Comanche Moon by Virginia Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

his palm beneath the torn material of her gown, gathering her skirts up around her waist. She was heated silk beneath his fingers, hot and damp with need, and he dragged his hand through the tight nest of curls that hid her from him.
    Crying out, she bucked and heaved with renewed panic, and he caught her mouth with his and kissed her deeply, his tongue mimicking the sex act as she strained against him. When she was limp and quivering, he lifted his head to stare down at her with a raging need he couldn’t remember feeling so intensely before.
    Caught in a snare of her long hair and his hands, Deborah tried to interpret that steady gaze. His eyes had changed to the color of smoke, hot and gray as raw steel. New emotions raged inside her, battling with shock and fear. Somehow, her first resistance had melded into something else. Never had she dreamed he would make her feel anything but fear or revulsion, yet there had been a response to his touch that she couldn’t deny. Disbelief rendered her momentarily motionless. She lay still and helpless, watching his eyes—cold, clear eyes beneath a fan of thick, spiky lashes.
    What he was doing was similar to what Miguel had done, but there was a vast difference in how she responded. It was baffling. It was terrifying.
    He moved, and she felt the quick, cold slice of a knife whisper over her skin, then her gown just fell away from her in limp folds. Deborah couldn’t move. She felt his intent gaze on her, studying her naked body. A flush warmed her skin from her stomach to her eyebrows, and she knew that this   was only the beginning of her humiliation. There was no compromise in the icy eyes watching her.
    A haze of tears mercifully blurred her vision when he rose to his knees over her and untied the leather thong that held his brief garment around his waist. Deborah closed her eyes as it fell away. That one brief glimpse was enough to acknowledge her worst fears, making her doubt that she would survive what he intended to do to her.
    For a moment she considered going for his knife, to use on him or herself. But she knew she couldn’t. Her situation had been reduced to the basics. She wanted to live, however badly he hurt her. An instinct stronger than herself and older than time made her lie still for him.
    Muttering something in the low, rough language that made no sense to her, he lowered his body back over her and spread her thighs apart with his knees. Deborah willed herself to remain limp. Perhaps it would make him gentle.
    But when he put his hand on her, raking his fingers through the tight nest of red-gold curls at the juncture of her thighs, she couldn’t help a sudden jerk. Oddly, his voice sounded almost tender when he said something to her again, and Deborah shuddered as he stroked her intimately. Would this never end? She felt helpless, exposed, humiliated.
    A choked sob caught in the back of her throat, and her body arched helplessly when his hand pressed inside her. It was like a knife-thrust, and her eyes flew open to stare up at him accusingly.
    There was an odd expression on her tormentor’s face, almost one of shock, and Deborah had the fleeting impression that she’d somehow surprised him before he withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels. He stared down at her without speaking, his chiseled features impassive again.
    She wished she dared cover herself; there was something so tense about him, almost as if he were uncertain, that she dared not move at all.
    Light caught in his dark hair, glittering in the sleek strands like trapped sunbeams, and Deborah saw his lashes flicker for a moment, brushing down over his eyes as if to hide his thoughts. Then he looked down at her again, growled something she was glad she didn’t understand, and rose in a swift, lithe motion.
    Deborah was caught by the stark beauty of his muscled body, the play of bronze skin and power as he moved to pick up his brief garment. She watched silently. His long hair swung forward in