Sandra Hill (24 page)

“Is that a trick question?”

“Massage, darling. I’m talking massage.”

“Whose massage?”

“Yours.”

There are only two people in this hallway. Me and the naked god. If I’m to be massaged, then the masseur has to be…oh, no!
Her befuddled brain finally cleared.

“No!” she asserted, coming to a halt and digging in her heels, even when he tugged on her hand.

“Yes. I insist.”

“You have no right to insist.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,
querida
. As your husband, it’s my role to protect you and see to your needs. Right now, your aching, exhausted body needs my ministrations. You will have a massage, make no mistake about that.”

“Listen to me, you blockhead, there will be
no sex
.”

“I know that, sweetie.” He paused, his eyes glittering with a fiery gleam. “Unless you beg for it.”

So that was his game plan. Torture till capitulation. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t make me.”

He arched a brow with amusement. “You either walk or I carry you. Which will it be?”

He carried her, over his shoulder, squealing and pounding on his back, into the master bathroom, where, to her dismay, she saw, once he set her on her feet, that he already had several large bath towels laid out on the tiled floor. Even more shocking were the objects he’d arrayed beside the towels. A silk scarf. A pair of fuzzy mit
tens. A peacock feather from the hall vase. A buff puff. A powder puff. A braided cord belt with beaded tassel ends. What a busy bee the prince had been!

Her eyes shot to his in alarm. He was leaning against the closed door, waiting. His posture said “lazy.” His coiled muscles and tight jaw said “ready to pounce.” The click of the lock said “danger.”

“Are you a pervert?”

That surprised him, and his expression relaxed into a slow smile. “Define pervert.”

“I find it really difficult to carry on a conversation with you when you’re wearing no clothing. Put on that robe.” She pointed to the oversized terry-cloth robe hanging on a wall hook.

“I prefer to give my massages in the nude. Less messy.”

Whoa! What mess?
“Given a lot of nude massages, have you, lover boy?” she inquired snidely, hating the rush of jealousy those images provoked.

“Thousands.” She couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. “And there will be no conversation, by the way. I have rules for my massages. No talking from the massagee. Just one-word responses, when necessary.”

Massage rules? He really must be into kinky stuff. What have I gotten myself into?
“Like?”

“Please. Don’t. Tingles. Hot. Stud. Yeeess.”

“You’re incredible.” She shook her head at his outrageous nerve.

“I know. Take off your dress.”

“Not on your life.”

He shrugged. “Your way. My way. Little difference.”

She licked her lips nervously and backed up slightly as he unfolded himself from the door and began to approach. “Why are you doing this?” she cried out, her back against the wall.

“Because you need it. And because I want to. Take off your dress, Cynthia. I want you to shower first.”

“Oh, so now there’s a shower involved, too. No sex, but two naked people in a shower together, lathering each other up? Give me a break.”

“I wasn’t planning on joining you in the shower, silly girl. Unless you
beg
me to. I have only so much endurance.”

In the end, she took off her dress while he watched. And she showered alone in the glass cubicle, a modern exception to the old-fashioned bathroom with its ball-and-claw tub, while he watched. And she dried herself while he watched. And she combed her hair before the mirror, arms held high, breasts rising and falling with her actions, while he watched.

She was aroused.

He was aroused. That was apparent from his parted lips and dilated pupils, not to mention an impressive erection.

He indicated with a motion of his head that she was to lie on the towel.

She did, facedown.

A slight rustling and the feel of his body heat close by indicated that he’d dropped to his knees. Taking her arms, which had been folded under her face, he arranged them above her head. Before she realized what he was about, he tied the silk scarf around her eyes.

“No,” she protested in a panic, trying to rise up. It was bad enough being naked, but being blind, as well, rendered her totally vulnerable to whatever he wanted to do.

“Shhh,” he said, pressing a hand to her shoulder blades. “Trust me.”

Strangely, she did. “No sex,” she repeated, though.

He chuckled. “Unless you beg.”

From the instant he began to lay his expert hands on her, Cynthia understood that this was going to be much more than a massage.

“You must remain totally passive, Cynthia. Do nothing unless I tell you. Submit to everything.” As he spoke in a low, silky voice, he was warming baby oil in his hands and slathering it over every inch of her skin, from the nape of her neck, down to her toes and out to her fingers. “Place yourself
totally
in my hands,
querida
. Can you do that for me…your husband?”

A little thrill of danger rippled through her body. “I don’t know if I want—”

He slapped her lightly on a buttock with the
tasseled beads. “Shhhh. One-word answers, remember?”

“Why?” He was giving her orders, as if he was the royal majesty and she a mere subject. An uncomfortable image.

Before she could voice her outrage, he spoke again. “In submitting yourself to my will by passively receiving pleasure, you open yourself to the flow of energy coming from my body to yours. The fingertips and hands and mouth and teeth are the conductors, but the message they carry won’t be a physical one. It will be one of love,
cara mia
. If you are open to it.”

Lovemaking without making love?
His words were magical caresses to her battered emotions. Still, a part of her held back. “And you’ve done all this, and said all those loving things, to thousands of other women?”

“Well, maybe not thousands,” he admitted with a husky laugh. “And that was more than one word, naughty girl. I’m keeping a list of all your transgressions, for which you will have to suffer dire punishment later.”

“A punishment which will, no doubt, involve much moaning, I suppose.”

“Absolutely. And you now have two check marks on your transgression list.”

She recalled then that he’d said he hadn’t performed this special massage for thousands of women. “How many? Other women, I mean?”

He hesitated. “None.”

None?
Cynthia’s heart sang at the news, im
probable as it was. “Hah! I’ll bet your eyebrow is twitching.”

“No, it’s not, my suspicious wife. And you have four check marks, in case you’re interested.”

“Then how do you know all this massage stuff?”

“Five transgressions! Geesh, are you a glutton for punishment? If you must know, I read a book. No, don’t snicker. Really, I did. But I never tried it on anyone else. I think…I think I was waiting for you.”

Waiting for me? Oh, if only that were true!

A throbbing silence followed in which Cynthia decided, for once in her life, to take a chance. Go against the tried and true. She would give up her will to another, and prayed to God that he would live up to her trust.

For an hour and more, he worshipped her body by stroking his palms over the slick surfaces of her skin. Wide sweeping caresses. Circles. Short skimming strokes over sensitized flesh. Then he moved to kneading the large muscles in her back and arms and legs, even the insteps of her feet.

After that was friction—delicious exercises in how textures affect the body’s senses. The soft but firm press of skin against skin. Feathery tracing of curves, followed by the harsher abrasion of the buff puff, then back to the whispery tendrils of a powder puff. A soft brush, a fuzzy mitten. And if that wasn’t enough, he began per
cussion—the gentle pounding of her body surface.

All this he did, then flipped her over on her back and started over again.

Never once did he touch her breasts or genital areas. He didn’t need to.

The entire time he whispered soft praise for her individual body parts and wicked, wicked words of what he intended to do to those body parts someday…but not today, because he’d promised her no sex…unless she begged. And in the end he punished her, as he’d promised, for not adhering to his rules, and she moaned as he’d promised, and she wished she’d never made him promise to honor her conditions.

When he was done, having reduced her to a boneless, mewling repository for his flow of sweet love energy, only then did he sit back on his knees, straddling her thighs, and release her scarf. And she saw that he was very, very aroused.

“I love you,” he whispered.

She thought she said the same, but perhaps not. Her body was so eroticized, she felt disoriented. Holding her arms open for him, she did what he’d probably planned all along.

“Please,” she begged.

But he shook his head slowly from side to side, and leaned forward to press a soft kiss to her lips. “Not now, my love. Not like this.” In one fluid movement, he stood, lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.

Tucking her into the cool sheets on her side, he slid in behind her and wrapped his arms around her, enfolding her in his spoonlike embrace. As they began to drift off, he kissed the oily satin of her bare shoulder and murmured sleepily, “We will work things out,
querida
. I promise. Sweet dreams.”

Sweet dreams awakened P.T. in the middle of the night.

Well, actually, they weren’t sweet at all. They were hot. Very hot…and raw…and sinfully carnal…a man’s fantasy.

He smiled against a pair of warm lips that were kissing him, openmouthed and wet. A pointed tongue delved into his mouth, like an invader staking territory. Not that he was fighting back. Hell, no.

But there was more
…much more
action going on.

The woman was elevating herself over him on all fours, breasts swinging in a tantalizing arc across his chest hairs. Before he could grasp what she was about, she eased herself down onto his erection
—Peter is in great form tonight
.

This was pure heaven. God must be rewarding him for his earlier chivalry in foregoing sex with his wife after driving himself practically up the wall and back again with his masochistic massage.

The woman just sat there, impaled, waiting, watching him. Then, when she sensed she had
his full attention
—when had that ever been in doubt?—
then she raised herself up to a sitting position. He moved even deeper inside her, filling and stretching her to the limit and then some. Arching his neck, he gritted his teeth against the overwhelming waves of pleasure washing over him. Peter was in penis paradise.

When he made love to a woman from the top position, he savored the intense, concentrated feeling of her body clasping him, like hot, lubricated fingers. But when the woman sat astride, like his dream lover was now, oh, it was so much more subtle. Then, a man had to concentrate to prolong the lapping and stroking, almost licking sensation of her inner folds on his organ.

But P.T. couldn’t concentrate. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to be prolonging the main event for very long at this rate, even though the woman hadn’t begun her strokes.

“Are you ready to beg?” a silky voice asked.

Huh? Since when do dream lovers talk?
A sneaky suspicion crept into P.T.’s testosterone-dazed brain. He cracked open one eyelid. Then both eyes flew wide open.
Holy hell!
Cynthia was sitting on him like some princess on a throne, grinning like the cat that swallowed the milk.

“Cynthia?” he cried out, reaching up to lift her off him.

“Oh, no!” She laughed and rocked her hips around in a perfect circle. Then reversed the movement.
Oh, God! She’s playing hula hoop with Peter.
Then she stopped. She just stopped
and smiled at him, a teasing, exultant, I’ve-got-you-by-the-balls expression of challenge.

“What are you up to, Cynthia?” he ground out.

She leaned forward and tweaked him on the chin. “I’m not the one who’s up. You are. I’m waiting for you to beg, Prince Peter. Remember, no sex till the begging begins.”

“That was supposed to be you, Cynthia. Move, dammit, before I explode.” He tried to grasp her hips and make her begin the strokes that would bring him release.

She knocked his hands aside. “I already begged…hours ago. Now it’s your turn.” Meanwhile, she was doing something really interesting with a strand of her hair, brushing it back and forth across one of his nipples. He wasn’t usually sensitive there, but now he swore there was a direct electrical current to the pulsing rod imbedded in her circuit walls.

Wrapping her fingers around his forearms, she extended her arms so that her upper body bowed backward, then spread her legs flat, parallel to his, and let herself spasm around him. He couldn’t tell if she was climaxing or making her inner muscles work. Either way, he was impressed.

Her posture gave him access to her breasts, which she probably didn’t realize. He raised his head and took one nipple into his mouth. It was big and hard and incredibly sweet. With his first suckle, she let out a primitive, needy wail.
Now
she was climaxing, and he was trying to buck up
against her to begin the strokes that would start his climax, too. But the stubborn witch wrapped her legs around his and refused to move, even when she was unraveling around him.

“Sonofabitch!” he growled in surrender. “Please. I’m begging. Please, please, please, please, please!”

Only then, with sobs and panting noises, did she begin to move on him, a slow, unsteady lifting and easing down. Too slow, too damn slow! He flipped her over on her back, still inside her, and laced his fingers with hers. Then he began the long, hard, pummeling strokes that were essential to ease this building firestorm. He had no idea what words he was uttering as he kissed her lips, laved her nipples, nibbled at her ears…the whole time pummeling her against the mattress. She bent her knees to cradle his hips, but he was out of control. Long strokes became shorter and rougher and still he was like a piston, driving, driving, driving toward…