Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,78

his trousers and his shorts. Though Gillian had done nothing, said nothing, the author was in a state of visible excitement. The sight was impressive enough. What was even more impressive was the realization that Caradoc had served as model for the wire sculpture beside the front door. There was no mistaking the likeness; Gillian found herself wondering how long he had been able to hold the pose.

"What do you think you're doing?" she said.

"It's the visuality," he explained. "Very important."

"I think you've misjudged me, Mr. Caradoc," she said.

"I don't think so, Mrs. Blake," he said. "And I want to be completely honest with you. Everything that you say from now on will be recorded."

"Will be what?"

"Taped," he said. "If I ever write about this experience, if there is anything here worth writing about – and that should be a challenge to you, Mrs. Blake – I want to get it right, letter-perfect. I want to tell it like it is."

"You're wasting your time – there'll be nothing to tell." She backed slowly toward the door. Caradoc, crossing the room with surprising agility, stood between Gillian and her escape route. Still in a clear state of sexual excitation, he advanced toward her.

"Don't," she said. "Please don't."

"I won't do anything you don't want," he said.

"I don't want anything but out," she said.

"That's what you say," he replied. "Some day you'll thank me for what I'm going to do."

Gillian, paralyzed now, saw his right hand, his good hand, reach out, felt his fingers close slowly over the top of her sweater. And then in one swift sure move, he ripped the sweater away from her. Then he reached for the skirt, shredded that.

"This is rape," Gillian said.

"It may begin as rape," he said, "but that's not the way it generally winds up."

"Please don't," Gillian said. "I don't want this to happen, not this way. I'll come back some other time when we feel better. I'll…."

The promise was interrupted as his hands, gentle now, reached around her and expertly unlatched the brassiere strap. As it fell to the floor, Gillian turned and ran toward the first door she saw. A mistake – it was the bedroom and it was too late to escape. Caradoc stood at the doorway to the room, then came toward her, forcing her to retreat back onto the most enormous bed she had ever seen.

He stood over her then and smiled down at her. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of the man but there was no way to eliminate the other sensations. Gillian felt cold. She shivered, braced herself for the attack that never came. What Gillian recalled later was the surprising gentleness of Caradoc as he applied himself to his task. For long moments he did not put a hand on her. There was only his mouth to reckon with – a mouth fastened itself to her throat, then moved down to her breasts. She could feel his tongue as it traced the outline of her rib cage, paused to explore her naval, continued to chart a downward course.

Despite herself, despite a fear she could not really explain, Gillian felt the warmth returning. The mouth kissing, pleading, cajoling, insisting. Gillian felt herself relaxing, felt the tension flowing from her legs, felt her body beginning to writhe, responding to the mouth with the harmonic precision of an orchestra responding to a conductor's baton. The tongue was alternatingly gentle and impertinent, loving and demanding – very much like Caradoc himself.

Gillian was aware of an argument raging within herself, a great debate between body and mind. She felt herself lose all control over her legs. The insistent tongue urged them open, and they opened. She felt her back stiffen and arch. It was not what she wanted, not really, but she found her hands reaching down to Caradoc's head, holding tight to his long blue-black hair, encouraging him now, guiding him, directing him.

And then it ended.

"All right, Mrs. Blake," she heard him say: "You can go home now."

"What do you mean?" she said.

"I was just testing your reactions," he said. "I think I've got what I wanted."

"You mean this – all this – was just an experiment?"

"That's all, Mrs. Blake," he said. "You can go home now… if you really want to."

He stood before her still physically aroused, taunting her, waiting to hear her beg for him to continue. Waiting to record her pleadings for some future novel. She had an unholy desire to reach out and