Slaves of Love by Opal Carew Page B

lies.”
    “You won’t let me explain?”
    “Why should I? I remember all too well how good you are at deceit.”
    He stepped toward her. Her back stiffened, and she refused to step back, but she couldn’t quite hide the flicker of trepidation in her eyes.
    “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
    She held up her chained hands, eyes glittering with defiance. The chain clinked together, swinging back and forth in an arc.
    “You hold the key to my destiny. You decide if I live or die. I’d be a fool not to fear you.”
    Unwanted admiration flickered through him.
    He took another step toward her, putting his chest within an inch of the tips of her breasts.
    Keern expected her to retreat, to step back from his looming presence, but she stood firm, claiming a small piece of ground as her own.
    Surveying her with a cool sweep of his eyes, intending to shake her damnable calm, he felt his body tense with anticipation of what was to come. Her simple white gown followed the curves of her body in an alluring fashion -- and only two thin straps held it up.
    He’d waited so long. He’d imagined his revenge a thousand times. Now he could barely restrain himself. But he would. He planned to enjoy this to the fullest. He would linger over every step. Her breasts rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm, though she held her head high and didn’t flinch at his perusal.
    He could wait. To feel her body writhe beneath his own as her vulnerable flesh succumbed to his strength. To taste her sweet flesh with his tongue, especially the honey-tipped nipples that remained in his dreams, perpetually glazed with shimmering droplets of water. To smell the womanly scent of her as she responded to him with the slippery glaze of feminine readiness. To see her face, tilted back in the agony of blissful passion, overwhelmed into vibrant submission. To hear her beg for the release only he could provide, as he was so sure she would, then the strangled moan of pleasure as she slipped from this reality to the “little death” of orgasm.
    Yes, he would enjoy this. But if his desire was for revenge, why did his fantasy include her pleasure? Perhaps it was simply the male need to know he could satisfy his woman.
    He grabbed her wrist and dragged her into his bedroom. “Are you going to fight me?”
    Fear sparked in her eyes, but she jerked her head up defiantly, her tumultuous mane of golden hair tumbling over her shoulders.
    “No,” she stated simply.
    Proud and beautiful. But also deadly, he reminded himself, pushing aside the reluctant admiration.
    “Really?”
    He grabbed her, dragging her into his arms. Her bound hands jerked up between them, sweeping across his groin, triggering a pulsing heat through him. Her palms jammed against his ribs, and she shoved against him, hard, but her struggles were insignificant against his greater strength. He loosened his hold on her, pleased to see the scarlet anger coloring her face as she realized she’d lost control of her composure and belied her claim.
    He brought his teeth to her neck and nipped.
    “I don’t mind if you fight. It’ll be all the more challenging. On the other hand, a quiet submission on your part could provide its own reward -- to us both.” His hand skimmed her form from her hip to the side swell of her breast.
    “If you actually participate, we might both enjoy this.”
    The stiffening of her spine gave him his answer -- the answer he wanted. She would not willingly enjoy this -- did not intend to give him the satisfaction. That would make his revenge even sweeter. Because she would enjoy it, making her humiliation more complete.
    “I won’t fight you. And I won’t enjoy this. If you prefer taking defenseless women against their will, that’s your weakness, not mine.”
    She glared into his eyes with a fierceness of utter strength, of spirit if not of body. Anger prodded him at his growing admiration of her, but he pushed it aside, not allowing anything to spoil this