Ravishing Ruby (10 page)

Her body swayed, even as he pulled out, a great breath of cool air filling her lungs.

She would have fallen if he had not still held her, his hands sliding down to hold her more secure. And then she was floating, lifted, cushioned by both Derek's warmth and the pillows.

Her eyes still closed, she let a small smile lift her cheeks, even as she felt the tears that still dampened her cheeks.

Derek held her against him, so fragile and vulnerable. He'd never felt anything like what had just happened. It had been so much more than a climax, so much more than the simple relief of a good fuck.

Oh, it had been a good fuck, the best.

But more—he didn't even know how to explain what had happened. The sight of those few tears trailing down her cheeks had done something to him, something he did not understand.

There had never been a more erotic sight, a vision that hardened his cock faster, that threatened to have him come in his trousers before they even touched.

Madame Rouge. Ruby. Emma. Afya. He didn't even know who it had been, or had it been all of them, that woman who surrendered herself so completely, who offered her tears not in pain, not in joy, but in simply being, in simply giving?

And she had given. He didn't know how he'd felt it, but he'd felt her surrender, felt her offering—and it had torn him apart, even as it had made him more of a man than he'd ever been.

Pulling her closer, he cuddled her in his arms, wishing he could protect her from the world, could protect her from whatever it was she had so needed to escape. For he could not fool himself, she had surrendered to him, but it had been more than that. She had needed escape and he had granted it—as she had granted it to him.

But that did not make what they had shared any less real. There was something between them, something powerful.

He bent his head into her curls, soaking in her scent. Roses and woman, but only one woman, only this woman. It was a smell he would dream of for the rest of his life. He could imagine waking and reaching for her, wanting her for the rest of his life.

Bloody hell, something really had happened to him. He was turning sentimental, something he never did, and certainly not with a woman. Sex was sex. Fucking was fucking.

He had never pretended there was more, never pretended to believe in love.

And he didn't know her. How could he even think of her and love together?

Ruby?

Madame Rouge?

Emma?

He couldn't even put a name to her. He certainly couldn't be thinking of spending his life with her.

His world was a practical world, from the time he'd accepted that he was responsible for his own choices, for his own life, from the time he had done all he could to reconcile with his family, to become a man they could be proud of—from that time to this he had always planned his actions, ordered his life.

Ruby was no part of that plan.

He was getting married—to Anne. He could not afford dreams.

But he could afford a little bit more fun, a little bit more of the game. He could afford this night and perhaps a couple more.

“Afya, my piece of shadow, did you want to dance for me? Is that why you came to me in bells?”

Dance? Did she want to dance? Ruby tried to bring focus to her mind. Dance? How was she supposed to think after that? Her whole body still felt molten and her brain nonexistent.

And she hadn't even climaxed. Her body still ached for release.

Dance?

Could she dance like this?

She didn't know if she could move, didn't know if she wanted to move.

Why couldn't he just leave her as she was, let her continue to float?

Only she was coming down anyway. Prickles of her life were beginning to intrude, memories she did not want to think about.

Grandfather.

Marriage.

No.

She turned her face into Derek's chest and breathed deep. Comfort. Safety. Derek.

Although her nether regions seemed to think there was more to it than that.

“Well, my sweet shadow, are you going to dance for me? Or did you have something else in mind?”

She allowed herself one more indulgence of staying in the moment, of being cocooned in his arms. Then, slipping free, she let the game begin again. Taking her previous position on the floor before him, she pushed back all thoughts of her own life, of her own problems. She would take Derek's offering and hold the real world away for a little longer.

“And does my master wish me to dance? Afya asked, her head again bowed. “I am afraid I no longer have all my veils to remove.”

“Your master would love to see you dance. You can put the scarves on again if you wish. Just remember, your body is mine to enjoy. Let me see it move.”

“I have no music save for my bells.”

“I do not see that as a problem. Begin.”

“As my master desires.” Afya rose to her feet as gracefully as she could and quickly reattached the scarves. She had not been trained in dance before coming to the harem, and she could only hope that her master would not be displeased. The other dancers in the harem were surely more graceful than she.

A light tap of one foot and then the other. A jingle and then another.

A sway of hips. The metal coins at the belt on her waist added to the rhythm. A tap. A sway. The long scarves draping her legs brushed and danced with her, their soft touch lighting her skin.

Still, her head stayed bowed, her long hair hiding her breasts from him, from her master.

It was strange to dance so unbound, to feel each bounce of step and rotation of hip. The rhythm grew faster, her feet moving with speed and dexterity. In a sudden movement, she moved her hands above her head, letting her hair fly back. The many bracelets she wore clinked and jangled.

She could feel her breasts rise and fall, every movement causing them to move, the still-heated tips growing tighter and tighter.

Yet, she did not look at her master, could not bear to see if her movements pleased him, if he desired her, if he would need her again.

Every movement was designed for him, had been planned for his pleasure, but now she knew fear.

What if she was not enough?

What if he desired some other more?

Her pace picked up. Her hair swirled about her. Her breasts bobbed and swayed of their own accord.

Faster. Faster. And then slower—her body an offering.

Slower. Slower.

Her hips arched forward, scarves sliding from skin until her legs were bare before him. She let her back bend, her breasts thrusting up.

Still, she did not look.

Where had she learned to do that? He'd never seen anything so beautiful, so erotic, so exotic. He'd thought almost the same thing minutes before, but it was just as true now as it had been then.

She was incredible.

She truly did move him in time and space, make him feel the sultan, judging his slave, deciding her desirability, deciding her fate.

And he knew exactly how he would decide hers. He focused on the swaying hips, the scarves sliding and slipping, revealing one moment and covering the next. “I believe the scarves have been on long enough.”

She didn't answer, but her long, slender fingers pulled at an emerald-green swatch of silk hanging from her right hip. A quick pull and it fluttered to the ground. Another pull and a red one fell from the right.

Her hands slid up the curve of her belly, past the sapphire that glistened there, up to the full curves of her lower breasts, lifting them, holding them out for him, for his appraisal.

His mouth grew dry. His cock rose against his leg, hungry and needy.

Damn, this woman did things to him as no other. He stretched out his legs, moving to ease himself.

She twirled and bent, hips forward, hips back, a hint of flesh and then another.

One hand slid back down. A green scarf fell. Her whole right leg was bare now.

She twirled faster, the scarves lifting, showing him all, but only for the briefest of seconds.

Another red scarf. A blue one.

Only two remained, one front, one back.

Her hands rose back to her breasts, both of them moving to the nipples, pinching and stretching, even as she still danced.

He remembered his commands of earlier. She was reenacting them. Her eyes closed as she moved. He could almost feel her intake of breath as she squeezed herself, feel her sigh of pleasure.

He shifted again, comfort eluding him.

He unfastened the trousers he had so recently buttoned. That was better. He shifted one more time.

Her eyes remained closed, her fingers still plucking at her nipples, the tips again red and swollen. He wanted to grab her, to pull her to him and devour her. He needed to taste her, to suckle her, to feel her come apart at his touch, and he needed it now.

One hand drifted down again, toyed with a remaining scarf, then worked around her hips to pull the one at the back. It drifted to the floor in a cloud of yellow.

Only one more.

Both hands began to play with the deep-blue silk, pulling it this way and then that, but not quite releasing it.

He found himself leaning forward, his eyes trained, waiting.

A little tug. And then another.

It pulled loose from the chained belt, but she did not let it fall. She held it open before her, a sheer veil. He could see her movements through it, but not the details.

She lowered it a little, and then a little more.

He could see the top of her thatch.

More. He didn't say the word, but he willed it.

And she dropped it. Stepped forward—and then bent back. Her hands arched over her head, almost touching—no, touching—the ground, her feet hips distance apart.

And he could see everything. High pointed breasts. Rounded stomach. Golden curls. And her inner folds, pink and wet and waiting.

It was all he could do not to grab her hips and just thrust into her. Hard. Fast. Now.

Her knees bent, her body sliding forward until she lay upon the floor before him, naked save for the multitude of chains at neck and hips—and those bells, those tiny ankle bells that chimed with her every movement.

For a moment all he could do was stare.

He'd dreamed this dream a million nights in youth, awakened to damp sheets and sweated brow.

Before he was even conscious of the movement, he was on his knees between her legs—and then in her. No finesse. No plan. No making sure she was ready.

Although she was ready, there could be no doubting that.

If heaven existed, this must be it. So warm. So wet. So…there were no words.

He pushed in as far as he could, his balls swinging against her. Then all the way out. She whined her displeasure.

In again. A grateful sigh.

She was perfect.

Out. In. She lifted her hips to meet his thrust, pressing back hard even as he pushed forward, her inner muscles tightening around him.

He felt the tension grow, he'd been ready to burst for onward of an hour and it would not be long now.

Concentration. Concentration.

Hold back.

Stay the course.

She felt so good.

Her knees tightened around his hips. Her hands rose and stroked down his back.

Wait. Wait.

He felt so good. As Derek moved above her, Ruby felt that ache of excitement grow until it almost hurt, felt her body catch fire—it was all she could do not to come apart at each thrust.

But this was for him too. She'd poured herself into Afya's dance, let herself be the creature of shadow that he'd desired, let her body twist and turn as liquid as mist, as enticing as a siren.

She squeezed her thighs tight around him, lifting herself on the balls of her feet, angling her pelvis. More. Just there. Oh my. More. More.

Her hands stroked down the satin skin of his back, pausing to feel and stroke the few rough ridges. Scars? She'd never noticed them. Her mind noted them and then moved on, unable to consider such a possibility at this moment. Down her hands swept, the indent of his waist, the rise of the firm, firm buttocks. God, the man was all power.

His hips thrust forward again, muscles rippled beneath her touch, alive and strong. Her fingers kneaded the strong flesh, grasping and playing. She stroked the V of flesh at the base of his spine, her fingers following the defined crevasse of ass.

He pushed at her harder, his cock hitting her just right, as if he had a map of all her erotic zones.

Her head tossed back.

She was coming apart. She could not help it.

Dammit, she would not come first.

Lifting her hips again to meet his, she squeezed tight, inside and out.

He held back, pulled out again.

She would not last.

Her hands stroked further down, a finger tarried at the puckered hole. His whole body clenched—but not in the desired fashion. She moved on, drawing her hands to the side, grasping his buttocks hard.

He lunged again, angling even higher.

And it was hopeless, her body spasmed of its own accord, leaving her will and her wits behind.

All was him. All was now.

And then she heard her name, felt his body arch above, his jaw strained, his face growing red—and he joined her in paradise.

He collapsed upon her, not mindful of his weight, knowing only that his arms could not support him another moment, that he had no more power, no more thought.

Sweaty brow to sweaty brow, they lay there on the pillows. He felt her hands brush up his body, wondered if she would push him off, expect movement from him, but instead her hands settled on his arms and back, hugging him tight as if she would not let him go.

“I keep thinking it cannot get better and then it does. I fear you may have ruined me for other men.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” He tried to sound cavalier.

She would not have it. “No, I am afraid I mean it. You do things to my body that I had never believed truly possible—and I've observed enough to know.”

He did not want to think about that. He rolled away and to the side, careful not to crush her still-gripping arm. “I would admit I have never known better. I do not know if each experience is better—but I do know each one is the best.”

“That does sum it up rather well.”

They were quiet for a moment then, chests heaving, sweat cooling.

“I am starting to like the games you play.” He left it at that, adding no more words.

She laughed lightly. “I would never have guessed.”

He stayed quiet.

Rolling on her side toward him, she spoke. “The strange thing is, I've never been fond of games myself. I've always had more of your attitude, easy and simple, everything straightforward, although I do like a man with some talent—and someone I genuinely like. If there is no emotion, no genuine liking, the whole thing is unpleasant, and therefore distasteful. I am enough of a woman to require some emotion, some attachment, even when I know how little value such feelings have. And yet with you I seem to have abandoned all my rules and preferences.”

“I am afraid I cannot say the same. I've thought you'd be good for a tupping since the moment I saw you.”

Her jaw grew firm and then relaxed. She laughed again. “I cannot blame you for honesty, and I would perhaps be upset if you were so unflattering as to say you did not want me from the moment you first saw me. I do work hard to make men lust after me, if in a controlled fashion.”

It was his turn to laugh, the rumbling coming from deep in his chest. “I rather suppose you do. Although I would confess that while I thought Ruby was ready for a tupping, it was Emma in her white shift that I found irresistible.”

Her face grew serious. “I spent part of today trying to understand the difference between Emma and Ruby. I truly no longer know which is more real. And now I've added Afya.”

“I can understand the dilemma, although I am sure not as deeply as you. I have never been anything other than who I am.”

“Never?”

He considered. “I suppose when I first returned from the East, determined to redeem myself, there was an element of pretending to be a better man than I thought I was, but then I found out that man was me, that the careless man I had been portraying was far more the false one.”

“I think perhaps you understand far more than I would have credited. When I first became Madame Rouge, when I first put on the wig, it was all a game to me, although a far more real one than we have played these past nights. I would dress for the night, but it all seemed an act, such a calculated pretense. And yet now, I think I am Ruby. It is when I visit my grandparents as Emma that I feel out of place.”

“I do not see why you cannot be both.”

“I always thought I could be, in the proper time and place, but now I wonder. It is not as easy as it once was, each requires something that makes the other imposs—difficult.”

“Why?” He ran a finger down her troubled cheek.

She shook her head. “Roll over. Let me see your back.”

He still wanted the answer to his question, but sensed it would not be forthcoming. With some reluctance, he rolled onto his stomach. Her hands traced over him, heaven's sweet touch, but as he had known they would, they moved to the scars that marked him just beneath the blades of his shoulders.