Sara Craven - Witch's Harvest

‘Because I wanted to help,’ Abby said breathlessly. ‘You—seemed in a bad way, and I didn’t think you should be alone.’

‘How noble of you, querida ,’ mocked Vasco. ‘I have no argument with that. I am quite ready to be consoled, as you see.’

‘No!’ Abby wailed. ‘You don’t understand …’

‘I understand quite well.’ The long fingers slid into the neck of her robe, pushing it off her shoulders. ‘Your solicitude for me is charming, especially when you are only half dressed. You have aroused my—er—curiosity, senhorita. I wish to see more of you.’ With cool insolence, he untied her sash so that the robe fell open completely. ‘Bela,’ he said in lazy approval.

She said unevenly, ‘Please let me go. Whatever you may think, I didn’t intend this … I only wanted to help …’

‘And so you are, carinha , believe me.’ The dark eyes glittered down at her. With his fingertips he traced the creamy swell of her breasts above the scalloped edging of her bra, making it crazily difficult for her to breathe properly.

She must be dreaming, she thought faintly.

‘You may not have intended this,’ Vasco continued, making no attempt to disguise the scepticism in his voice, ‘but can you look me in the face and tell me you do not want it?’

It was an escape route, she realised dazedly. A way out of this emotional minefield that she desperately needed if she were to avoid making a total and abject fool of herself.

She felt his hand release the clasp of her bra, and gasped.

‘Tell me quickly.’ His voice deepened in challenge. ‘Do you want me to stop?’

Incredibly, shamingly, she was aware of her trembling mouth shaping, ‘No.’

It was madness, and she knew it. In a few hours, Vasco would be gone from her life for ever. He was taking her because she was there, and because he thought cynically that she had thrown herself at him, and neither of those were good enough reasons for what she was contemplating. Her sense of decency and self-respect alone should be making her draw back, making her reject the sensuous, lingering hands so expertly ridding her of her remaining scraps of clothing, the warm mouth hovering tantalisingly mere inches from her own.

But I love him, she thought feverishly, and at least I’ll have this to remember, when I’m alone again.

‘Touch me, little one.’ Vasco brushed his mouth across hers. ‘Show me what you want.’

Silently cursing her total inexperience, Abby lifted her hands to clasp the broad naked shoulders, pulling him down towards her. Vasco made a satisfied sound, deep in his throat, then kissed her again, stroking his tongue along the curve of her chastely closed mouth in intimate invitation. Her whole body seemed to sigh with pleasure as her lips parted for him. At the same time she was dimly aware that he was kicking aside the concealing covers to draw her closer, so that she lay against the warm, muscular length of his urgent body.

The touch of his bare skin against her own was a wild and potent magic. Of their own volition, it seemed, her shy hands began to move, to explore and caress, discovering the realities of bone, muscle and sinew. She was beyond all fantasy already. The most her wistful dreams had ever created for her was, perhaps, a brief kiss under the mistletoe at some Christmas reunion.

Then the dark head bent towards her breasts, and Abby’s head fell back as a little startled cry escaped her. Vasco’s mouth felt like the brush of silk against her slender, scented curves, his tongue a smoothly sensual torment as it explored the swollen heat of her nipples. For the first time in her life she felt her whole body clench in an agony of fierce and frantic excitement.

So this was desire, some part of her brain thought dazedly. It was light years away from the kind of pallid enjoyment she had experienced from Keith’s kisses.

His hands were moving, gliding caressingly over each curve and hollow, down the length of her body to her hips. He paused then, tantalising her, as his fingers traced slow, erotic spirals across the flat planes of her stomach. She lay still and pliant, letting the need, the anticipation build like a quiet storm within her.

Vasco kissed her mouth again, and this time her response was immediate, her lips parting hungrily in sensuous ardour, her own tongue moving in restless delight against his.

Her body was melting in abandonment, her slender thighs slackening involuntarily, as his hand moved again, sensually insistent, explicitly demanding. Shock jarred through her being, commingled with piercing, blinding desire.

‘Touch me,’ he commanded again, his voice husky.

She knew the kind of intimacy he was demanding from her, and for a moment her inhibitions rushed back to engulf her. It suddenly occurred to her that everything was moving too far too fast. She wasn’t ready for this, any of it. Because no matter how wantonly her body might be reacting to the almost calculated expertise of his lovemaking, in her mind she was still Abigail Westmore, spinster.

Impatient at her hesitation, Vasco captured her hand and carried it to his body in silent exhortation. Momentarily she was stunned, shattered by her own ignorance and inexperience. Then, shyly at first, then with increasing confidence, her caresses paid homage to the strength and power of his maleness, while he murmured his enjoyment against her body.

She had at some point stopped thinking, it seemed. In place of the composed, rational being she’d taken for granted was some wild, mindless creature, wholly at the mercy of her sensations and instincts. Touching, she knew dimly, was not enough. Her body burned and ached for more, and as if he sensed her passionate desperation Vasco moved, poising himself to claim her.

His mouth took hers hungrily, almost violently, and at the same moment his body pushed into hers in stark, compelling demand.

Suddenly, horrifyingly, Abby was in pain. She cried out against his lips, her eyes dilating in panic and confusion, trying to wrench her wincing body away from him.

She thought he would stop. But he did not. Instead, his hands slid under her hips, lifting her slightly towards him as he thrust forward, subjugating her completely. She tore her mouth from his, moaning, biting at her lip.

‘ Idiota! Why didn’t you tell me?’ His voice was husky. ‘Be still, or there will be more hurting.’

He made no attempt to move, either to withdraw, or further his possession of her. Instead he held her in his arms until the hurt-frightened trembling subsided, and she was quiescent under the imprisonment of his body.

Then, without giving her time to protest, he began to kiss her again, tiny, fleeting caresses on her face, throat and breasts. The motion of his body inside her was gentle too, coaxing her to join him in some universal rhythm.

She could feel this strange beguilement reaching for her, enfolding her, seducing her against her will, and beyond all control. But she had to fight it. Had to, or she would be lost for ever. Her mind saw this with a cold clarity. This new subtlety, this appearance of tenderness meant nothing at all. He was using her, that was all, manipulating a situation her own naïveté had created.

He didn’t care about her, and why should he? She was merely a convenient body to be enjoyed, and that wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

A voice she hardly recognised as her own said, ‘Stop—please!’

‘Deus, querida!’ It emerged as a groan of disbelief. ‘You cannot mean it?’ His eyes met hers in a kind of anguish. ‘Are you in pain still?’

‘Yes.’ Her face was set and stony as she looked back at him.

He said something softly in his own language, and for a moment his hand stroked her hair back from her damp forehead. The unexpected caress almost unnerved her. It made her want to cling to him, to tell him everything she felt for him in her heart, and that was impossible.