Page 71 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
Silently she sighed. She was a fool, the worst kind of fool. She wouldn’t trust him. But it had been a very, very long time since she had kissed a man in passion—in fact, since the last time she’d kissed Benedict himself. A kiss filled the space where words could not explain or express. One kiss… Leaning across the console, she put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him toward her. She tilted her head and put her mouth to his. She closed her eyes and tried to remember how to do this right… Lips, brushing softly. A careful opening, breathing together, a tentative exploration, then the reward for patience, a taste of red wine and Benedict. A little more pressure, his intrusion, then hers, then his… Both of them breathing faster. Her heart hammering. Her fingers tangled in his soft hair… her arms around his shoulders, her breasts pressed to his chest. She strained toward…
She opened her eyes. She caught her breath. She pushed away, banged her elbow on the steering wheel, hit the horn for one sharp beep.
Scream? She didn’t need to scream.
She needed toswear.
He’d always been a good kisser, slow, tender, touching, breathing, loving every moment. He’d only improved with time, and what was worse—in this short span of time he had brought her almost to ecstasy. She looked for his hands. They were clasping the car seat.
She had been ready to fling herself across the console onto the tiny seat and ravage him—and he hadn’t touched her.
He was ashow-off.
She had been trying to remember how to kiss and got caught up in the warmth, the softness… the long, slow slide into wetness and anticipation… the intimation of further pleasure… Her mistake.
Now she needed to remember that this man had tried to kill her. This man had been the cause of nine years of unhappiness and abuse.
Worse, he was a show-off.Show-off, show-off, show-off!
As she watched, he opened his eyes. He looked almost sleepy. Deceptively sleepy. She knew what that meant: he was ready.
The car was hot and steamy and this time, no matter what he said or did, she wasleaving. She slammed out of the car and headed for the house, half expecting his hand to catch her arm. She readied her best self-defense move, one that would knock him into the dirt.
He caught up. Didn’t touch her. Walked beside her, opened the back door, followed her as she stalked through the kitchen and escorted her to the door that led into the dining room and her suite.
She could hear conversation and the clinking of glasses in the sitting room. She didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. See anyone right now. Not when she was flushed with arousal. Not when Benedict waited while she worked her way through the locks to get her door open. Too many conclusions—accurate conclusions—would be drawn.
Then he grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Thank you for a lovely evening. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow?”
Which reminded her—he might aggravate her, but she was supposed to be using him for safety. She signed, “Want to go for a run in the morning?”
Maybe her suggestion surprised him. Maybe her obvious irritation intrigued him. Something made his eyes narrow in suspicion. Still, he agreed right away. “Sure. Nine?”
“Seven.”Want to argue about that?
“See you then.” Hands in his pockets, he strolled away.
She shut the door behind her, set all the locks, checked the progress of her program and gave it a nudge—a little more aggressively than usual, but she was frustrated with the stately pace of her revenge. Nothing more.
Looking at her purse, she hesitated. She didn’t want to talk, but if she didn’t call, she wouldn’t sleep knowing he would call her… and be angry. Maybe if she texted… No. He’d never let her get away with that. Pulling out her tablet, she made the connection.
He answered immediately. “What do you think you’re doing, going out with Benedict Howard?”
He’d been watching her. Somehow, watching her, tracking her. Rage hit her like a freight train, the old rage, dark with dreams of vengeance and long years of bondage. She propped up the tablet, signed, “It is none of your business what I do, who I date.”
“It’s my business if I—”
“No. No!” She gestured emphatically. “I will not exist under surveillance ever again. If I die, I die. But I willlivefor the brief moments that are allowed me.”
“So you’re sleeping with him.”
Very softly, she hit the disconnect button.
For one long moment, she stood straight, shoulders back, chin up, fists clenched, hating them all. Then, leaning over her computer, she gave the program another nudge, tiny and subtle, but a nudge.
The phone rang again.
She answered and he said, “Come over.”
