Anew: Book One: Awakened (4 page)

As he does, I watch the play of emotion across his face. He
looks like a man in the grip of a compulsion as irresistible as what I myself
am feeling, a ravenous wildfire of hunger for each other that threatens at any
moment to rage out of control.

Having freed my braid, he wraps it around his hand and gives
a tug, drawing me even closer to him. A low groan breaks from him as his mouth
claims mine, sucking at my lower lip. I feel the sudden, sharp nip of his teeth
before his tongue plunges into me, exploring, stroking, demanding.

Abruptly, my legs give way. I catch hold of his shoulders
just in time to avoid sliding down the length of his body to his feet.

A shudder runs through him. I can feel how desperately he is
fighting for control.

“Last chance, Amelia,” he says against my mouth. “Go back
inside now.”

I’m beyond being able to speak. All I can do is shake my
head.

A long quiver of anticipation runs through me as he grips
the neckline of my nightgown. With his eyes locked on mine, he slowly pulls the
garment down to below my naval. My wrists are caught in the sleeves, trapped
against my hips. I feel the rain cool against my back, sizzling away the heat
pouring from me, from him, from us.

Looking down at my exposed flesh, he groans. “You are so
beautiful.”

Releasing my braid, he wraps his fingers around the base of
my breast, his long fingers squeezing lightly, caressing, and lowers his head.
I feel the rasp of his stubble against my skin in the moment before he sucks my
nipple into his mouth, swipes his tongue over me--once, twice--and sucks again
hard.

A cry of mingled shock and pleasure erupts from me. I grab
hold of his hair with both hands and pull. He releases me but only for a
moment. Covering my breast with his roughened palm, he circles it against the
hypersensitive nipple as he takes the other into his mouth and subjects it to
the same exquisite torment. I writhe against the column as all thought of
trying to stop him vanishes.

Abruptly, he lifts his head. What I see in his eyes should
frighten me but I’m beyond that, driven by need for this man that eclipses all
else. My throat is so tight that only a whisper escapes me.

“Please…”

For a moment, I am terrified that he will not respond, that
he only means to toy with me, proving his mastery and leaving me to suffer for
defying him. But if any such thought has occurred to him, he is beyond acting
on it. Instead, he makes a low, guttural sound and bends, tucking an arm under
my knees and lifting me effortlessly.

A few quick strides and we are in the golden room. He kicks
the doors closed behind us, carries me over to the bed and drops me flat on my
back. Before I can draw breath, he comes down on top of me, kissing me deeply
if swiftly, his mouth trailing from mine down my body until he is stopped by
the nightgown bunched around my hips. Sliding his hands under me, squeezing the
cheeks of my derrière, he pulls the gown the rest of the way off.

He is still wearing the pajama bottoms but even so the
combined sensation of his skin against mine with his weight and strength
controlling me is more than I can bear. Desperate for what I can barely
glimpse, I struggle to move as my hands push against his shoulders.

“Please…Ian…please!”

I’m not resisting…exactly. But I need…something…to touch
him…to have some control over what is happening to me…

Against my throat, he murmurs, “Another time, luscious, I’ll
give you free rein but not now.”

Before I can more than dimly realize what he intends, he
grasps my discarded nightgown and coils the fabric between his hands, pulling
it taut. An instant later, my arms are stretched above my head, my wrists
secured to a column of the bed.

The sudden crash of reality with the fantasy image I had
minutes before on the balcony sends a surge of panic through me. I cry out at
my own helplessness and begin to struggle in earnest.

But not for long. His breath warm against my skin, he
murmurs, “Easy, just breathe, Amelia. Breathe.”

Gasping, I try to do as he commands. He smiles at my effort.
“Good girl, so good.”

His approval sends another deep quiver of pleasure through
me that persists as he spreads my legs, bending them at the knees so that I am
suddenly open and fully exposed to him. I feel the heat of his scrutiny in this
most intimate place before he lowers his head between my thighs, the rough silk
of his cheeks nuzzling me.

He looks up and his eyes meet mine down the arc of my body.

“If you touch me, I’ll lose it,” he says, almost
apologetically for what he is denying us both. His voice rasps against my skin.
“Even so this time is going to be fast.”

The broad flat of his tongue lashes out, lapping my most
sensitive flesh from top to bottom again and again in long, firm strokes before
the tip suddenly plunges, swirling into the source of the wetness coming from
deep inside me. The pleasure is unbearable. I writhe under him, moaning
frantically.

In moments, I am on the edge of something agonizing yet
exquisite that I cannot resist and desperately need. It is so close, so very
close--

I mewl in protest as he stops suddenly and slides up my
body. Teasing the tip of my tongue with his, he says, “Taste yourself,
beautiful. You are so damn delicious.”

I all but buck off the bed as a hot, slightly salty flavor
fills me. His hands on my hips press me down again. My breath is coming in
sobs. I’m afraid that I’m going to black out when his thumbs spread me and his
tongue finds the swollen nub where suddenly all the nerve endings in my body
seem to come together. At the same time, he plunges two fingers into me, pressing
against a spot of exquisite sensitivity that I hadn’t known existed. At that
touch, I contract around him in a long, rippling sensation of pure, unleashed
ecstasy.

Distantly, I hear myself scream. Hear Ian, as well, as he
groans, “Fuck, you are so hot!”

His weight suddenly lifts from me. I force my lids open even
as muscles at my core continue to spasm. He is standing beside the bed, staring
down at me, with a look of fierce triumph. Quickly, he strips off his pajama
bottoms.

At the sight of him, I bite down hard enough on my lower lip
to draw blood. He is a tall, broad man and it seems as though everything about
him is similarly proportioned. I entertain a moment of doubt but it vanishes
when he comes down on top of me again.

Feeling him along every inch of me without any remaining
barriers is more than I can bear but he still isn’t done tormenting me. Taking
his length in hand, he draws it up and down along my cleft, the velvety tip
rubbing over my swollen clitoris. The sensation is too intense. Tears flow from
the corners of my eyes.

“I can’t,” I sob. “Not again!”

Abruptly, he reaches up and frees my wrists. His voice is
gruffly tender as he says, “Yes, you can. Put your arms around my neck.”

I obey and am rewarded by the sudden thrust of his cock as
every slick, hard inch fills and stretches me. The small flash of pain is gone
as quickly as I perceive it. But Ian curses under his breath and goes still.

“No!” He can’t stop, I won’t let him. My hips arch upward,
demanding, taking--

A harsh groan rips from him. He begins to move again, his
fingers digging into my bottom, raising me to meet his thrusts. An incandescent
flare of pleasure uncoils inside me where his shaft touches that ultra
sensitive place to such effect that I instantly contract around him. My sudden
acute response doesn’t go unnoticed. He pulls out almost entirely but before I
can find the breath to protest, he returns, giving me just a few inches at a
time until…

As he thrusts against the same spot again, wild, animalistic
sounds erupt from me. From above, I hear a very satisfied male voice.

“That’s it, baby, come for me.”

I am transformed into pure sensation. Thought, reason,
doubt, even need vanish. Only ecstasy exists, growing and growing inside me
until it crests at a peak of incandescent bliss beyond anything I have yet
experienced. Ian’s final thrusts and his own throbbing release hold me poised
there until at last I am gone, hurtled into oblivion.

Amelia

S
unlight
streaming through the French doors, creeping across the ivory and vermilion
rug, inching up from the foot of the bed wakes me. I open my eyes.

The storm has passed but the air
remains charged with the electrical scent of ozone. Without warning, my body
stretches, toes curling toward the foot of the bed, arms reaching until my
fingers brush the column where a few hours ago my wrists were tied. A slow
smile overtakes me.

Oh, my.

Hard on it comes shock. Did
we…did I? The echoes of pleasure deep within my body compete with a lingering
soreness to provide the answer. I am riveted by the memory of pleasure so
intense that it floods me both with yearning and a deep, terrifying sense that
I have stepped into a world I am unprepared to deal with.

If Ian were there to gather me
in his arms, stroke me, soothe me, everything might be all right. But I am
alone. Slowly, I force myself to breathe, seeking a center of calm. I have no
choice but to regain control. This is, after all, the morning when I have been promised
answers.

With that in mind, I abandon the
bed and head for the shower. I keep it cold and set the jets to a punishing
hardness. The shock of icy water hitting along every inch of my body isn’t
enough to banish memories of the night before but it does hold them at a
distance.

Out of the shower, I undo my
braid, give my head a vigorous shake, take a few swipes with the brush and
leave my hair loose. In the mirror, I can see the untamed waves falling midway
down my back. They will have to do.

In the dressing room, I rummage
through rows of garments for day and evening, each more gorgeous than the last,
before finding what feels right. Minutes later, I’m pulling on the ankle-high
leather boots I’ve picked to go with soft pleated chamois pants and a tailored
natural cotton shirt.

I’ve deliberately chosen an
outfit that I think is plain and practical for what I expect to be a serious
discussion. But a glance in the dressing room mirror makes me reconsider.

The pants hug the curve of my
derrière and make my legs look even longer than they are. The dark leather belt
emphasizes my narrow waist while the cotton shirt reveals more of the shape of
my breasts than I’d realized when it was still on the hanger.

I shake my head, reminding
myself that I really must find out who chose the contents of the dressing room
and for that matter, everything in the golden room.

I’m bending down to fasten my
boots when I notice a small gold plaque set into the wall near me, positioned
so discreetly as to be concealed from any casual observer. It strikes me as a
strange place to put such a thing. Peering closer, I make out a single line of
elegant, cursive script etched into the gold: “The Cabinet of Secret Delights”.

How odd. The dressing room is
filled with built-in racks, drawers, and shelves but I don’t see anything that
could be called a cabinet. For anyone who enjoys beautiful clothes, and I’ve
discovered that I do, the room contains many delights but ‘secret’? That
doesn’t seem to fit.

Puzzled, I examine the plaque
more closely. Where the words end is a small depression in the shape of a thumb
pad. Tentatively, expecting nothing, I touch mine to the soft, gleaming metal.
At once, I hear the whir of a scanner followed by a muted click. The wall I am
facing swings open a few inches. Intrigued, I move closer and peer into a crack
of light.

My eyes need a moment to adjust
but when they do I gasp. I am looking into a room smaller than the golden
bedroom behind me but not by much. Windowless, it is softly lit by recessed
lighting in the ceiling and walls that must have come on when I touched the
plaque. Overcome by curiosity, I ease the wall open a few more inches, wide
enough for me to slip through.

My first impression is that the
room is a study in beauty and opulence. Its size is magnified by the gilded
mirrors hanging in ornately carved gold frames that cover almost all the walls
from top to bottom. A soaring ceiling rises to the dome at its center. The
floor is covered by a finely woven carpet in shades of hunter green, ivory, and
ox blood red.

The same colors are picked up by
the ceiling mural that depicts…is that Zeus?...in pursuit of various nubile
females. Successful pursuit, it appears, as the god is shown plunging his
impressive endowment into a succession of startled beauties.

Carnality hangs thick in the air
lightly scented by leather and sandalwood. My first thought is that this is a
private retreat, intended as a place for study or contemplation. Then I notice
the odd furnishings.

In the middle of the room stands
a golden cage. It is perhaps six feet in diameter and at least half again as
tall, constructed of roped wrought iron curled into scrollwork. I stare at the
it for a long moment, wondering what possible purpose it could serve, before my
eye is drawn on.

Nearby is a rectangular bench upholstered
in ox blood leather and set on black wrought iron legs. Iron rings are
positioned at intervals along the bench. Several other pieces in the room are
done in the same colors and style. One looks like a saddle horse, the other is more
puzzling. It’s a chair of some sort but divided so that the legs of an occupant
would be spread wide. What appear to be stirrups or restraints of some kind
dangle from this strange apparatus.

At least two other items in the
room are more recognizable. One is a gracefully elegant chaise lounge, carved
and gilded in the style of the room, a voluptuous piece of furniture filled
with curves and pillowed surfaces. The other is a large chair, really a throne,
set at the far end of the room and positioned to observe all parts of it.
Directly opposite this is a polished wooden X more than six feet high. Secured
to the far wall, it is padded with leather and studded with more of the iron
rings.

I take in all this within
moments of entering the room. Almost as quickly my mind does what it did when I
first stood beside the golden bed. A series of images, in equal measure
shocking and arousing, unfold. The golden cage, the chains, the strange
furnishings and apparatus …

I am left in no doubt as to the
purpose of this room or the nature of its secret delights’. Truly, it is a
‘cabinet’ in the old use of the term, a private place intended for a very
specific, in this case erotic purpose.

As though any confirmation is
needed, in a large armoire carved with images of satyrs and nymphs I find an
array of implements hanging from pegged racks and laid out in fitted drawers.
More disturbing than the sight of these objects is the fact that I understand
their use.

By the time I’ve gone past the
floggers and crops, the tapered steel butt plugs in a range of sizes, the sets
of smooth ben wa balls, the nipple clamps of various designs, the cuffs,
collars and the extendable metal bars I’ve seen more than enough.

With a last stunned glance all
around, I retreat back to the dressing room. The concealed door slides closed
behind me. Staring at it, I realize that it gives no hint of what lies on the
other side.

Questions clamor through my
mind. Who created the secret cabinet? Who knows of its existence? Does Ian?
That last thought sends a furious wave of heat crashing through me.

Whatever its secrets, they will
have to wait. I have other, now even more urgent questions for him.

Back in the golden room, I am
about to open the door to the hall when my glance falls across the rumpled bed.
In the sunlight from the balcony, a splatter of small bloodstains stands out
darkly against the pale sheet.

My hand freezes as I remember
the moment of Ian’s penetration, the sound he made between a groan and a curse,
and his sudden hesitation.

In the reflection of the tall
mirror opposite the bed, I see myself. My eyes are dark pools of confusion that
mirror my thoughts. I possess a seemingly extensive knowledge of sex and
sensuality, including some of their more extreme manifestations.

That being the case, under what
possible set of circumstances could I have been a virgin until a few scant
hours ago?

Since the moment I awoke, questions have filled my mind. Now
for the first time, I wonder if I truly want the answers.