His Best Acquisition. Tara PammiЧитать онлайн книгу.
if there’d ever been anything civilized in him, he thought with bitter self-recrimination, old blades of guilt and abhorrence flashing between himself and his image. He was well aware of the primitive forces in him. He held them in check with his rigid standards, always. Shame and contempt filled him for dallying with a virgin. He’d stolen from a man he didn’t even know.
How dare she put him in this position?
He moved back to the bedroom to confront his mistake and found her sitting up, the sheet knotted in her fist against her collarbone leaving her pale shoulders bare.
She looked like a bride on her honeymoon, thoroughly tumbled, lips puffy and ripe, hair tousled, expression still retaining some vulnerable innocence while her new knowledge made her skim a hesitant, admiring look over his frame.
That look was a baited hook that caught in his gut. Lower even. The erection that hadn’t completely subsided pulsed with renewed life.
He hated the response he couldn’t control; he refused to be led by it, especially where she no doubt thought she could take him. Planting his feet hard on the floor, he crossed his arms and stood at his full height.
“I won’t marry you.” His cold warning grounded out the sexual electricity still crackling in the air.
Her shoulders flinched before she steadied them. “Did I ask you to?”
“It’s reasonable to assume you’re trolling for a proposal with this little gesture, especially ahead of the money transfer, but forget it. I’m not the marrying kind.” She wouldn’t have tried this if she knew what a monster he really was.
“What little gesture?” She lifted haughty eyebrows.
“A woman’s virginity belongs to her husband.” He’d never forgive himself for this. Fooling around with experienced women was one thing. They had the same unclouded views he did. Innocents had expectations he would never live up to. “I didn’t ask for your virginity, so don’t think you can guilt me into making restitution for it.”
She reddened with insult. Or anger. He didn’t let himself dwell on what she might be feeling so long as he was driving his point home.
“A woman’s virginity belongs to her husband?” she repeated through her teeth. “Welcome to the twenty-first century where a woman’s body belongs to her. It doesn’t look like you’re saving yourself for marriage.”
“It’s a good thing one of us knew what he was doing.” Although he hadn’t. She’d neglected to inform him of one very salient detail. She was craftier than he’d given her credit for, coldcocking him with that one.
“We all have to start somewhere. What good is waiting for a husband who hasn’t once shown up when I needed him? I’m stuck with taking care of myself, aren’t I?”
“And this is how you chose to do it? By throwing away your virginity for hard cash?” Precisely the type of woman he usually dealt with and yes, he supposed they had all started somewhere. He was still left with a pall of disappointment in both of them.
Astonished hurt parted her lips.
Out of habit, he mercilessly sealed over the fissure her crushed expression threatened to make in his conscience, closing himself off to any emotional appeals. Best if she understood he had no heart, but then something in him stirred. Perhaps she really was romantic enough to believe this sort of thing led to a lifetime commitment. The weight of being unable to live up to that expectation settled heavily on his shoulders.
She surprised him by masking her hurt. As though shrugging into a coat, she pulled on an air of dignity. “I made a choice that was mine alone to make. I’m not the marrying kind either.”
He snorted. Innocents like her dreamed of a family. If his own family were alive, they’d expect better of him than the way he was behaving right now. Of course, if they were alive, he’d still be an innocent like her.
“You don’t know me,” she said with quiet assertion. “You don’t even want to. I’m only spoils of war to you. I trust your grudge is satisfied and you’ll leave me now?”
The cool, pithy words struck his abdominals like punches. That wasn’t what this was. Despite hating himself for not realizing sooner that he was her first, the basest male part of him was already anticipating tasting her shoulders and neck again, stroking the warm silk of her back and thighs, making her writhe against him until she was ready to take him into her. And it had nothing to do with revenge.
He didn’t want to leave her—which stunned him—but she had to be tender. He hadn’t been as gentle as he would have been if he’d known… if he’d known…
His skull threatened to split under the pressure of conflicting imperatives. He had to leave her. For now.
CLAIR WOKE IN an unfamiliar place, mind blanking with alarm before her memory rushed back. She sat up, still in Aleksy’s bed, still naked and very much no longer a virgin. Anxiety quickly faded to relief as she saw she was alone. She couldn’t have dealt with him and her mental disarray. Stunned disbelief bounced off crazy elation and crashed into an inferno of embarrassment.
Hugging her knees, she tucked a hot face into them and tried to countenance how she’d let Aleksy do all that to her. She hadn’t grown up with a lot of affection; nor did she possess any long-denied, deep-seated needs for physical closeness.
Yet she’d reveled in Aleksy’s caresses, giving herself over to him without inhibition.
Her heart wrenched as she recalled that the singular experience had cost her his respect. What kind of throwback had such archaic views on virginity? His judgment and contempt had hurt, not that she should care what he thought, but a weak part of her did. She wanted to know he’d enjoyed their coming together as much as she had.
Physical satisfaction was secondary for him, she knew. He’d taken her to strike at Victor and he’d walked out right after, his interest in her gone with the same lightning speed he’d developed it. No one had ever wanted her for the long haul. It was silly to imagine that a man like him, who could have anybody, would be any different.
The door creaked, startling her.
He caught her unprepared for the impact he had on her. He was still wearing the crushed pullover and snug jeans from last night, but he wore confidence like a visible aura so radiant she needed sunglasses. His hair was damp, the short cut combed uncompromisingly to the side. She knew how those soft strands smelled. How they felt between her fingers. Against her breasts.
His gaze locked with hers as though he read the memories she tried to repress. She died a little at being incapable of locking him out, nipples hardening with remembrance of his mouth, loins pooling with excitement for him.
It was distressing to react this strongly, to relive these sensations without him even touching her. It was a massive invasion of privacy. Against her will, her mind zeroed in on that safe moment when they’d been unequivocally linked. He’d been a lover then. She’d felt cherished, not bare and self-conscious like now. Everything in her yearned toward that memory like a flower seeking the warmth of the sun.
But that man was gone. This was the man with the grudge. To him she was a pawn on a chessboard to be tipped over and taken with ice-cold deliberation. And he’d done it.
This was the get up and get out moment, she supposed, her pulse racing.
“Hungry?” He sounded ironic, his deep voice abrading her taut nerves.
Was he taunting her for skipping dinner in favor of sating herself with him? It was cruel. She dug into her deepest reserves of composure, the way she’d done when the school bullies had taunted her.
“I could eat.” She lifted her chin and kept her gaze steady, ignoring that she was on fire