Page 17 of You Belong to Me

  The other reason that occurred to him started his heart pumping to a nearly audible tempo. Could Alexandra want him, yet be too bashful to say so after all that had passed be­tween them?

  The numbness was rapidly receding from his foot. After a few moments more, she said in that impatient tone of hers, "Give me the other one."

  He was quick to comply, and it wasn't long before he felt warm all over, from either her ministrations or his own thoughts.

  "Thank you," he said when she finally stopped.

  All she did was give him a curt nod of ac­knowledgment before she lay down again, turn­ing away from him as she'd been before.

  Vasili threw caution to the wind and lied. "I'm still chilled, Alex. I believe you said something about sharing body heat—"

  She turned onto her belly and pounded her pillow. She was also groaning. Ironically, Vasili found that to be quite an encouraging sign.

  "You've changed your mind?" he queried, trying for a blend of indifference and disap­pointment, no easy feat.

  She sighed. "No, go ahead." And then she added sternly, "As long as you keep your hands to yourself."

  Now, that wasn't encouraging. But she turned onto her side again and moved slightly backward, while he moved forward. They connected, back to chest. She would have given no more, but he wanted it all, but­tocks to loins, thigh to thigh. He edged closer until they were a perfect fit. She protested by scooting away. He followed until she could move no farther and gave up. She sighed again.

  He had to fight down his own sighs of pleasure. He also had to keep his hands tightly fisted, or he'd be touching her all over. But if he couldn't use his hands as he wanted to, he could and did use his body, though he wasn't obvious about it, was in fact quite devious.

  It was a subtle seduction. A caress here, a rub there, a shift, a stretch, warm breath on her neck, nothing overt, nothing threatening. And it was working. He could feel her relax­ing into him—until that part of him that had a mind of its own pressed against her but­tocks.

  She stiffened. "It occurs to me that your body has warmed up sufficiently, Petroff."

  That was an understatement, but he maneu­vered himself to whisper in her ear, "Then why am I still trembling?"

  "I don't feel—"

  He was quick to interrupt. "Of course you don't, bundled up in that blanket as you are, when all you need are the top ones—and me."

  "Petroff—"

  He cut her off again. "If you don't believe I'm trembling, come closer."

  "No, I'll take your word for it."

  "Which is what I did, took you at your word, yet you're not giving me all of your heat." His voice sounded accusing now. "Or is it that you don't have anything on under­neath that blanket?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Then what's the difference if you remove it? I don't call that sharing—"

  "All right!"

  Beneath the top blankets, she shoved down the one she'd been wrapped in, but no lower than her hips. Actually, she doubled it over her backside, as a sort of shield against what she'd felt.

  Vasili almost laughed. She now knew that he wanted her, she couldn't not know, but she wouldn't mention it. He knew this game very well. Instead of leaving the bed, offended or outraged, she was playing the game, making the traditional huffs and puffs of supposed protest. The moves would continue to be his, while she continued to pretend she didn't know what he was doing. It would be a game well played, with a satisfactory conclusion for them both.

  And he refused to listen to the voice that warned him that his Alexandra was too di­rect and straightforward to countenance such games.

  Instead he ran through his favorite lines for seduction—and realized that none were ap­propriate for this particular woman. Honesty, plain and simple, was what was needed and for once, honesty was going to win the game.

  But not yet, that voice cautioned. This woman required patience, even if it killed him, and it just might.

  Still without touching her, he surrounded her with his body. He hadn't seen what she was wearing, but he could feel it now, some sort of sleeveless camisole, thick and sturdy, nothing frilly. He imagined her in silk and lace and nearly groaned.

  After a moment more, he pressed his face to the back of her neck, rubbing it against her hair and skin. He felt her shiver and pounced on this reaction.

  "If you're getting cold," he said huskily, "my arms might help."

  "No! I'm not!" she assured him. "In fact, I'm getting too wa—"

  "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Alex," he replied.

  Another sigh, exasperated in tone. He wanted her relaxed again, but she wasn't co­operating.

  "Am I making you nervous?"

  "Of course not."

  "Good, because I don't think this is going to work until you—"

  Vasili said no more, waiting for her curios­ity to get the better of her. Tactics like these rarely failed, and they didn't now, but it took nearly ten seconds, much longer than he would have figured.

  "What?"

  "Until you lie on top of me."

  The tension was almost palpable, right up until she exploded with "That does it!" and sat up, throwing back the blankets to get out of bed.

  Desperation made Vasili much quicker, his arm snaking around her waist to pull her back down, his chest moving over hers to hold her there, his mouth catching her protest, hushing it for the moment. He had only sec­onds to win her over, he knew; he could feel her pushing against his shoulders. If he lost this time ...

  Alexandra was lost. She'd fought it from the moment he had removed his shirt and re­vealed all that golden skin, and contours more masculine than she could have imagined. She'd closed her eyes to fight it, appalled by what the mere sight of his naked chest had done to her. And she'd almost told him to sleep on the floor after all.

  But she hadn't. She should have, but she hadn't. And when he'd curled his body to hers, the desire had built inside her, had nearly taken over twice, and now was beyond her control. And he hadn't let her run from it. Had he known what she was feeling, what he'd made her feel?

  He held her cheeks with both hands while he kissed her. He was gentle. He was thor­ough. He was at his persuasive best. And he was driving her mad with ...

  "Your body is driving me mad, sweetheart. I'm sorry, but I can't lie here beside you and not make love to you."

  Had she said that? No, he had. And for once his "sweetheart" hadn't sounded mock­ing; it had sounded like the endearment it was supposed to be. But he wasn't giving her a chance to answer him. He was kissing her again, more deeply now, and she was drown­ing in sensations, the heat, the churning— him. She was drowning in him, with him.

  "Yes," she gasped out when she could.

  "What?"

  "Yes, now."

  "Oh, God, thank you," he whispered, cover­ing her face with kisses, not missing an inch of it.

  She smiled, not sure what God had to do with it. He didn't notice, moving on to her neck, her shoulders, leaving a moist, hot trail that caused shiver after shiver to pass down her arms, down her spine, down her legs.

  The covers were gone. He was her cover now, and she didn't feel the cold at all. On the contrary, she was so hot, a dousing in the snow would have been welcome. Vasili was more welcome, though, when he moved far­ther over her and settled between her legs, not his hips but his waist, because he'd moved down as his mouth had, following the deep scoop of her camisole, his teeth pulling at the strings that laced it together, opening it inch by agonizing inch.

  Her own hands were not idle, were learn­ing the texture and hardness of his skin, the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck, the unruly hair that was so soft run­ning through her fingers.

  "Oh, Jesus, thank you. They're more perfect than I imagined," he said reverently.

  He had revealed her breasts completely, was staring at them in something akin to awe, and she was finally embarrassed, because she considered them her worst feature. They were to
o large, frequently having to be bound when she worked and exercised her horses, certainly more trouble than they were worth.

  Yet Vasili didn't seem to think so, and she stared at him oddly as he buried his face between them, turning slowly from side to side to share his lips with each. And then his words penetrated. He didn't find her breasts unusual, he found them beautiful, and he proved that over and over again in the min­utes that followed. He held them, he caressed and suckled on them, he wouldn't leave them alone. And what that sensual onslaught did to Alexandra, coupled with his hard belly pressed to the center of her loins, was to take her so near the precipice, the tiniest push would have sent her over.

  Vasili was aware of that. He knew the fe­male body as well as his own, knew all the pleasure points and how to maximize a wom­an's enjoyment. And he knew that Alexandra had gone beyond that. Her breathing told him, her fingers digging into his scalp, the arching, the thrusting, her legs squeezing against his waist with more strength than he'd ever felt before. Much as he would have loved to continue his exploration of her body, he wanted even more to feel her climax sur­rounding him. And if he didn't enter her now, she'd have it without him.

  His lips returned to hers to try to calm her with light nibbles while he removed the rest of her underwear, but she was beyond calm­ing. And she was as demanding and passion­ate in lovemaking as she was in everything else, pulling him to her as soon as she was bare, her hands gripping his buttocks, press­ing him forward.

  It was mere luck that he was positioned accurately, because she wasn't waiting, was already thrusting upward, and he slid home, into so much moist heat, such incredible tight­ness, and an unexpected barrier that he broke through before there was even time for him to realize what it was.

  There was a barely perceptible stiffening of her body that didn't last, a gasp that she cut off. He leaned upward, disbelieving, but whatever he would have said was forgotten as he watched the pleasure suddenly wash over her, felt the pulsebeat surround him and draw him deeper into her, and in the next heartbeat, incredibly, he soared over the edge himself, caught in the most powerful climax of his experience.

  25

  It didn't take long for them to feel the chill in the room again once their bodies cooled. Vasili was the first to retrieve the blankets that had been kicked aside. Alexandra said noth­ing when he covered her.

  She was in a state of shock over what she'd done, and it got worse when she realized that not once had she thought of Christopher to­night. Not once had she considered that she was being unfaithful to him. Those damn feel­ings had just taken over, leaving her uncaring of anything except gratifying them.

  She'd never known that passions could be so powerful and all-consuming. She wished she'd never found out. She wished also that she could blame Vasili in some way, but she couldn't. Seducing women was what he did. As far as she could tell, it was his only occupa­tion. She'd known that. And as for his being irresistible, that was God's gift, not something he'd arranged for personally.

  The blame was hers and hers alone. She'd known exactly what he was doing, fought it as long as she could, then given up and en­joyed it. And the enjoyment—she wasn't go­ing to think about that. Pleasant feelings had no place beside her present self-loathing. But, oh, God, it had been nice, better than nice, too nice.

  For a first experience of such things, Alexan­dra had to allow she'd had the best, certainly more than she could ever have imagined. But she wished that were otherwise, too. At least she'd be feeling better right now if it hadn't been so damned wonderful.

  Vasili couldn't stop thinking about it, and no wonder, since he'd never experienced any­thing like it before. If he hadn't broken all rec­ords on the speed of his first climax, there was no comparison on the second one. But that first time, to come after only one thrust, when had that ever happened to him before? For that matter, when had it ever been that pow­erful before?

  But what he still found unbelievable was that it hadn't ended there. While he had lain on top of her, trying to recover, trying to fig­ure out what had just happened, it had hap­pened again, without any effort on his part, without warning, merely because he'd still been buried in that tight, hot sheath. No, not merely. That in itself was too ordinary to have anything to do with it. It had to be that virgin barrier that he'd found so stimulating, the one thing in his vast sexual experience that he'd always denied himself.

  And that was another thing. How could he not have known? Virgins were too easy to spot. They had qualities that were uniquely their own. Alexandra was too bold, too frank, too passionate in her emotions, and there was nothing even remotely virginal in the way she kissed. The typical signs hadn't been there and he felt—deceived, tricked, and about as gullible as a sixteen-year-old.

  But at the same time, there was another feeling that was too primitive even to exam­ine, and certainly made no sense. As if it would matter to him that no man had ever been there before him. That never mattered to him, only the pleasure mattered.

  With such turbulent thoughts on both sides of the bed, the tension in the room was build­ing fast. Vasili felt the need to complain about the gift he'd been given, a gift he would have refused had he been offered a chance to—at least he wanted to think he would have refused it. And Alexandra knew she'd never be able to sleep until she assured Vasili that their making love changed nothing between them—at least she wanted to think it didn't.

  For her, the easiest way was to tell him. "What I said once about this sealing your fate—forget I said it."

  He reared up on his elbow so quickly, it was obvious he'd been about to make some provocative statement of his own. She was re­lieved to know she'd beaten him to it. He wasn't.

  "Am I also supposed to forget you were a virgin?" he demanded.

  "Yes."

  An impossibility if he'd ever heard one. "Why the hell didn't you tell me, Alex? What­ever you might think of me, I am not in the habit of bedding virgins. In fact, I never have, and I don't appreciate your happening to be the first."

  That statement came out sounding so indig­nant, she nearly laughed. As redeeming qual­ities went, this one she considered minuscule, but wished to hell he didn't have it at all. He shouldn't care, dammit.

  "Why didn't I tell you? Why did I have to?" she countered. "What made you assume oth­erwise when I've never been married?"

  "You're Russian," he said without thinking, but realized his mistake immediately. If that wasn't an insult to get himself shot over, he didn't know what was, and he quickly amen­ded his words. "That is to say, I've been to your Russian court. I found out firsthand how promiscuous you ladies are, including the un­wed ones. If there was a virgin there, she was kept well under wraps."

  "Or hidden from you for obvious reasons," she replied dryly.

  Alexandra wished she could be more of­fended than she was, but in fact, she'd been to the same court and knew just how jaded and licentious some of the aristocrats were. His kind of people. He must have felt right at home.

  "But of course," she continued in the same dry tone, "I so reminded you of those court ladies you met, what else were you to think?"

  Even in the dim light, she could see the color mounting his cheeks, because he'd just realized his mistake, and it was so obvious an idiot could have seen it. She might carry the title, but when had she ever behaved like a lady or, for that matter, even looked like one?

  He didn't apologize, however. She would have been amazed if he had.

  "As I recall," he said, "you had your chance to correct that impression."

  She remembered the time he was referring to, when he'd asked her what one more lover could mean to her, since she'd already had so many. She also recalled why she hadn't cor­rected him. Impressions. She'd wanted all of his impressions of her to be bad, and that was just one more to add to the list. But to be called on the carpet for it now? She certainly didn't want him thinking that if he'd been wrong about one, he might be wrong about others.

  So she said, in
differently, "Why would I bother correcting you? It's not as if I care what you think of me." And then to be on the safe side, she lied to put the fault back in his corner. "Besides, I didn't think you really be­lieved that nonsense about my having lov­ers."

  She might as well have said that no one could be that stupid. Which was exactly how he was feeling. He'd labeled her before he'd even met her, then forgot to change that opinion once he did meet her. Of course, the label fit now, didn't it? Thanks to him. And he still didn't like that fact.

  But she wasn't giving him much chance to express his displeasure, and she went on the attack again. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask, Petroff. What is it you do, besides se­duce women?"

  The fact that he'd managed to give her such a low opinion of him should have delighted him. So why did he feel like defending him­self? He wouldn't. He would use her own logic, and he told himself that it wasn't as if he cared what she thought of him.

  So he retaliated instead. "I get invited to share their beds without asking for the favor. Care to explain why you made that offer?"

  "Not for the reason you're thinking, you conceited popinjay," she retorted.

  He took it as a good sign that she was re­sorting to name-calling—though he resented "popinjay" as much as he had resented Tan­ya's calling him a peacock. But if she had no answer—that she was willing to own up to— then he had his answer, and he wasn't going to let her avoid it.

  "Well?" he prompted.

  "You know exactly why. So stop looking for ulterior motives. There were none."

  "Weren't there?"

  She glared at him now, but just as quickly she shrugged, then sighed. "I was trying to spare you, but if you want it spelled out, by all means you can have it. This kind of cold is nothing to take lightly. People have been known to die from exposure to temperatures like these, and I'm sorry, but you don't strike me as a hardy individual. Your body seems strong enough, but you court dandies are too used to being pampered by your servants and your luxuries. And dying isn't how I want to get rid of you."