Detained by Ainslie Paton Read Free Book Online Page A

body and he schooled her head, teaching her feelings she’d never expected, making her fall in love with the lesson.
    She put her hands behind her back.
    He came at her fast and hard, as though he was relieved, as though he’d reached the end of his own rope of reason, lips and hands in a co-ordinated assault on her senses. He pushed her knees wider, pulled her hips closer to let her find friction against him. She braced her hands on his knees and pressed into him, arching her back. His hands went to her splayed thighs and skimmed upward, over her hips, under her shirt, around her ribs, till he was wrapped about her torso and they were velcroed together from hip to lip.
    Need built like a sob in her chest and she trembled in his arms. Her breath stuttered and she struggled not to tear at him. Only the fear he would stop touching her, teaching her, kept her hands still. But the attention was too intense, too outside of her own participation. Too uneven.
    “Let me touch you, please.”
    He scraped his teeth along her jaw, flicks of tongue, glide of lip, a command. “No.”
    The sob broke from her in the form of a moan. She was a sacrifice on the altar of his authority. She couldn’t make her body stop shaking. She couldn’t have stood up and walked away if she’d wanted to. She couldn’t fight him. Whatever he wanted to do, she wanted it more. Secure in his hold, she lifted her arms out straight to her sides, a T-bar, a crucifix, her offer of submission.
    “I want to make you come.”
    She gasped and before there was air to breathe, he flipped her onto her back. He lay across her, pinning her down, rocking his pelvis against hers. Now his button eyes blazed with raw purpose.
    “That okay with you?”
    She’d have answered, but he stole the comment from her lips; the notion of doing anything other than his command from her judgement. His weight was a heavy blanket of heat. His hands played musician, tuning her body, making it stretch, vibrate and sing with a lustre of feeling so intense she could almost believe he could make her come with his voice alone.
    For a while he let her touch and her hands met hard muscle on his arms, and shoulders too wide to hold over layers of clothing that kept them separated. When she touched his face his breath shuddered. When she pulled his hair, he growled against her throat. When she put her hand over his heart, his hips pumped fast into hers and his kiss deepened. For all his play at dominance, he was as much affected by her as she was by him.
    Her fingers under the back of his shirt meeting the tight rod of his spine ended her freedom to explore. He pulled away, sat back on his heels, his fight to steady his breath echoed in hers.
    This would’ve been a good time to call a stop, to slow things down. This would’ve been a good time to pray for mercy. Not that it would’ve mattered. Whatever deity the man from Tara revered didn’t do compassion. It was the last coherent thought she had.
    The way he shifted their bodies, laying by her side, his pelvis jammed against her hip. The way he kissed her, while he popped the stud at the top of her jeans, and slowly tugged the zipper down, and searing heat of his palm on her abdomen overwhelmed her. She forgot to touch him, she went rigid with expectation.
    His fingertips played with the edge of her underwear, flicking the elastic so it pinged her skin, making her body jump. “Tell me I can do this to you?”
    He wanted an instruction and she couldn’t remember the question.
    “Ah fuck, woman. What a time to pick to make me stop.”
    A voice said, “Don’t stop.” It didn’t sound like hers. It was drunk on desire.
    “Not even when you beg.”
    His fingers were under the trim of her underpants, and then they were inside her. She arched off the couch. She so wanted to move, to shed her jeans to spread her legs, to give him greater access. He was having none of that. Constriction was his design. He made her squirm, sharp sounds of