added.
“It’s not a last resort, Genevieve,” he said. “Get on the bed,” he repeated.
In fact, she was starting to feel a little exposed. She crossed the room to the king-size bed and slid beneath the six hundred thread-count sheets.
“No,” he said, and stripped the covers off, tossing them out of reach on the floor. “Lie back.”
What would he do if she tried to run? Would he come after her, hurt her? Or even worse, would he let her go?
She lay back against the pillows, and for once she was glad she couldn’t see that clearly. She wished she were drunk, knocked out on pills, in some kind of place and time where panic didn’t dance through her veins.
He moved to the side of the bed, reached under the mattress and pulled out the butcher knife, laying it on the mattress beside her. “Just in case you think you need it,” he said. “Feel free to try.”
“Is that what turns you on?” she said, unable to keep the anger from her voice.
“Don’t be coy. You turn me on. And you know it.”
“I could stab you.”
“You could try. But I don’t think you’ll even remember there’s a knife within reach. I don’t think you’ll want to do anything to stop me.”
She reached out and took the knife, wrapping her fingers around the carved wooden handle. German steel—it would slice through flesh quite easily. His beautiful, golden flesh.
“Try me,” she said, belligerent.
He walked over to the door, locking it, then turned to look at her from the foot of the massive bed. “I intend to.”
She wasn’t liking this, not one bit. She felt hot and cold all over, stretched out in lingerie that was meant to entice when that was the last thing she wanted. She forced herself to watch him as he stripped off the white linen, not looking away when she wanted to. She was uncomfortable looking at naked men, particularly aroused ones—in the past she usually tried to keep her eyes averted.
But she couldn’t this time. He was beautiful—there was no denying it, and she wondered how that would affect her. The better looking the man, the more selfish his lovemaking, or so she’d discovered in her limited experience. If that held true, then Peter Jensen was going to be the worst lover she ever had.
“Very brave, Genevieve,” he murmured, knowing her too well. “You’d much rather be blindfolded, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not that kinky.”
“I don’t know—you might be surprised.”
He moved with such quick, lethal grace that she hadn’t even realized he was coming, moving over her from the bottom of the bed, one hand gripping her wrist as she clutched the knife. He stretched over her, and she could feel him touching every part of her body—heated flesh against her pounding heart, his long, bare legs against her, erection at the juncture of her thighs, hard and full against her. His face hovered over hers, his mouth too close, and he looked cool and uninvolved.
“I thought you weren’t afraid of the knife.” She summoned up one last bit of resistance.
“It doesn’t hurt to be careful,” he said, bringing her wrist up to his mouth, kissing it. She could have turned the knife, slashed at him—he barely seemed to be using any strength at all to control her. “But you’re not going to stab me, Genevieve. You know what you’re going to do, whether you want to or not.”
Her grip tightened on the knife automatically, and his hand tightened as well, so that her fingers felt numb. She wasn’t going to answer him, since she had no answers.
The bra was nothing more than bits of lace and ribbon, and he unhooked it and pulled it away, then caught the thong bikini and simply tore it, so that she was naked, exposed beneath him. “That’s better,” he murmured. “It levels the playing field.”
She closed her eyes, terrified, and she wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t going to hurt her—she’d be less frightened if that was what she expected. She summoned one last ounce of fight. “Just get it over with,” she said. “I’m getting bored.” Her breath caught in her throat, belying her cool words, but then, she hadn’t really hoped to fool him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. And without any warning he pulled her legs apart and pushed inside her with a suddenness that left her shocked and breathless.
Neither of them moved for a moment. “Now, why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re wet?” he murmured, looking down at her.
She struggled to find something, anything to say. She felt his strong hands on her legs, pulling them around his hips. She was clutching the sheet beneath her, and once he’d gotten her legs wrapped around him he prised her hands loose and placed them on his shoulders.
“I think you’d better hold on to me, Ms. Spenser. It’s going to be quite a ride.”
This wasn’t going to work, she thought blindly. He’d barely kissed her, hadn’t even touched her, he’d done nothing in terms of standard foreplay.
