Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,48
his heat began to consume her. His fingers found the zipper of her dress, and as she heard the rasping sound of its release, she remembered, somewhat vaguely, her game. As his callused hands found her bare flesh and began a possessive exploration, Sloan gently maneuvered from his arms. Having artfully escaped, she smiled at his look of frustrated confusion. Moving quickly before he could reclaim her, she impishly planted a kiss on his chin and sprang from his reach. “I’m going to take a quick shower, darling,” she murmured. “I won’t be long.”
But she was. She allowed the hot water to run on and on, lathering herself richly with scented soap, her lips curled all the while as she gloated over the excitement of her taunting. Finally, she rinsed herself thoroughly and emerged, chuckling in her throat as she noticed the knob of the door twisting. She wasn’t ready yet. Taking her time, she assiduously brushed her hair until it fell in silklike waves, then donned one of her new gowns, a deceptive piece of black gauze which covered her from neck to toe yet teased enticingly with slits that ran all the way to her hips. She continued chuckling as she stepped into a pair of black string bikini panties and completed her outfit with the matching black peignoir. Then she reached for the doorknob, her heart beginning to flutter tremulously.
Wesley was not panting by the door as she had expected. He had discarded his own clothing for a velour robe and was leaning nonchalantly on the bed, one arm behind his head to form a comfortable crook for it, the other resting on his kneecap as he held an iced drink. He had turned on the television set and was watching a newscaster. “I ordered you a scotch,” he said, idly motioning toward the dresser. He barely glanced her way.
“Thanks,” Sloan said, bewildered. She walked slowly for her drink, swaying as she did so, but she received no response from Wesley. Frustrated, she sipped the scotch and sat at the foot of the bed. If he was giving no notice of her, she certainly wasn’t going to jump into his arms! The voice of the newscaster droned into her ears. “That isn’t French he’s speaking,” she said, growing increasingly nervous.
“Flemish,” Wes supplied conversationally. “This is a bilingual country.”
“Oh,” Sloan murmured. Then acidly, “And I suppose you speak Flemish, too?”
“Not really,” Wes said absently. “I understand a fair amount.”
Sloan heard the clatter of ice as Wesley calmly drained his glass. Still, he didn’t move. So! Sloan thought petulantly, he wants to play games, too! Well, she had already decided on winning this one. She drained her scotch in a gulp and winced as the burning liquid made its way down her throat. Then she stood, stretched and yawned, surprised at how dizzy she was. Gulping the scotch had been a mistake. Clutching the bedpost, she steadied herself and stole a glance at Wesley. The black hair on his chest curled provocatively over its expanse as it lay exposed from the V of his robe. The knotted muscles of his calves, thrown so carelessly over the coverlet, gave a breath-catching hint of the physique beneath the draped velour...
Damn him! Sloan thought. She whirled from the bedpost and ripped the covers from her side of the bed. She was squirming with heat and anger. It had never occurred to her that two could play her game...
Flouncing into the bed, she turned her back on him and stared at the bathroom door, fuming. His ensuing chuckle, deep, low, and from the throat, was the finishing touch. She determined furiously that whatever the cost to herself, Wesley would go to sleep on his wedding night with nothing more fulfilling than a hot shower!
His hand wrapped around her arm like a vise, and his next whisper was hot and tantalizing against her ear. “No games, my darling,” he murmured, his lips moving along her neck and shoulder, searing her skin through the gauze. “You’re my wife now. Legal possession.”
“Possession!” Sloan shrilled, spinning around so quickly that her hair neatly slapped his face and momentarily curtailed his kisses. The evening was not going at all as planned! Wesley was calm and sedate, taking his own sweet time, and she was a bundle of nerves and frustration. He was supposed to realize she was elated, yet ever so slightly frightened despite her stance, needing him to cajole. Instead, he was calmly telling her that she