she murmured, aware that her pulse was beating wildly, willing herself to move away from him. But her body didn’t follow her head.
‘Let me take your glass.’ Victor laid it down on the small table next to him, his eyes mesmerising hers. Jazz played softly in the background, and for a moment Araminta wondered if this was real or merely a dream from which she would suddenly wake.
Then Victor took a step closer, and she could feel the warmth of his body, breathe the scent of his aftershave. For a moment a flash of logic penetrated the delicious haze surrounding her, telling her this was asking for trouble. But his hypnotic gaze was upon her, she could feel his body heat, could not resist the draw as his arms slipped possessively around her. And all at once Araminta knew that, defying all reason, she wanted his kiss more than anything.
And it came. Surprisingly soft at first, then harder, his tongue exploring her mouth in a manner so new and so unknown, so different from anything she’d experienced with Peter that she almost drew back. For this was no quick, purposeful kiss designed to prepare the way for what was to follow, but rather a slow, lazy, languorous, delicious, yet taunting discovery.
Even as the kiss deepened, Araminta knew that she had never experienced anything similar before, and slowly she gave way to the myriad of sensations coursing through her being, felt her body yield, soft and melting in his arms, felt his hardness against her and knew that she had never desired a man as she desired Victor Santander.
His hands were wandering now, travelling up and down her spine, along her ribcage, cupping her bottom, bringing her even closer, caressing, pressing her to him, until, oblivious to reality, she let out a sigh of utter longing.
The next thing she knew they were lying on one of the wide couches and Victor was deftly unbuttoning her silk blouse. Even as her brain told her she should put a stop to this immediately, her body craved his touch and she could do nothing to halt the onslaught. When his thumb grazed her nipple through the thin texture of her bra she gasped, and a shaft of heat, a white hot arrow like none she’d ever known, left her arching, yearning for the touch of his fingers, travelling south, deftly removing all barriers, seeking until he encountered the soft mound of throbbing desire between her thighs. When he cupped her she let out a moan of delight and threw her head back, unable to do more than succumb to the delicious torture, give way to the turmoil of sensation that exploded in a pent-up rush when his fingers finally reached her core.
‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered, ‘gorgeous, and I want you.’
As Araminta lay in his arms, recovering from the most unexpected, mind-shattering orgasm of her life, a tiny voice spoke in the back of her mind. This couldn’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening. Was she really lying wantonly with Victor Santander—a man she barely knew—allowing him to touch her intimately? What must he think of her?
In fact, at that very instant he was determinedly trying to strip her of the rest of her garments.
With a jerk Araminta pulled herself up and out of his arms.
Victor fell back and looked at her, brows creased. ‘Is something the matter, querida?’ he asked, dragging his fingers through his thick black hair, eyes bright with undisguised desire.
‘No—yes—look, I don’t know what happened just now,’ she mumbled hoarsely, aware of her mussed hair as she fumbled around for her bra and shirt. ‘I—I know this will sound absurd, but I honestly don’t know how it happened.’
She began fiddling with the hook of her bra, then the buttons of her blouse, wishing she were a thousand miles away, feeling her cheeks burning as all at once she realised just how far this whole episode had gone. And so quickly. It was unthinkable, shaming, even ludicrous that she could have behaved in such a manner with a total stranger.
Victor rose from the couch and, picking up his brandy snifter, stood a few feet away, watching her thoughtfully. He made no attempt to hold her back, merely contemplated her feeble attempts to tidy herself as though he were a spectator at a show. What had happened to make her react thus? he wondered. For, despite his initial spark of anger at her sudden rejection, his interest was piqued.
He considered himself a pretty good judge of character, and her sudden willingness to succumb to his caresses had surprised him. Now, as he stood there in the aftermath of their tryst, he reflected that his first opinion of her—that she was relatively inexperienced and unaware of just how attractive and sexy she was—was probably the correct one. Well, then, perhaps it was better that things hadn’t gone any further.
He walked to the window, letting himself cool down while Araminta sorted herself out. Better, he repeated silently. Still, he could not pretend that what had just happened between them hadn’t been incredibly seductive and to his utter surprise, incredibly unique. Okay, it was just a kiss and a few caresses but— Victor cut off the thoughts that followed and turned.
‘Why don’t you stay the night?’ he asked, suddenly but smoothly, unwilling to let her go.
‘I—look, this never should have happened—never has happened before. I don’t know how it did,’ Araminta mumbled, embarrassed.
‘It happened because we both wanted it to happen,’ he said harshly, viewing her through narrowed eyes. ‘Because we are two consenting adults who feel desire for one another.’
‘Perhaps,’ she conceded grudgingly, retrieving her shoe from beneath a cushion. ‘But that isn’t a reason to—well, to—’ She threw up her hands.
‘To go to bed together?’ he finished. ‘Why on earth not? I can’t think of any better reason.’
‘Can’t you?’ she exclaimed, suddenly cross. ‘Well, I can. Tons of them.’
‘It took you rather a long time to remember them, querida,’ he murmured dryly.
Araminta steadied her gaze and he read anger there. ‘Perhaps it did. I don’t know where my head was at. I’m sorry if I misled you. I had no intention of giving you the wrong impression. I—look, I need to go home.’
‘Why of course,’ he murmured with a sardonic twist of his lips. He watched her pick up her purse, ignoring a sudden twinge of disappointment. Though why he should feel disappointment when he barely knew this woman was ridiculous!
Perhaps it was proof that, despite all he’d been through with Isabella, he still hadn’t tamed that irrationally romantic nature of his. Or was Araminta Dampierre less innocent than she seemed? He of all people knew what women were capable of. Why, for a single moment, should he imagine that this one might be any different from all the others?
As she drove down the dark country road and headed back to Taverstock Hall Araminta took herself seriously to task, asking over and over how she could possibly have behaved in such a wanton manner. Never had anything remotely similar occurred before in her life, not even when she was a teenager. That Victor was a man whom she’d met only a few times didn’t make it any better. And thank goodness for that sudden flash of common sense that had intervened just in time, or right now she might very well be rolling between Victor Santander’s wretched sheets!
It was appalling, shocking, and so unlike her that she had difficulty recognizing herself in the writhing woman of minutes earlier. For a moment she thought of Peter, and a new wave of guilt swept over her. She hadn’t thought of him once all evening, hadn’t remembered the gentle, quiet nights spent in each other’s arms after tender but, she had to admit, guiltily comparing the sensations of earlier in the evening, not very exciting sex.
Araminta
