harder, thrust faster, finding his own orgasm there in the rain.
And then, finally, far, far too late, Susannah understood. Understood that he had needed more than an uptight little prude.
That she wasn’t enough for him.
That the world as she knew it was over.
She wondered why the memory still hurt so much, when she’d hardly thought of that night in years.
Was it because she was finally old enough to see what an idiot she’d been to run away that night, scalded, to nurse her wounds in private and concoct a revenge plot as stupid as flirting with Paul? She knew now that she should have charged right up to that swing set and overturned the cheating bastard headfirst into the dirt. Even if she’d scratched Missy Snowdon’s eyes out, that would have been a more mature way to handle it. It couldn’t have saved their relationship, but it might have saved Paul’s life.
Or maybe the memory felt so fresh and raw again because she realized that she owed Trent. She had made a deal with him, and he’d kept his part of the bargain. After all these years, she was going to have to live up to her part of their agreement and let him touch her again…something he hadn’t done since that night.
“All right,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll give you what you want. But only because I know you, and I know that if you don’t get what you need here, you’ll go looking for it somewhere else.”
He didn’t answer. He just sat there, waiting, as if he didn’t care what her reasons were. The king, waiting for his subject to perform.
She felt something harden inside her. She crossed the marble floor in five steps. He still sat in the chair, with his leg stretched out at that odd angle. She took a breath, then, holding the arms of his chair for stability, she sank to her knees in front of him.
“I’ll do it, because I won’t be a laughingstock for you again.”
He smiled oddly. “And because you promised this would be a real marriage? Because you used that promise to get me to marry you? Because you wouldn’t want to be a liar and a fraud?”
She tilted her head up and met his gaze without flinching. “You’re right. I made this deal, and I have to live with it. But I want you to know that I hate you. I hate you for not being man enough to set me free.”
He tilted his head an inch to one side, though otherwise he didn’t move a muscle. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hate me, then.”
She nodded, understanding that there was to be no reprieve. She reached out, forcing her hands not to tremble, and carefully unbuckled his belt. She felt him watching her, but she didn’t raise her eyes to his face again.
She unbuttoned the top of his jeans, and as her hands grazed the denim she felt the heat rising from him. She sensed the swollen bulk of his penis under the cloth. Instinctively, she cupped it with her palm, as a sudden tactile memory burned through her.
She had thought this would be strange, after all these years, after all the anger. But though their hearts had grown apart, grown bitter, their bodies were still the same. This was still Trent, her Trent. She knew him. She knew what he felt like, the shape and warmth and musky smell of him.
He pulsed under her hand. He needed this. She remembered how he had always looked as he first thrust into her, an agony of tension and heat, as if his body was on fire, and only she could put out the flames. It had thrilled her, but it had scared her, too, because she sensed a power she couldn’t control.
She slid the zipper down one millimeter at a time, knowing that the pressure was dragging along the length of him like a slow torture. When it was fully open, she pulled back the edges of the denim, slid her hand under the cotton boxers, and took the hard fullness of him into her hand.
He groaned. He throbbed once under her fingers, and she was shocked to realize that something hot and deep inside her was throbbing, too.
She wanted this. For the first time in her life she desperately wanted to feel this velvet steel against her teeth, her tongue. Her mouth curved, instinctively knowing what to do.
She bent her head. But then, out of nowhere, his hands were against her hair.
“What?” His voice was hoarse. “No foreplay?”
She drew a jagged breath. She looked up at him, feeling slightly dazed. Frustration coursed through her. She was ready. He was ready.
“What do you mean, foreplay?”
He rose to his feet in one graceful motion, his hands urging her up along with him. Before she could orient herself, he held her buttocks and lifted her onto the table.
“I mean this,” he said. He slid his hand under her nightshirt and eased off the panties she wore beneath.
He tossed the bit of silk onto the floor and then returned to her, running his rough hands up the length of her thighs. Her knees fell apart, as if they were marionette legs controlled by invisible strings. He went without hesitation to the aching, moist spot he knew so well, and with perfect confidence began to stroke, and press and circle.
She grabbed his shoulders, weak and suddenly dizzy. His fingers were hot, and she was hot, and it felt wonderful and dangerous. It took her breath away.
“Trent,” she said, though the word sounded as if it came out on a choke.
He gazed down at her. She wondered whether she looked as dazed as she felt. He smiled cryptically, and then he bent his head and kissed her on her lips. The touch was sweet and lingering, a strange contrast to the hot domination of his fingers.
“It’s all right, Susannah,” he whispered. “Don’t fight it. Lean back.”
His voice alone controlled her. The cool cork somehow met her back, though her hips were half on, half off the table, her legs dangling helplessly over the edge.
But he took her feet, and gently rested her legs across his shoulders. He carried her, braced her, and she was completely open to him. It felt so right, strangely safe, and her hips began to move on the table, shifting slightly, responding to his fingers.
And then, when she could hardly think, it wasn’t his fingers anymore. It was his mouth, and his tongue and tiny, fiery hints of teeth. And then came dark heat, and the softest, coaxing pull.
He’d never done this to her, no one had ever done it, but it was perfect, like watching fireworks from a river, like being the fireworks and being the river, like pushing and pulling, like coiling and burning, and burning…
And finally the explosion that somehow she knew she had been born for.
When it stopped, she had no idea how long she lay there. She wasn’t sure she’d ever breathe normally again, or sit up or speak. But somehow, little by little, her heart subsided to normal, and she felt reality gathering around her.
She sensed movement, and when she opened her eyes, Trent was sorting out her nightshirt, pulling it down over her thighs. He carefully eased her legs down so that her feet just barely touched the floor.
With one firm hand behind her shoulder, he nudged her to a sitting position.
And then he began to
