Perilous Pleasures by Jenny Brown Page A

gentle her. It moved over her rigid shoulder with a touch so light, she didn’t know if it was his flesh that touched her or his shadow.
    He murmured what sounded like endearments, though she didn’t know the language in which he spoke them. His subtle hand caressed her arm, circled her wrist, and paused as if marveling at their slimness. Yet his eyes were still pressed shut, as if he were asleep. She found herself breathing in time with his longer breaths, until her pulse matched his. Though even as she calmed, she sensed him still wanting her and needing her, and caring that she find pleasure in his touch.
    Only now did he reach for her cleft and push one finger inside her, gently, stroking the tip of her cunny with his thumb. It was so shockingly intimate an invasion that she had to fight against the urge to shrink away. She’d come to his bed for this and she must do it. And yet, as his finger continued to tease her, it stirred the most extraordinary sensations, as if he knew almost before she did what kind of touch would please her. His other fingers slid over the point where all her longing burned, filling the world with bright ribbons of sensation, until, unimaginably, she found herself wanting all of what he’d soon give her.
    Not because it would free her, no, but because he’d made her want it.
    This was more shocking, still. She’d never known that the woman could want it. Surely her mother had never mentioned that in all her many lectures on the subject.
    But she had no time to wonder. The hunger his hands were arousing was growing every second. The yearning that welled up now in her secret place flowed like warm honey through her entire body. His sliding fingers danced on the slickness that flowed from her desire, teasing her into madness. Then he raised himself above her and prepared for the thrust that would annihilate that need.
    She braced herself for it. Huge as he was, how could she bear his entry? As she tensed, her arm jerked involuntarily, and her elbow gouged into Lord Ramsay’s flank.
    With a cry he awakened.
    His arms, which had been holding her so gently, tensed into steel-hard bands. He twisted, nearly pushing her off the bed. Then, as if still trapped in a state between sleep and wakefulness, he shook his head, as if to clear it, and whispered in a tone of barely suppressed horror, “Who are you?”
    â€œZoe.”
    She froze, then groped around her dressing gown’s pocket for her knife; though when she found it, it felt so tiny in the face of his strength—and his fury.
    â€œWhat the bloody hell were you doing in my bed?”
    He must never find out. She must feign a childlike foolishness, as her mother did when her schemes failed. So with trembling lips—which there was no need to counterfeit—she whispered, “I couldn’t stand the suspense. It was only a matter of time until you made me your mistress. I wanted to get it over with.”
    â€œI thought I’d made it damnably clear I did not wish to make you my mistress. The thought disgusts me. How could you ever have imagined such a thing?”
    She fought back the pain his words evoked. She’d always been told no man would ever want her, but, even so, his revulsion taught her, too late, of the hope she’d been harboring that it might not be true. When he’d held her in his arms just now, he’d made her feel beautiful and desired. She’d allowed herself to dream. Now his words brought her back to earth, choking her with humiliation. But there was no time for self-pity. His anger was growing by the minute.
    She forced herself to speak. “You said you might take my maidenhead, for revenge—if that was the Dark Lord’s intent in fetching me.”
    â€œBut if you feared that, why seduce me? That makes no sense—and I thought you prided yourself on your sense.”
    â€œI did.” The words came out as a squeak.
    She hung her head, as if