Miranda Lee - Not a Marrying Man

She closed her eyes, blotting out the way his glittering blue eyes were gobbling her up. Perversely, her not being able to see him only increased her awareness of her own appalling excitement. Every muscle in her body tensed up, waiting for his touch. Yearning for it. Dying for it.

His breath on the nape of her neck told her that he’d moved behind her again. He must have put his drink down too, both his hands free to slide up and down her arms, which immediately broke into goose bumps.

‘Do you have any idea what you do to me?’ he murmured as he pressed himself against her naked back, his mouth hovering just above her right ear.

‘No,’ came her shaky reply. She only knew what he did to her, and what he’d done. Reduced to this … this pitiful state where shame and pride were no match for the pleasure of his lovemaking.

Though this wasn’t lovemaking tonight. This was just sex—raw, unadulterated sex.

‘If I were a prince in the Middle Ages,’ he whispered as he took her hands and lifted them high above her head, ‘I would keep you … just like this … locked in a dungeon … with nothing to do but wait for me to come to you.’

She shuddered at the image he’d created.

Why it excited her so much she could not fathom. She should have been repulsed. Instead, she was shaking with excitement.

‘Would you like that?’ he demanded to know, his breathing growing heavier as he pressed himself even harder against her bare buttocks.

‘Yes,’ she choked out.

His naked groan betrayed a level of need possibly even greater than her own.

‘What on earth am I going to do with you?’ he growled.

Amber moaned, having reached that point where pride and shame had become totally irrelevant. She needed Warwick inside her, right then and there, regardless of the fact that she was standing in the middle of a well-lit, glass-walled living room, less than a hundred metres away from where boats full of tourists were enjoying evening dinner cruises on Sydney Harbour.

‘Please,’ she heard herself practically beg as she moved her legs wantonly apart.

Warwick heard the wild desperation in her voice, felt the uncontrollable excitement that had taken possession of her. He should have felt triumphant. Clever old Warwick, knowing exactly what buttons to press and words to say to seduce her into a state of total surrender.

Why, then, did he suddenly feel bitterly ashamed of himself?

The answer was obvious.

Because she loves you, you bastard. She’s not some cheap whore who doesn’t care what you do to her.

But even as he told himself all this Warwick was unzipping his trousers. His conscience kept screaming at him not to, but Amber wasn’t the only one who’d reached the point of no return.

He groaned as he slid into her, wallowing in the feel of her flesh enclosing his like a tightening fist. She made some sound, a moan perhaps, though not of pain, but of pleasure. It was impossible to stop now. With his right hand splayed firmly over her stomach, and his left cupping her right breast, he began to move his hips.

Not so fast, Warwick, he warned himself as his body immediately surged towards a decidedly premature release. His hips, however, refused to obey him. They jerked back and forth with an urgency that would not be denied, his outspread fingers pressing upwards on her belly, lifting her buttocks up higher against his abdomen, the angle affording him a deeper penetration.

Warwick grimaced as he felt the hot blood rushing along his veins. He was going to come! Hell on earth, he hadn’t come this fast in decades!

Amber’s suddenly shattering apart in his arms was a huge relief to his pride, allowing him to abandon what little control he had left.

He cried out, holding her tight against him as he ejaculated with the ferocity of an erupting volcano.

She shuddered with him, the contractions of her orgasm more intense, he thought, than ever before. The fantasy he’d painted about keeping her imprisoned in a dungeon had really turned her on. So much so that she’d forgotten who might be watching what they were up to.

You should do this more often, Warwick. Play erotic games with her.

Up till now he’d hardly touched the sides of what he’d learned over many years of hedonistic behaviour. There was so much more he could show her, and do with her.

The only question was … should he?

As much as Warwick was tempted by the thought of becoming Amber’s tutor in the erotic arts, he knew that the more imaginative and adventurous practices—whilst wildly exciting—carried a degree of danger; the danger of corruption.

The last thing he wanted to do was corrupt Amber. Pleasure her … yes. Satisfy her … yes. Corrupt her? No.

He would not destroy her basic innocence, he decided as he gently withdrew, then scooped her up into his arms. Such innocence was too precious. She was too precious.

He was going to miss her terribly, he thought as he carried her into the bedroom. But not tonight. For now she was still his.

He wouldn’t think about the future. Tonight was for nothing but pleasure.

Hers.

His.

But mostly hers.

WHEN Amber woke the next morning, all her fears that her relationship with Warwick was coming to an end in the near future had been firmly pushed aside. She smiled as she glanced over at his naked body spreadeagled across the satin sheets, his arms and legs flung wide, his chest rising and falling in the slow, deep rhythm of the truly spent.

Amber could well understand his exhaustion. He’d been insatiable with her last night, showing her with his tireless lovemaking that he was in no way bored with her. It still amazed Amber how well he knew a woman’s body and how to uncover a woman’s secret desires. There’d been a time—pre Warwick—when she hadn’t been that fussed about sex. But, from the first night she’d spent with Warwick, she’d become a virtual slave to the cravings he evoked and satisfied, oh, so well. Amber could not imagine living without the pleasure of his lovemaking … could not imagine living without him!

But you might have to one day, whispered the voice of reason as she slipped out of the rumpled bed and headed for the bathroom.

It was a disturbing thought. What would she do when and if that happened?

Amber grimaced, clinging to the hope that maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe her dream of Warwick falling in love with her and asking her to marry him was still a possibility. There were times, like last night, when she was confident that he had. There was love in his lovemaking: a tenderness and consideration that didn’t equate with the cold-blooded womaniser that her mother had more or less described him as last night.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ Amber exclaimed, bolting back to the bedroom and checking the time on the digital bedside clock.

‘Twenty to eleven!’ she gasped aloud.

She immediately raced over to shake Warwick on the shoulder.

‘Warwick! Wake up! Wake up! I need you.’

He lifted one heavy eyelid, giving her a droll if bleary look. ‘You have to be joking, Amber,’ he drawled in that cultured voice of his. ‘I would have thought you’d had enough for at least twenty-four hours.’

‘Not for that, silly!’ she said. ‘I need you to drive me over to Mum’s place before midday, then up to Wamberal. To Aunt Kate’s place.’

His second eyelid opened much more quickly, his sleepy expression replaced by bewilderment. ‘Run that by me again, would you? I mean … I’m absolutely sure that your aunt Kate is no longer in residence. So why are we driving up to her place?’

‘She left it to me,’ Amber announced rather baldly. ‘In her will. A new one which she’d made recently and which has only just come to light. Mum rang me about it last night but I forgot to tell you. No, don’t start asking me endless questions right now,’ she raced on when he sat up abruptly with his mouth already opening. ‘We haven’t the time. We have to be out of here in about fifteen minutes flat if we’re going to get to Carlingford before midday. I promised to pick up the keys to Aunt Kate’s before Mum leaves to go to the hairdresser’s.’

Amber took it as testimony to Warwick’s caring that he didn’t argue, or tell her that he had more important things to do that day. He just got up and got on with what she’d asked. Just after eleven they were zooming through the harbour tunnel, though Amber was still a little tense that they might not make it in time.

‘I’ll give Mum a ring once we’re out of the tunnel,’ she said, and fished her mobile out of her handbag. ‘Let her know my estimated time of arrival.’

‘So tell me,’ Warwick asked with a brief glance her way. ‘In your aunt’s new will—are you the only beneficiary?’

‘No. She left her superannuation policy to Dad. But her house and contents go to me alone.’

‘Hmm. I’ll bet your mother’s somewhat peeved at you being left your aunt’s place, rather than her precious boys.’

Amber’s head swung round at this quite intuitive remark.

‘Did you think I didn’t notice the way she favoured your brothers over you?’ he swept on before she could say a single word. ‘Your father, too. I didn’t have to be in their home for more than five minutes to see the lie of the land. Why do you think I couldn’t wait to get you out of there on Christmas Day? I’m not good at keeping my mouth shut when I’m bearing witness to such an injustice, especially against someone I care about.’

Amber didn’t know what to say. This was the closest Warwick had ever come to saying that he loved her. She was so touched, a huge lump formed in her throat.

‘I … I didn’t realise you noticed,’ she mumbled at last.

‘I noticed all right. The only reason I didn’t say something was because it was Christmas, plus I didn’t want to give your parents more reason to put you down. They’d already made it patently obvious that they didn’t approve of your relationship with me. Not that they said so to my face. I would have thought more of them if they had. Your aunt Kate was a bit of dragon, but at least she loved you enough to give me a piece of her mind.’

‘She did?’

‘Indeed she did,’ he said drily.

Kate had had a reputation for speaking her mind. And a reputation for being a bit of a man hater. Though she hadn’t hated all men. She’d liked Max Richmond and had always sung his praises. But then it was highly unusual, Amber supposed, for a billionaire to give up his jet-setting lifestyle to get married and raise a family away from the spotlight of wealth and fame.

‘What did she say?’ Amber asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.

Warwick shrugged his shoulders. ‘The usual. I was a selfish you-know-what who should be hung, drawn and quartered for taking a sweet young thing like you as my mistress.’

‘Oh,’ Amber choked out.

Warwick’s head snapped round. ‘You’re not crying, are you?’

‘No,’ she denied, but shakily.

‘You are,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I can’t stand it when you cry.’

‘I don’t cry all that often,’ Amber said defensively.

‘You have to be kidding, sweetheart. You cry at the news, and at ads, and during all those soppy movies you like to watch. I put a box of tissues by the sofa to mop up your tears.’

‘They’re not real tears. I’m talking about real tears.’ She’d only wept a few times since moving in with Warwick. Once, when her mother was highly critical of her relationship. And then, when she’d heard that her aunt Kate had died. Oh, and yes, after her argument with Warwick last week.