Lacybourne Manor

Chapter Eight Consummation

“Oh dear,” Marian Byrne said as she looked in her crystal ball.

It was milky but she could still see the shadows of two forms in its depths.

Years ago, when she first saw it, Marian had been drawn to the clairvoyant orb, even though the crystal was flawed (which often made it difficult to see), but she bought it anyway. It never gave her a hint of trouble. It lay on its pillow of royal blue velvet atop the spindly legged, tri-footed round table in her magic room.

That night, it showed her something she did not like to see.

She turned and carefully touched the precious book, her hands wearing clean, white, cloth gloves. She, nor her mother, nor her mother’s mother (and so on) ever touched Granny Esmeralda’s Book of Shadows without using the greatest care.

The book was nearly five hundred years old and it was precious.

She read the ingredients of the potion Granny Esmeralda used on Royce and Beatrice (even though she’d read it hundreds of times before and had it memorised).

The protection charm was fierce, half of the ingredients you couldn’t get anymore unless you visited the darkest shops.

Marian saw, however, that using the flesh and blood of the dark soul and the death blood of the lovers may now be causing a bit of havoc for Beatrice and Royce’s descendants.

She knew (as every witch did) that bad things came from bad blood, violence, mayhem or simply (as was the case for Sibyl and Colin) misunderstanding and distrust.

Nevertheless, to make the potion as strong as it needed to be, Marian knew Granny Esmeralda needed all the magic she could get.

It should have been strong enough, the residual love of the wedded Morgans that lasted in the atmosphere for five hundred years. Everything was perfect, Colin and Sibyl were both direct descendants (of this Marian was certain intuitively rather than with any real knowledge). Colin lived in Lacybourne. Sibyl, for some deliciously fateful reason, lived in Granny Esmeralda’s old cottage. Then there was the dog, named for Royce’s horse. Marian didn’t know why the lovers had exchanged hair, but she found it very touching.

But something, obviously, was wrong and it was likely that potion.

“Well, Granny Esmeralda, there’s nothing for it. I’m just going to have to keep my eye on them,” Marian told the book. “And maybe meddle, just a wee bit,” she finished.

She knew it was dangerous to meddle but if she didn’t it would likely be another five hundred years before their descendants could start again.

The book, not unusually, said nothing in return.

Marian stood and felt some pain in her knees.

“I’m too old for this,” she complained to one of her cats.

The feline blinked at her.

Without further hesitation, Marian went to her vials and drawers.

She had work to do.

What did a woman wear when she became a whore?

Sibyl would have never thought in a million years, with ignorant bliss at her own eventual stupidity, that she would be asking herself that question.

Now, for fifty thousand pounds and peace of mind for the well-being of several dozen old people she really didn’t know all that well, she was asking herself that question.

At least, she told herself, she hadn’t sold her body to the devil, better-known-as Colin Morgan, for, say, just the price of petrol.

However, she found herself obsessing about whether she should have asked him for twice that, they needed work done on the stage too. And rewiring. And decent heating. And new furniture.

Of course, that may have meant four months of anything he wanted which was an idea not to be borne (not that her current predicament was easily tolerated, it was just a bargain she’d made and, regrettably, had to keep).

That might be the worst part of it all (in a situation where it was very difficult to assess what exactly was the worst part). Considering that he was a raving lunatic with a multiple personality disorder, “whatever he wanted” could be very much not worth getting paid fifty thousand pounds.

Staring in her wardrobe and not seeing anything that was “Become a Whore” worthy, she did what any girl would do in her situation.

She called her little sister.

“Little black dress,” Scarlett replied instantly when Sibyl asked what to wear on a “date” (her sister didn’t need to know any details) that she knew, at the end, would be a sure thing.

Sibyl didn’t have a little black dress so, mainly out of curiosity, she asked what Scarlett would wear on a “date” that she was certain would not be a sure thing.

“Little black dress,” Scarlett repeated.

“Scarlett, you do not wear little black dresses on every date!” Sibyl snapped, beginning to allow the niggling feeling of panic she’d been harbouring for over twenty-four hours to bud out-of-control.

“Yes I do, my entire wardrobe consists of scrubs and little black dresses,” Scarlett retorted.

For some reason, Sibyl believed this.

“Well, I don’t have a little black dress and he’s going to be here in…” She looked at the clock on her bedside table. Then she gulped before she finished, “Thirty minutes.”

“That’s okay, keep him waiting,” Scarlett retorted airily.

Sibyl didn’t like the idea of what might happen if she kept Colin Morgan waiting. She didn’t like it at all.

Her sister, like her mother, could read her mood from thousands of miles away.

“Jeez, Billie, this guy sure has your knickers in a twist,” Scarlett noted and finally finished helpfully. “Just tell me what you have in your closet.”

Sibyl didn’t want to think of twisted knickers either.

Therefore, she focussed on Scarlett’s offer of help and in great detail she recited her wardrobe to her sister.

Luckily, she had already done her hair (pulled it up in a severe twist at the back of her head) and her makeup (dramatic, it suited her mood).

She’d also bought a bottle of red wine; a bottle of white wine; three different types of beer; champagne (did one toast their entrance into the World of Whoredom? Sibyl was not up on the etiquette). She’d also bought brie, apples, water crackers and made shrimp cocktail. Further, she’d prepared platters of these as nibbles, just in case.

She might be careening quickly down the low road (the very low road) but she was not going to lose her hostessing skills in the process, her mother would never forgive her.

He would not be getting a plate of tasteless cheese and a sad ham sandwich, although, he deserved a big bowl of ashes.

“What was that? The last thing you said,” Scarlett interrupted Sibyl’s recitation and her culinary reverie (Sibyl was frantically, and possibly hysterically, multitasking).

“Silk camisole with some sequined beading,” Sibyl repeated.

“What colour?” her discerning sister enquired.

Sibyl fingered the soft material of a top she’d bought last year when a girlfriend from Boulder was out in England for a visit. She’d never worn it. She didn’t go clubbing or out to dinner very often and it wasn’t the type of thing to wear to the Community Centre. The top was too fancy and bared too much skin; she didn’t want to give the old men coronaries. She had enough trouble with the damned minibus.

“Kind of a deep violet,” Sibyl answered.

“Wear that,” Scarlett declared decisively, “with a nice pair of jeans. Now, let’s talk shoes. What’ve you got?”

And thus, ten minutes after she hung up the phone with her sister (the call had unfortunately included the third degree about “the guy”), and five minutes after Colin Morgan was meant to arrive, Sibyl stood in the dining area of the cottage wearing a dark violet, silk, sequined camisole, her best jeans (that had gone a bit snug due to a day of stress-eating which was now turning her stomach sickeningly) and a pair of high-heeled sandals that consisted solely of a strip of rhinestones across her toes and a daring rhinestone ankle strap. They were shoes she had purchased to wear with a bridesmaid dress and she hadn’t worn them since. She walked on them down the aisle and immediately kicked them off at the reception because they killed her feet.

Which they were doing now.

She thought, with fervour, that she just might hate her sister.

But then again, at that moment, she hated the entire world.

Most of all, she hated herself (and, of course, Colin Morgan).

And she couldn’t shift the feeling that something, far beyond the fact that she’d sold her body to a man she didn’t like, was terribly, terribly wrong.

She just thanked the goddess that she had a decent pedicure, complete with pale pink nail varnish. She’d hate to enter the World of Whoredom with chipped toenails.

And she thanked the goddess that her mother insisted she start taking birth control at the age of eighteen (regardless that it was unneeded at the time).

She’d chosen a scent of peony with a hint of grapefruit and put in the dangled amethyst earrings one of her ex-boyfriend’s had given her.

And now she decided she was definitely hysterical because she was standing in her dining room wondering if she should light candles and put on music. She didn’t exactly have to strike a mood, the seduction was a given.

Bran sauntered in, his tail twitching, then stopped and looked up at her.

Sibyl looked down at her pet and (undoubtedly hysterically) could have sworn her cat was watching her with grave judgement in his yellow feline eyes.

“What are you looking at?” she snapped.

Bran flicked his tail once then sat down and blinked his eyes.

“Yes, well, it’s only two months. That’s it. He’s young, all right looking…” Bran blinked again, this time in disbelief. “Okay, he’s quite good-looking. He also has all of his teeth and –”

A knock sounded at the door and Sibyl emitted a frightened, muted scream.

Then she whispered, “Oh my goddess.”

And the immediate feeling flooded through her that her whole life was going to change, not just the next two months. This thought bubbled up and nearly exploded into panic. Luckily, Sibyl had just enough strength left to tamp it down.

Bran got up and wisely ran up the stairs.

Mallory, on the other hand, was already up the stairs and after a clamorous descent, he skidded on his paws at the bottom to take the sharp turn towards the door. In the process, he slid across the braided rugs covering the wide-planked floors, bunching them in huge messes. She saw him stop (because he crashed into the door) and then he barked loudly over and over again.

She took a deep breath then exhaled and in doing so expelled some of her panic and walked forward.

You can do this, you can do this, you can do this, she repeated to herself over and over again, using her feet to right the rugs that Mallory had dishevelled.

“Mallory, out of the way. Go sit in the living room,” she commanded when she made it to the door (or nearly, as Mallory was in the way).

Mallory ignored her command and backed up enough for the door to be opened but his big dog body stayed where it was, his tongue lolling, his tail wagging fiercely.

Sibyl took another breath, thinking what a cruel world it was that her dog, who hated men since she got him as a puppy, absolutely adored Colin Morgan.

She threw back the bolt and opened the door.

Colin was standing on the threshold looking unfairly handsome wearing a dark suit and an electric blue shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck.

You cannot do this, you cannot do this, you cannot do this, her brain (or was it her conscience?) unbidden, repeated over and over again.

“Come in,” she invited, ignoring her brain, stepping wide and pleased her voice held no tremor.

Colin entered and Mallory went berserk, snuffling his hand (the way he normally only did to Sibyl’s), his whole body vibrating with glee.

Sibyl stared out the door and considered the very pleasant idea of running into the night (or simply begging him to leave and never return, unless it was to ask her out on a real date again after promising him she’d accept) but instead she shook off these happy notions, now completely lost to her, and closed the door behind her.

Sealing her fate.

Colin was waiting for her patiently as she turned. He was also idly stroking Mallory’s soft, black-faced head while the dog sat next to him in contented silence.

And lastly, Colin was carrying a briefcase.

She felt her knees go weak.

She lifted her arm to motion him toward the dining table and followed him when he moved. He still said not a word as he placed the briefcase on the table and turned toward her.

She walked toward the briefcase.

She had no idea what to do. What was next? Should she say something?

Good goddess, how did women do this sort of thing for a living?

She felt like wringing her hands but put every amount of energy and attention into keeping them still and tremor-free.

Sibyl was so concentrated on this trying task, she didn’t hear him approach.

Then he was there, he was so close that she smelled his cedar-spiked cologne. He lifted his hands toward her head and she flinched.

His fingers found the two carefully placed clips that held her hair up (clips it took her twenty minutes to secure). He pulled them out and her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

She turned stunned eyes to his to see his were drilling intently into hers while his fingers ran through the hair on one side of her head then on the other, pulling its mass away from her face.

“You’ll not wear your hair up when you’re with me.” He voiced this demand smoothly, in a calm, even tone before he tossed the clips on her dining room table.

Her mouth dropped open and then she could do nothing but nod because, from that moment on (or at least for the next two months), his wish was her command.

He turned, flipped open the latches to the briefcase and inside there were carefully arranged twenty-pound notes. Just like in the movies.

Meg and Annie’s minibus.

Overwhelmed with relief, not lifting her eyes from the money and not realising how strange it would sound, she whispered a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

When she eventually looked at him, he was staring at her quizzically.

After a brief hesitation, he replied quietly, “You’re welcome.”

She reached out and slapped the top of the case down. She wanted to grab it and throw it into the night, find a deep lake and toss it into the middle, gather all the money and fling it into his face, screaming, “This is not really me!” and do everything to make him believe.

Instead, she just fastened the latches.

“It warms the heart that you don’t intend to count it,” Colin drawled.

She closed her eyes which were still trained on the case.

She just knew she’d forget something.

Then she squared her shoulders and turned to him without a word. He was watching her so closely and so intently it made her entire body quiver.

Then, suddenly, he asked, “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Um… what?” Her voice was scratchy, like she hadn’t spoken in a year.

“Bedroom?”

“It’s… my bedroom’s upstairs.”

He grabbed her hand and in three great strides he was at the foot of the stairs, dragging her behind him.

“Don’t you want a drink?” she asked in desperation, trailing after him, her feet having no choice but to move quickly, reading his intent and terrified of it but to her extreme unease, Colin made no response.

She tried to yank her hand away, tried to delay this until later, much later, after brie and shrimp cocktail and all was made right in the world again.

She tripped up the first step but found her footing quickly. She had to, he didn’t hesitate, his strong hand gripping hers; he dragged her up the stairs.

He halted abruptly at the large landing and she slammed into him. The bathroom was obviously to his right, another two-step stairway several paces to the left took him to the upstairs hall. He turned left, and, with some uncanny perception, walked right passed the two other bedrooms to the very end of the hall and up the three extra steps that led him to her bedroom. He entered it without hesitation, pulling her with him.

The light was still on beside her bed (her mother would have given her a lecture about global warming if she saw it, but then again, her mother would probably have other things to lecture her about if she’d been there).

He drew her in the room and then let her go and the force of this action sent her beyond him several steps into the room.

Then he slammed the door shut behind him.

There went any chance at Mallory-induced interruptions.

Sibyl’s belly dropped.

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded without preamble.

All her breath left her in a rush and her heart squeezed. Then she tried another delaying tactic.

“Mr. Morgan, can we just take a moment and talk this through? There have to be ground rules.”

He took one stride, one angry stride, reached out and yanked her into his arms and she tipped her head back to look into his blazing eyes.

“Call me ‘Mr. Morgan’ one more time and I’ll tie you naked to the bed for a week,” he bit out, apparently, for some reason, livid. “Got that?”

Her entire body trembled.

“It’s Colin,” he clipped.

She nodded.

“Say it!” he barked and she jumped.

“Colin,” Sibyl whispered.

It was then he kissed her.

It was nothing like the kiss the blond version of him gave her in the dream. It was hot, yes, but it was an entirely different type of wild that was heady and needy and so possessive it took her breath away and, darn it all, it did this deliciously.

Then Colin unexpectedly released her and, unprepared for it, Sibyl stumbled back a step. She thought she might fall as her wobbly legs didn’t seem able to support her. She threw out her hand and grabbed the foot of the bed to steady herself.

“Take your clothes off,” he repeated and shrugged off his jacket, dropping it to the floor.

Her trembling hands went to the hem of her camisole.

“These are the ground rules,” he forced the words out between his teeth and took a step forward.

Automatically, Sibyl took a step back.

He stopped at her movement, his head tilted to the side and his eyes turned menacing.

He took another step towards her. She took another step back.

He started speaking again. “You always wear your hair down when you’re with me.”

Sibyl nodded. “Yes, I’ve got that one,” she told him helpfully, trying to diffuse his strangely infuriated mood.

Why he would be angry, she had no idea. He was getting what he wanted, wasn’t he?

He took a step forward. At his continued advance, her mind blanked and she took a step back, rounding the bed.

Colin went on. “Not another man touches you while you’re mine.”

She nodded again and squared her shoulders to try and instil some confidence in herself, some control over her fluttering belly and her trembling legs.

“You aren’t taking off your clothes,” he reminded her in a dangerous voice.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt.

She whipped the camisole off as fast as she could. Underneath it was the lacy, black, strapless bra she’d bought for the same bridesmaid’s dress for which she bought the shoes.

She heard his swift intake of breath.

He tore his shirt off and the buttons flew around the room like mini-bullets.

She heard her own swift intake of breath, not only at his action, but at her first sight of the wall of his hard, muscled chest and the defined planes of his stomach.

Good goddess, but he had a beautiful body.

Her hands, now trembling, went to the button of her jeans.

Colin continued. “You do what I tell you, no questions asked.”

He took a step forward, rounding the bed as she nodded.

She took a step back.

His hands went to the belt of his trousers and he kept going. “You’re available to me when I say, where I say.”

“I… I…” she had to clear her throat and cursed herself mentally for showing that weakness, “I have a job. What if I’m working?”

She unzipped her jeans and slid them off her hips, kicking them away and standing in front of him feeling desperately ill-at-ease and wearing nothing but lacy black underwear and rhinestone shoes.

It was at that moment she felt the most like a whore and something inside her curled up and died. Her mother and father both told her that her big heart would be the finish of her one day.

This was that day.

He didn’t answer her question about working. He was staring at her like she was a long tall glass of ice water and he’d just stumbled out of the desert.

“Colin?”

Upon hearing her voice, with a start, his eyes moved from her body to her face and they were lit with a fire that turned her bones to mush.

And it wasn’t with fear.

She forced herself to go on. “My job’s important to me. What if I’m working?”

“I thought I just gave you fifty thousand pounds?” he replied.

She forgot about that. How she did, she didn’t know, but she did.

She couldn’t exactly tell him he was buying her body in exchange for a minibus for oldies, he’d think she was a lunatic.

When she didn’t answer he said, “You’re on a two month holiday.”

That thing that died inside her, whatever it was, turned to ash.

He was utterly ruthless.

She could do nothing but nod. She worked more hours than she was paid and hadn’t taken a day of holiday in a year. She also made her own hours and there was always something happening at the Community Centre.

She’d make it work.

From the look in his eyes, she’d have to make it work.

“Is that all?” she asked.

“Would you like more?” he returned.

She shook her head vehemently.

“Take off your underwear but leave the shoes.”

Dear goddess, she was going to melt in a puddle at the side of her bed. How she could be terrified, miserable and turned on all at the same time, she had no idea.

But she was.

And she did as she was told.

By the time she was finished he’d completed disrobing and stood in front of her in absolute brazen nakedness. His body was extraordinary, she’d never seen anything like it outside of a magazine. His muscles defined, the jutting bones of his hips and lower…

“Dear goddess,” she whispered.

She totally forgot her own nakedness at the sight of his.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered.

Then she remembered.

She turned, trying to hide her embarrassment with a fall of her hair. She sat down on the side of the bed but before she could push herself to the middle, he was there, his strong arms around her lifting her up and planting her back, deeper on the bed.

He pushed her to back and his body came down on hers.

Strangely, Sibyl thought, when his weight hit her, he felt heavy and warm and unbelievably but indescribably right.

She trembled with fear and desire and she hated herself all the more because only very bad girls enjoyed this type of thing.

What kind of woman was she?

She started, “Colin, I’ve –”

But she didn’t finish, his head came down, his mouth claimed hers, his tongue sweeping inside – Colin Morgan kissed her, her entire body quivered and it started.

Colin trailed the tips of his fingers down Sibyl’s spine, all the way to the very shapely curve of her generously rounded bottom.

He felt her tremble under his fingers.

She’d been worth every penny of those fifty thousand pounds. Even if he didn’t have her again, he wouldn’t regret the money. Hell, he would have paid it just to witness her standing before him in nothing but that black underwear, as ludicrous as that notion was.

However, it was true. She was just that exquisite.

She was lying on her belly, her face turned away from him, locks of her leonine hair falling on her back, her shoulders and tumbled all over her pillows.

So much for Royce and Beatrice’s reincarnated souls shaking off the curse in an earth-shattering moment of glory the minute they consummated their passion.

He’d felt the earth move but it started and stopped with Sibyl bucking under him and moaning his name with her intense climax that he could not, for the life of him (even as cynical as he was), believe was fake.

It had taken him some time to settle her obvious nerves, either this was her first time selling her body or she wasn’t used to it. But once his mouth and hands were on her, she melted, and even if she was truly a consummate actress, he didn’t care.

She was, quite simply, the best he ever had.

And he’d had a lot.

She did taste as fantastic as she felt and smelled (tonight, she smelled of fruit and flowers and it was a thoroughly intoxicating scent).

He’d never felt the driving need, the insistent demand of his body to possess anyone like he’d felt the need to possess her. Colin could barely contain himself, nearly didn’t have the patience he needed to calm her nerves and incite her passion before he drove into her. He was ready for her before they’d made it to the bed.

And it had been everything her luscious body, her brilliant eyes, her phenomenal hair and her fiery temper promised it would be… and more.

Two months of her might not be enough. If it got any better than this, he’d buy two more. He’d double the price if needed to keep that magnificent body writhing under him, her mouth on him, her legs open for him.

As he had these thoughts, she whipped her head around and her hair slid along her back.

“I have to let Mallory out for a break.”

She said this in a quiet voice but he saw, with some surprise, that even though she’d obviously wiped her tears on the pillow, she’d been crying.

Something about this cause an unpleasant twinge of a feeling Colin never felt before to cut through his gut.

Before he could process the feeling, Sibyl twisted on the bed and got up. Walking quickly to her discarded clothes, she pulled on her jeans without putting her panties on. He rolled to his side and put his head in his hand, elbow to the pillow to watch her dress. He so enjoyed the show that, with disgust, he realised he’d watch her scrub a toilet and likely be aroused by it.

She reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a huge sweatshirt that said “University of Colorado” on it and yanked it over her head. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to take her sexy sandals off.

“Are you going home?” she quietly asked the floor.

“No, Sibyl,” Colin answered. “I’m spending the night.”

She nodded, her shoulders slumped deeper and her hair shook with her head, shining in the light of the lamp. He had to force himself not to lean forward, wrap his fist in it and turn her head to his so he could kiss her again.

He remembered the taste of her mouth, it was just as intoxicating as the rest of her.

“Would you like me to come with you?” he asked, his voice gentle and he had no idea why.

He wasn’t normally gentle with women, nor was he rough or brutal or cruel, usually simply cold or reserved. They used him, he used them, it was the unspoken deal and both parties understood.

But he had been all those things to Sibyl and he didn’t understand his intense reaction to her or the reasons he was driven to these behaviours.

He was disappointed that she’d accepted his offer, proven herself to be everything every woman in his life had ever been.

However, Colin was used to that and should have been able to accept it but when she slapped the lid on the briefcase, he felt the need to punish her for not being what he wanted her to be.

Given that, when she’d said “thank you” in that soft, sweet voice as if the fifty thousand pounds was the answer to fifty thousand prayers, for some reason his chest had squeezed and a sharp pain sliced through his gut.

He’d never had that reaction either, not to anything, but the demands of his body wouldn’t allow his mind the delay it would need to understand his reactions and he’d dragged her upstairs and been anything but gentle with her.

At the current moment, though, everything about her screamed for gentle. She was walking around if she was made of glass and even a loud noise would make her shatter.

“He doesn’t like his walks, he’s too lazy.” She was talking about Mallory. “I won’t be long.”

She yanked out some shoes from the wardrobe, shoved her feet in them and left the room quickly. Then he heard her calling for the dog as she descended the stairs.

In her absence, Colin looked around the room. Even though he’d been in it for an hour, he was seeing it for the first time.

It was supremely feminine and somehow so personal he felt he was trespassing on some kind of sacred ground.

Colin saw a photo on the bedside table and he rolled to pick it up then studied it in the bedside light.

There were four people in the picture, the gorgeous woman from the portrait in the dining room (but older), a rather funny-looking, thin, bald man, Sibyl and what had to be her sister, almost her equal in magnificence, with red hair instead of blonde, blue eyes instead of hazel.

His gaze moved over Sibyl’s face in the photograph. He noted the colour of her eyes and it came to him there was another reason he knew she’d climaxed. Her eyes shifted to the colour of sherry the moment before it happened. He knew, he’d watched in triumphant satisfaction.

He mentally shook off the pleasant memories of watching Sibyl’s orgasm and focussed again on the photo.

The family was obviously loving, their arms thrown around each other. Sibyl and her father were caught amidst laughter (something he had still never seen, although he’d heard it) while the two red-headed women, old and young, were making faces at the camera.

Colin put the frame down and his eyes moved to glance around the room. They stopped at the window seat which had a book sitting in it like someone had just been interrupted while reading. Then they went to the dressing table which had a feminine mess of cosmetics but also held a variety of delicate, exquisite bottles, all with no labels.

As he was studying the bottles, the cat jumped agilely on the bed and surveyed him curiously for about two seconds then lay gracefully on his side and started cleaning his back foot.

Colin had the distinct feeling that something was not right with this picture.

Before he could decide what that was, there was a clamour somewhere in the house and he knew that Sibyl and Mallory were back.

The clamour spread, Colin heard it come up the stairs and then the dog bounded in the room and stopped clumsily at his side of the bed. He lifted Colin’s hand with his nose and bumped it up so it was resting on the dog’s head.

“Do you want something to eat?” He heard Sibyl ask.

Colin’s attention turned from the dog to see Sibyl was standing at the door. Regardless of her makeup, she looked about sixteen years old.

He felt his gut clench with unease.

When he didn’t answer, she went on, “Drink?”

“I’m fine, Sibyl,” Colin answered, surveying her closely.

He fought his body’s demand to drag her back into bed while she looked over her shoulder and out the door.

“Do you want a…” she hesitated, looked back at him and then tossed her head in an act of frustration, about what only she was privy, “tour of my house?”

There was something meaningful to that offer, something outside the realm of their bargain, something that made that unease in his gut spread.

He forced his tone to be gentle. “I’d very much like a tour of your house but later. Now I want you to come back to bed.”

She hesitated then walked to the side of the bed. Her hands at the waistband of her jeans, she kicked off her shoes.

Something made him ask quietly, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Her eyes flew to his. They were back to the colour of sherry, with but a hint of green close to the pupils.

Without a word, she shook her head.

Then she took off her clothes swiftly and, with a graceful gesture of her arm, tossed them across the room. Then even more swiftly, she lifted the covers and slid under them.

She resumed her position on her belly, her head turned away from him. Even naked in bed at his side, her position closed her off to him, removing herself from him and Colin didn’t like it.

At all.

He slid the covers down again to expose her back and ran the flat of his palm up from the gentle curve of her rounded bottom up to the expanse of smooth skin between her shoulders.

And again, as he did, Sibyl trembled.

He stared at her back, her hair and realised she was all his.

For two months.

And he gloried in that thought.

He pulled her hair away from her neck and kissed her between her shoulder blades.

Then he lifted his lips to her ear. “You’re doing very well.”

She didn’t hesitate in her response.

“Thanks.” Her voice betrayed she meant none of the gratitude that word meant. “Just what every girl wants to hear.”

That feeling of unease spread precariously close to his cold heart.

“Sibyl,” he called.

She didn’t turn to him and sighed before asking, “Can’t we just go to sleep?”

“No,” he answered honestly. Sibyl Godwin, Colin had long since decided, would not get very much rest that night.

Nor, likely, for the next two months.

She rolled, dislodging his hand and lay on her side, up on her elbow. He settled on his elbow facing her while she pulled the covers over her breasts. He noticed her eyes were no longer sherry, they were back to emerald. The effect of the colour change was extraordinary.

“Well, of course, you have to get your money’s worth,” she snapped tartly after she caught his eyes.

“I’ve already had it,” he replied truthfully.

At his remark, her eyes rounded and he watched in fascination as she pulled her lips between her teeth for a moment as if literally biting back words she wanted desperately to say.

And her eyes melted back to sherry.

That’s when he knew he could kiss her.

Much later, when he lifted his head and she followed it with hers to keep in contact with his mouth, he finished what he meant to say.

Smoothly, in one fluid movement, he slid inside her magnificent, tight wetness and, while he did, she exposed her throat to him as she arched her back and neck in an open demonstration of the pleasure she felt at allowing him inside.

Her legs lifted up, her knees at his sides so high they were nearly tucked into the pits of his arms, and her thighs tightened against him. This action drew him exquisitely deeper into her.

“Sibyl,” he called her name as he settled inside her, not moving and practically gritting his teeth with the effort, she was so splendid.

Her head righted, hair wildly tumbled on the pillows framing her passion-filled face.

“Colin,” she whispered, his name from her lips, said in that husky tone of sex, caused his body to twitch involuntarily.

He fought back his response and warned, “I may have had my money’s worth but you still owe me two months and I’m going to have them.”

Her eyes rounded again but her hips moved, inviting the movement of his.

“Sibyl –” he started but her hands were urgent on his waist, her nails digging into him.

“Yes, Colin, yes,” she breathed, impatient. “Two months. Now, will you just please move?”

Colin grinned.

Then he did as Sibyl asked.