Wounds of Passion by Charlotte Lamb (primary phonics .TXT) 📕

‘Don’t panic, Antonia; don’t start fighting again. It’s OK to admit what you want, how you feel,’ he softly said, and tears sprang into her eyes. She was so hot that she was burning up; she was violently shuddering, because she had stopped him too late. He knew now that she wanted him; he had found out her secret, discovered the moistness and heat which betrayed her, and was softly arousing it, his fingertip rhythmic, tormenting.

‘Oh, no,’ she moaned, closing her eyes, stricken and shamed.

He kissed her neck. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, while his hands went on torturing her with a pleasure that was driving her out of her mind.

Her heart was beating raggedly; she was barely able to breathe, wanting him so much that it was more than she could bear, and yet at the same time still afraid, the shadowy third who was always with them making it impossible for her to give way to her feelings.

‘I can’t!’ she cried out, and Patrick made an angry noise, spun her round to face him, looked down at her, and caught her face between his hands.

‘You don’t still confuse me with him? What can I do to prove that I’d never hurt a woman that way? I’ve never in my life had to force a woman to give me what I wanted—’

Antonia gave a sharp little gasp of pain and he stopped talking, and looked down at her, his blue eyes narrowing, searching.

‘Was that jealousy, Antonia?’ he huskily asked.

She couldn’t meet his eyes.

He tipped her head back, a finger underneath her chin, made her look at him, his smile crooked, triumphant. ‘There’s no need to be jealous; I’d never confuse you with anybody else, darling,’ he whispered, making her stomach turn over with tenderness.

Nobody had ever called her darling in that way before. The word made her melt. Patrick bent to kiss her and she instinctively moved to meet his mouth, her lips parting hungrily. In a wild rush of passion she flung her arms around him and moved closer, her hands restlessly touching his nape, his hair, the firm, muscled power of his back.

Patrick groaned, and lifted her bodily off the floor, her feet in mid-air; then suddenly she felt herself falling, weightless, confused. She landed on the bed with Patrick on top of her, and stiffened, her body arched to resist him, a cry of panic in her throat.

‘Don’t be scared, darling,’ he said quickly. ‘Don’t tense up again; there’s nothing to be frightened of; it’s me... Look at me, darling...’

She looked at him, wildly, met his blue eyes in confusion and flickering uncertainty, then a long sigh broke out of her. ‘Patrick...’

He smiled at her, his blue eyes passionate. ‘Yes, it’s Patrick, and you don’t need to be scared any more. You’re not going to get hurt; you know you can trust me,’ he said, and kissed her, his mouth warm, reassuring. Antonia kissed him back, beginning to enjoy the weight of his body, the closeness. She wound her arms around him and moved restlessly, her heart beating very fast.

Patrick kicked his shoes off, still kissing her, began tearing his clothes off too, and she feverishly helped, unbuttoning his waistcoat, then his shirt, pulling them both off, her breathing thick and impeded.

She wasn’t frightened any more. She was driven by other feelings, other needs. She was finally touching him the way she had always wanted to, from the moment she first had seen him. Desire had flowered so instantly, so hotly, when she looked at him that what happened a short time later had been like a hard frost on new buds, blackening and freezing them. She had thought her desire killed. She had never believed she would feel this way again, but this was an entirely new spring for her. Desire was exploding inside her; her body was bursting into flower as he touched and caressed her.

Naked above her, Patrick muttered, ‘I won’t hurt you, darling,’ but she wasn’t listening to what he said. She was obsessed with a need to stroke his smooth, tanned skin, finger the muscular power of his broad shoulders, deep chest. His body was so different from her own. The hard male force of it fascinated her; she kissed him passionately, mouth open, her tongue tasting the salt of his skin, moving down the rough hair-line on his body.

It wasn’t until Patrick parted her thighs and moved between them that she woke up from her own drive for pleasure, and threw a startled, anxious look upwards, stiffening.

The panic came back in a rush and she arched; her muscles flexed, resisting, a scream of fear choking in her throat.

She didn’t know him. She didn’t recognise his face. He looked so different, darkly flushed, features set and remorseless, harshly male, terrifying. The stranger in the dark was back and Antonia began to fight him off, struggling and gasping with fear.

She was too late to stop him. She felt the force of his body enter her and fought, instinctively using the only weapons she had—digging her nails into his back, her body writhing, heaving, kicking.

‘Stop it, Antonia, I thought we were past all that!’ Patrick said harshly, lifting his body, his hands gripping her shoulders as he looked down at her.

She couldn’t speak, but now that he was lying still and heavy on top of her she stopped fighting and breathed hoarsely, eyes closed, tears trickling down her face.

‘I...you...’

‘Am I hurting you?’

She shook her head.

‘What did I do that triggerred off that outburst, then?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, her hands shifting nervously on his back. She felt the scratches she had inflicted, biting her lip.

‘I hurt you,’ she wept. ‘You’re bleeding.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Patrick said impatiently.

‘It does. I didn’t mean to; I’m sorry,’ she said, tears still welling up in her eyes. His back was so smooth and powerful. She badly wanted to stroke it again, to let her fingers follow the deep indentation of his spine downwards