By Desire Bound Page 20

  That was all she wanted. All.

  The rest was all a bunch of hocus-pocus, that probably any spiritualist in London could have conjured up.

  Exactly. Atmosphere was everything. And where better to per­form a mystical sleight-of-hand than in an isolated grotto in the depths of an impenetrable valley"?

  She was a gullible fool.

  It was all about the diamond and its value.

  And that was all.

  They were going back to England.

  And that was that.

  She climbed out of the bath and found a towel. It was the kind of seasonal rental that provided those things; so that was good. But something to wear—that was a problem, and the shirt and trousers she'd worn under her tunic for the last month would just have to do.

  The khansamer, she discovered, had cleaned them as best he could without having the luxury of washing them. That was good too. She began to feel less like an animal rooting in the wild.

  She tore a piece of leather from her headdress to bind up her hair, and she shoved her bare feet back into the thick walking boots.

  She marched back into the parlor, prepared to do battle.

  Which battle—lust or greed f Or were they inextricably en­tangled?

  She found him lounging on a cushioned wicker chair before a table set for dinner. He'd called for a barber; he'd gotten a shave and a haircut while she bathed, and he sat back now, watching her come in, seeing everything with those eyes.

  He looked more like himself now—too much like himself. Like the Con of the portrait. The Con that

  she'd saved. This Con unnerved her and she didn't know what to say.

  "You might want to wash," she said waspishly, pulling

  up a straight backed chair.

  "I've already done so. Gat is waiting to serve us." Thank goodness. She wouldn't need to talk. She wouldn't need to look at those eyes and wonder yet again how he was seeing her.

  He snapped his fingers and the khansamer appeared, along with the kitchen boy, and set out the tomato soup which was followed by spiced beef and fried potatoes served with chutney and a red pepper conserve.

  She'd never felt so hungry in her life. There couldn't be enough food to fill the void. And Con intently watched her devour every bite.

  Her only recourse was a frontal assault. "So when can we leave for London?" "We're not going back to England yet." There was infinite patience in his tone.

  "Well then, I'll tell you what. Why don't you give me one or two of the remaining Pengellis diamonds, and I'll go back to England, and you can go off chasing ghosts." He ignored that suggestion. "I gave Sidhu another diamond to sell. We're going to need more equipment, and to pay the servants. Clothes. Transportation—" "Transportation—where?" she demanded suspi-

  ciously.

  "I think I know where he went."

  "He? He? That was not a he. That was an it, and I

  don't care where it went. I care where /want to go."

  His eyes gleamed. "The stone won't let you go. Don't you understand? Only when the black diamond is re­covered will the balance be restored. Now listen. I think it draws its power from the diamond, and that's why it was taken. But since the stone was split, the power must

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  be diminished. So I believe it will seek a diamond field from which to draw and stay at a certain level of energy. I don't think it will go to South Africa. Nor do I think it will stay in India. I believe it will unleash its evil among the furthest known diamond fields in the world." "The furthest. . ." she said faintly. "On the Nizmennost Plains of Siberia." "Oh my God." She closed her eyes. The man was mad. "We—you're—going to the most isolated part of Russia on the strength of a hunch?"

  "An educated hunch. An educated deduction. Fewer people. A lot of opportunity to wreak havoc. And an untapped supply of diamonds underground."

  "Hocus pocus," she muttered. "I'm going home." "But I have the diamonds," he said gently. "And—as much as you hate it, Scheherazade—I'm in command."

  How stupid was she, not to have stolen one of those diamonds as a hedge against this lunacy? She couldn't believe her gullibility. The best she could hope for now was opportunity to rectify that mistake.

  She was never going to sleep again. There was only one bedroom in the houseboat, where she'd had her bath. One bed, enshrouded in mosquito netting. One armoire. One washstand. One, one, one.

  And two pairs of eyes.

  In the dark. What did he see?

  She gnawed on the question, as birds as big as vul­tures swooped outside the bedroom windows and the boat rocked gentiy against the midnight tide and cra­dled them in sleep.

  He slept. She thought he slept. Or maybe his all-seeing eyes were busy conjuring up illusions.

  She was finished playing. She had to find where he

  had hidden the last of the diamonds they had removed from their settings. By her reckoning, there should be four left. One would suffice.

  She lay stiffly beside him on the bed, having removed only the heavy boots. In the dark.

  The godawful unholy dark . . .

  He couldn 't see in the dark—

  Unless he was a blasted phantasm himself.

  And maybe she'd once thought he was, back when she'd fallen in love with a portrait. She'd thought he was a god, and because he was dead, she could worship him forever.

  The reality . . . ah, the delicious reality—when she'd been

  in control . . .

  She most definitely didn 't like not being in control. She had to find those diamonds . . . She moved experimentally to check if he were asleep. Not a movement beside her. Deep breathing. Deep dark. She couldn't trust the man. In the dark. She needed to emulate his thinking. Where would a sorcerer conceal his apparatus? One thought oc­curred—and she pushed it resolutely out of her mind. But maybe, she thought a moment later, it was not such a far-fetched idea after all.

  But it meant she would have to put her hands on him, seduce him and leave herself at the mercy of those eyes. In the dark.

  It didn't matter; it was different, wholly different, because of those eyes. She didn 'tfeel so free now in the dark. Everything had changed and she hated it. Nevertheless, the objective was the thing. She was not going to chase a ghoul across two conti­nents just on his whim. She'd had enough of deserts and camps and sultry foreign air.

  She moved restively against him. The diamonds

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  might be in his pockets or in his boots. For all she knew, they were woven in his hair.

  What if she just touched him? Just gently grazed his thigh, by his left trouser pocket. She'd be able to tell if there were a bump or bulge. It was just a matter of lightly brushing her fingers... there, there—and gently there—

  She was breathless, suddenly, as her fingers wafted over the firm hard contour of his leg. Oh God, she wasn't after that. . . not now, not with those eyes.

  Maybe. Maybe . . .

  In the dark.

  In the dark, he caught her hand and pinned it against her side.

  "Darcie, Darcie, Darcie . . ." he murmured, turning and shifting his weight over her. "I was just waiting for you to make a move."

  But now—he could see . . .

  "You're making more of it than it was," she muttered.

  "Ah, Darcie. And you made life so bearable in the dark."

  Always the dark—she couldn 'tget away from it. She couldn 't get away from him.

  Did she want to ?

  He was poised above her, on his elbows and knees; she was surrounded by him, enveloped by his scent, his heat, his desire.

  His lips unerringly touched hers; she shook him away.

  "Darcie—" a whisper against her mouth. A flick of his tongue against her lips. A questing taste. A further foray, and she didn't resist. He kissed like he remem­bered her mouth; lik
e he was still without sight and wanted to explore every inch, with hunger, with knowl­edge, with taste.

  No part of his body touched her, only his mouth, yet

  the sense of him above her pressed against her; she squirmed beneath him, seeking his weight.

  He gave her nothing, except his kiss. He took her with his mouth, thrusting ferociously into the heat and

  wet of hers.

  "Oh God, I missed this . . ."

  That firm carved mouth all over, all inside of hers. That long strong body caging hers. Connected to him solely by the lush hard thrust of his tongue.

  "Darcie ..." Breathless, seeking, devouring kisses—

  in the dark.

  It was still the same, in the dark.

  He was so strong, so forceful, in the dark. He wouldn't

  let her go.

  "Con . . ."

  "No . . . no—"

  Swooping down on her again, like those birds out the window, never caressing her, never touching her except by the fierce greedy seduction of his tongue.

  He meant to make her crazy; he wanted to make her come by the sheer erotic force of his volcanic kisses.

  She felt wet, wild, consumed with wanting him. She couldn't wait to strip off her clothes.

  She reached for him, and he shimmied away from her questing hands.

  "No fair, Darcie . . ."

  "I don't care—"

  She slipped both hands between his legs and cupped him. His resolve faltered as he placed himself in her

  hands.

  "Take me," he whispered, and slipped into her

  mouth.

  She tore at his clothes, arching up toward him as he sprang into her hands. She grasped him hungrily, slid-

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  ing her hands down his jutting length to his scrotum, and under, to the sweet erotic stroke of skin beneath.

  There, just there, holding him tightly in one hand and massaging him gently, sensuously between his legs. Just . . . there.

  And then—

  "Don't stop." His voice was shaky, barely above a breath.

  ". . . couldn't . . ." she sighed, as she alternated the stroking of her fingers with rolling the taut sacs of his scrotum between her hands.

  She was avid for him, all of him, devouring the es­sence of him with her greedy hands.

  He held his body away from her still; all she had was the hard jutting length of him and his voraciously de­manding mouth, and the erotic sense of his containing her with his body.

  All she wanted of him was the hot cream of his de­sire—and she knew exactly where.

  With one hand, she tore open her shirt, and pulled away her camisole to expose her breasts. "I want you here," she whispered. "Come to me here."

  He shuddered in her hands. She felt him quicken in her hands.

  "I want it on my breasts."

  He shoved himself against her encircling hand.

  "I want it coating my nipples."

  He made a deep animal sound and thrust harder against her fingers. She levered herself up against him, holding one breast against the smooth underside of his throbbing length.

  He could feel the hot tight point of her nipple rub­bing against him, and the firm massaging of the fingers of her free hand. She was over and under him, writhing

  against him, massaging him, coaxing him, squeezing and stroking him.

  And he held himself back. He wanted to give her what she craved . . . without spending himself on her. And he felt himself coming. That part of him wanted to give her a fountain of cream. Wanted her to swim in it, bathe in it, absorb it into her body. Wanted her never to go anywhere without wearing his scent on her body.

  It spurted out of him involuntarily, the magma of the

  volcano.

  She swiped it off of him and spread it on her breasts, covering each hard pointed nipple with his luscious es­sence.

  "Like that," she whispered. "And that," as she stroked the essence of him onto her body. "It feels so good . . . You're so powerful . . ."

  He didn't let her finish. He swooped down on her mouth and crushed it, pulling himself away from her hands. If she had so much as moved those hands one fraction, he would have spewed over her, and he wanted to save himself for better things.

  He felt her hands reaching for him; shuddered at the tremulous begging moan against his lips, "Don't. Let

  me ..."

  "You got what you wanted," he growled.

  "I love it—I want more ..."

  "No . . . now you wait until /want to give it to you."

  "You're ready now. I can feel it: if I touch you, you'll

  come."

  "Want to try?"

  "I always want to touch you." She reached out her avid hands and caught him hard between them. "Oh God, you're so hot and hard. Let me ..." She started stroking him, rubbing her fingers along his turgid length.

  "You're not getting any more of me."

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  "I want it. I love it. I'll suck it out of you."

  The image of her hot greedy mouth surrounding him shot to his very vitals. He felt himself quickening, rear­ing back to give her the shot, aching to put himself at the mercy of her succulent tongue and greedy mouth.

  He pulled away roughly.

  "You can't have it."

  "I need more. I want more." Her body undulated beneath him, taunting him, goading him. "You're all ready for it. You're bursting with it. Let me have more. Let me just . . . lick all that deliciousness from right— there—"She grabbed for him, and caught him right at the head. "You're an absolute rock," she whispered, as she rubbed her thumb just at the tip.

  She felt a drop of it pulse at her fingertip, and she levered herself up and licked it, and then she pulled him into her mouth.

  He jerked away abruptly. "I told you—you can't have it."

  "Why—?" A cry of pure lust and need, and he loved hearing it.

  "Because you want it so much."

  "So do you," she whispered.

  "But I love making you beg for it—"

  "Except you're the one on your knees to me," she taunted him.

  "Not for long." With one shocking motion, he pushed her onto her stomach, and his arm snaked un­der it and lifted her onto her knees so that her bottom canted against his hips, "That's better. Now—" He ripped her trousers away from her buttocks and tore off the thin cotton drawers and exposed her derriere.

  She felt him cover her, balancing himself on one hand, and his knees, so that the ramrod length of him rubbed enticingly against her buttocks' crease.

  That felt good, and the sense of him enveloping her, but it wasn't nearly as delicious as owning him with her hands. She felt his fingers slip between her legs, feeling for her opening, slipping easily into her wet. Almost... he was pushing against her buttocks and probing her with his hand. Almost . . . she was breathless with ex­citement. Soon . . . she felt the surge of anticipation, the swell of desire.

  She pushed against him demandingly.

  "What's your problem?"

  "Give it to me." Her tone was as imperious as a queen.

  "When I'm ready."

  She felt his one hand on her hip, positioning her. And then his probing fingers slipped away, leaving her empty.

  Almost. . .

  She wasn't going to beg. She licked her lips, she un­dulated against him, she pushed against his rock hard length, demanding him. She bit her lips so she wouldn't

  beg.

  She couldn't stand knowing he was behind her, throb­bing, naked, ready to explode, and she couldn't have what she most desired.

  She broke. "Do it. "

  "You want it that bad." He had to know.

  "I want it any way you want to give it to me."

  "Good," he murmured in satisfaction, and he reared back and he poised himself just at the apex of her
cleft, and slowly, inch by inch, he penetrated her, pushing into her forcefully, a little of his length at a time.

  He wanted her to feel it—his length, his strength, his potency. And he wanted to embed himself into her so deeply and powerfully that she would never want it from any other man.

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  He was getting there. He was loving it, connecting with her solely by the hard jutting length of him fur­rowing into her. He was almost there, almost buried in her to the root, hip to bottom, his rough pubic hair grazing her tender buttocks, as she bowed on her knees to his virile possession of her.

  For a long lustful moment, he let her feel his power and his might, and he slowly withdrew himself from her with the same slow incremental stroke.

  And then into her again, slowly, giving it to her so slowly, so lusciously, so forcefully—his stroke measured against her whimpers and moans as he possessed her.

  He touched her nowhere else. He took her solely with his penis, methodically and deliberately, giving it to her in short emphatic piston-like strokes that bound her to him as surely as love and kisses.

  She wanted this, this rough raw coupling, she wanted his sex, and his power, and he wanted her, and he would use her need as surely as she used his. It was enough.

  He wanted to give her everything she demanded. But for now, he was going slow, excruciatingly, heatedly, throbbingly slow, pushing in, in, in; pulling out, out, out. Pushing in to the hilt. Pulling out to the very tip, his penis pulsating to her moans, aching for release, determined to drive her to the very edge so she would never crave another man's sex.

  He pushed himself against her buttocks so she could feel his strength.

  She moaned against the pillows, begging to feel his length. He was so long and strong, and there. He filled her. He lived in her. She'd never known she wanted it like this. She couldn't get enough of him.

  He wouldn't stay long enough for her to get enough of him.

  His short thrusting strokes drove her wild. She didn't

  know what to do to entice him. She wanted to seduce him, to make him stay.

  If she could only make him come, he would be hers forever.

  He was thrusting into her again when she felt it, frac­turing from that sweet spot above her pubis, a spangling glissade of sensation spiralling downward and explod­ing, with his last throbbing lunge, between her legs.