The warmth of the room touched her skin as he slowly cut the thin straps off her shoulders, pulling the soft cotton down over her breasts. He pushed the shift to her waist, where it lay bunched about her.
The last remnants of what she knew, of what she understood, of what she thought she was, left her in that instant. There was a blankness in her mind, as if suddenly there was a hole and there was nothing inside it, save an undefined dread that mingled with an ugliness she knew was there also— buried, but still there— and it left her nearly senseless. Tiny points of light exploded in her mind, and she realized dimly that she’d been holding her breath. She opened her mouth, and precious air flew past her constricted throat into her chest. She could feel her breasts heaving, but she couldn’t stop their deep upward and downward movement. His fingers were on her forehead, gently pushing back tendrils of hair. She tried to evade him, pulling away as far as her bonds would allow. But his fingers were tracing the line of her cheek, her lips, her throat. She wanted desperately to plead with him to stop, but she could find no words.
The man’s hands were on her shoulders, firm, strong hands, hands that could and would hurt her, she knew it, deep down inside her, she knew hurt would come from his hands. She grew still, rigid, as his fingers moved to her breasts, now kneading her, caressing her, lifting her breasts in his hands, holding them, gently squeezing, then lightly flicking his fingertips over her nipples until they grew hard and taut. Words came from deep inside her, and she knew they were for naught, these words of hers, yet they spoke themselves anyway. “I beg of you, please don’t do this to me, please, please no, no—”
His hands left her breasts, and in the long, silent moment that followed, she knew he was looking at her, not at her breasts but at her face. She sensed a hesitancy in him. If only she could see! Her eyes strained, but there was only blackness.
He came down over her body and enfolded her in his arms, burying his face against her neck, holding her so tightly that she couldn’t breathe.
She knew in that instant she had lost.
Finally he lifted himself off her, and his hands traveled quickly, urgently, back to her breasts. She felt his mouth upon her, kissing and nibbling her throat and shoulders, until finally his lips and hands played together over her breasts. There was no pain from his hands, just something infinitely worse— warmth, strength, and a skill that knew her flesh, knew what to do and when to do it. She cried out, trying to twist free of his hands, of his mouth. His hands moved to encircle her waist, and as she tried to arch and wrench away, he eased them beneath her to stroke her back.
Tears scalded her eyes and dampened the black cloth that blinded her. She heard her own voice, begging and pleading with him to stop, but her words broke from her mouth only as meaningless sounds, helpless sounds.
His hands left her back and tugged at the material about her waist. In a swift motion he slipped the shift cloth from beneath her hips, stripping it down her legs, leaving her naked.
There was a sharp intake of breath from the man, and Kate knew that he was staring at her, examining her body. She had never been so aware of her body, of its purpose and its meaning to men.
She was rapidly growing exhausted. The futility of her struggles, her fear, were sapping her strength. She stilled, her body tensed. The damp cloth, salty from her tears, burned her eyes. She turned her head on the pillow and clamped her jaws together, waiting, waiting— for what, she didn’t know, but deep down, somehow, she did know.
His weight came down on the bed and his naked shoulders pressed against her body. Not only had he taken off his mask, he’d also stripped off all his clothes. His flesh was hot and smooth against hers. His lips touched her waist and roved downward to her belly, his tongue scalding against her skin. She pushed her hips down into the softness of the bed, but it seemed to excite him only more. His mouth was sweet and gentle and insistent, yet it burned her, and she hated his mouth and those hands of his that seemed to know just where to touch her, where to caress her, where to press and stroke. She hated herself, for in the next instant, she felt a tiny shock of sensation that was like a pain in her belly, low and deep, but there, and she yelled against it, cursing him, her voice giving her back to herself, but just for a moment, for he didn’t stop touching her, his fingers almost pleading with her flesh to respond to him. She cursed him and cursed him again and again, but there it was again, that shock of sensation, that near-pain so intense, so urgent, and she knew it was pleasure, a woman’s special pleasure, and she fought with everything in her to deny it, to deny him, to save herself.
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