My Favorite Bride (27 page)

There was a reason why she'd come to him a virgin. There was a reason why he'd been celibate since his wife died. They'd been waiting for each
other. Waiting for the conflagration that consumed them. Nothing could halt its advance. No matter what hurt stood between them or the insults they flung at each other's heads, they wanted each other. Nothing could change that.

The scent of him enveloped her, earthy and male. His shirt, loose, white and soft, brushed the tips of her breasts, over and over. His thigh nudged between her legs, a pale imitation of intercourse. Making her want the real thing. His mouth on her skin, his hands holding her down, his knee . . .

“No!” She turned her head away, kicked at his legs.

In the soft voice of pure menace, he asked, “What's the matter? Do you like that too much? Does it make your skin flush, your loins burn?” He trailed his lips over her chin and down her throat. “If I put my fingers in you, will they slide in because you're damp and slick from wanting me?”

Everything he said was true, and hearing him say so made it worse. It was almost as if he could talk her to an unwilling climax.

“I ought to cut your robe off completely,” he mused.

“No!”

“No, you're right. I like holding you like this. Helpless, waiting and wondering what I'll do next.” He gazed down at her bosom, and his smile produced a most peculiar tightening in her belly. “You have such pretty breasts. I never got to see them properly last time. It was dark and I was desperate. But they're everything I imagined. Pale,
with rose-colored nipples that tighten when you're excited. As you are now.”

“I'm cold.”

He knew she was lying, but he pulled an expression of concern over his features. “Then I shall warm you.” Dipping his head, he took a nipple into his mouth and rolled it across his tongue.

Irresistibly, her eyes closed. Her back arched. Her legs clamped around his knee.

Opening his mouth wide, he took as much in as he could, then suckled with a strong motion.

They'd spent only one night together. How did he know how to rouse her so precisely? How did he know to sweep his cheek across the lower slope of her breast, then slide up her body and nibble at her lower lip? Her mouth was open as she gasped, and he took pitiless advantage to enter her with his tongue.

She strained upward, trying to increase the contact between them.

He kissed her until she thought that, even if she got away now, she would recognize the taste of him forever. Then he whispered, “Samantha.”

She lifted her lids to see him looking down at her. His mouth was damp from hers, his gaze as merciless as a peregrine's hovering over its prey.

“Don't get up. Don't move. Remain just as you are, or you'll not get out of this bed until the vicar comes to wed us. Do you understand?”

Never taking her gaze from him, she nodded.

Even so, he didn't believe her, for he let go of her wrists, then hovered there as if waiting to make another grab for her.

Pride required she make another attempt at escape. But pride was stupid, and she was not. She was practical. She was no-nonsense. She was a cutpurse from the East End of London.

She didn't have a chance. He was bigger and probably faster.

More important, she wanted this. Not as he wanted it, as a forceful fortification of the bond between the two of them, but because she wanted a sweet farewell. And because—
tell the truth, Samantha
—because she couldn't not. She loved him too much to deny him, or to deny herself.

He ripped his shirt off. He looked to see if she was still lying there. He shoved his trousers down. He looked again. Grasping the last remaining connected inches of her nightgown, he tore it all the way through the hem.

And she remembered—he was furious. She was new to this. He could hurt her . . .

But Colonel William Gregory would never hurt
her
. Not physically.

And he had already broken her heart. What more could he do?

He placed one tender hand on the inside of each ankle and rubbed his palms up to her knees, up the insides of her thighs. Slipping his hands under her legs, lifting them onto his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” She tried to fight her way free.

He tightened his grip and laughed. “Just what it looks like.”

He nuzzled between her legs, blowing air into the curling blonde thatch of hair.

She realized he could see her. There. Between her legs. The candles at her bedside flickered, giving light where they should not. And he was planning to . . . kiss her? Where she ached and wanted?

She couldn't bear it. She couldn't. Trying to escape, she twisted sideways.

He laughed again, opened her and thrust his tongue inside her.

This time when she twisted, it wasn't to escape, but in excitement. It was like . . . the deepest kiss, the greatest intimacy. When he was down there, he knew she was aroused. All her secrets were exposed; she could hide nothing from him. And the way he entered her, his tongue stabbing at her like a velvet lash.

She grasped the sheets, twisting them in her fists. She rocked her head back and forth. Within her, a fist of passion tightened almost past bearing. She was dampening his tongue, she knew it, but she couldn't stop. He drove her toward climax, ruthless in his decision to conquer her, to take her and make her realize they were mates.

And she did realize that. Just as she realized their story would end in tragedy.

But it would not end, not tonight.

His lips captured her clitoris, and he milked it in a motion that brought her to the edge. Close. So close. But not quite. Not yet—

He thrust his finger inside her. And it
was
now. Every muscle within her contracted. A scream burst from her throat. Her hips rose, rocking in the ancient motion of intercourse, in orgasm, in acceptance.

And in one smooth motion, he slid up her body and entered her.

She was damp and slick, so desperate for penetration she accepted his length without difficulty.

He was hot and hard, so insistent that he rode her orgasm all the way in.

Then, grinding his hips against hers, he started her all over again.

She didn't stop. She had no control. She climaxed again and again, digging her nails into his buttocks, trying to hold him still for a moment of respite. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, William.” But she didn't know what she begged him for.

Perhaps she begged for his love.

He moved slowly, then quickly. Deeply, then barely entering. He taunted her with his motions, holding one of her thighs up on his arm, using the other hand to caress her as he pleased—on her breasts, her stomach, between her legs right above where he entered her.

She whimpered and moaned, growing more exhausted with each culmination, yet the motion never stopped, and her response grew greater. It was as if he were weakening her defenses and strengthening their bonds at the same time.

His strokes speeded up. He allowed her leg to rest on the bed, put all his weight atop of her, pressed her into the mattress. “Samantha. Look at me.”

She scarcely understood him.

He wrapped his hands around her face. “Look at me.”

She made the effort to lift her eyelids—and
stared right into the soul of his passion. This man, so strong, so cultured in appearance, was a primitive to his bones. He had made his claim; he would accept no denial. “You're mine,” he said. “Mine.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Samantha woke with the first light. The fire had gone out, she wore not a stitch, but she was warm, snuggled up against William's back. He'd removed his boots and his trousers completely, and now she held a naked man in her arms. A gloriously naked man, his bottom tucked into her belly, his back against her chest, their legs tangled together.

He had made his point last night. Now she would make hers. With as much expertise as she'd learned in the last two days, she would show him her love, and show him what he would miss for all the long years they'd be apart. It was little enough revenge, for the pain as she knew she would suffer.

The arm beneath her rested across his shoulders. The other was tucked around his waist, and her hand . . . she smiled. Her hand was most conveniently placed.

Softly she stroked the fur that grew on his chest, marveling at the sculpted muscles beneath. His ribs rippled beneath his skin, and she ran her fingertips over them, first one side and then the other, and smiled as he took a long breath.

Was he awake yet? She didn't think so. With the flat of her hand, she stroked down his ridged belly and into the thatch of hair at his groin. There she found what she ultimately sought.

He might still be asleep, but parts of him were stirring. She grinned into his shoulder. She didn't know anything. She didn't know about pleasing a man, but she knew how to please William. Everything she did pleased him . . . sexually.

Only in other ways did he find her lacking.

Her smile turned bitter. To her, it was the other ways that mattered. Eventually to him, too. So she would leave him and live a life barren of richness or sensuality or love.

But she would have her pride.

She snorted softly. Pride was a cold bedfellow, but to spend the rest of her life knowing her husband watched and suspected her of a moral corruption that might involve affairs, treachery . . . murder? Once William's imagination went to work, she would never be without surveillance.

So she had this morning to taste him, caress him, and build her memories forever.

She cupped his genitals. His balls were hot and hairy, wrinkled and heavy for their size.

But his member . . . smooth, hairless, magical, it stirred beneath her touch. It fascinated her, this male organ that hardened so swiftly. She wrapped
her hand around it, palm and fingers, measuring its width. Then she stroked its length, enjoying the texture, the ridges, and at the top, with her thumb, she circled the sensuous cap. A drop of moisture beaded there, and she drew it out in a little circle.

“Dear God. Samantha.” William's voice was drugged, sleepy.

She lifted herself on her elbow, and kissed his shoulder—and bit it.

He jumped, and rolled over to face her, the blanket wrapped around his waist.

To her surprise, his eyes were alert. Had he been awake all the time? Or was this the way the spy catcher and soldier woke up?

It didn't matter. She wouldn't be here long enough to learn the answer. “I owed you that,” she said.

His gaze flicked to the mark of his teeth on her neck, and he reached out to encircle her.

“No.” She pushed his hands away. “It's my turn.”

Still he tried to embrace her.

“My turn,” she said firmly.

His lashes drooped. “You'll make me sorry.”

“Oh, yes. That is my plan.” She caressed his chest and watched his face, taking delight in that magnificent structure, in the pure blue of his eyes, in the lips which had provided so much delight. She would remember everything about him, but she would cherish the memory of his face as he looked right now, strong with anticipation and faintly wary.

His legs shifted beneath the covers. “I'm sorry
already, if that makes any difference.”

She smiled at his treachery. “Not a whit.”

The sun was rising over the mountains, bathing him in light, showing him in all his beauty. She'd never imagined such a magnificent man could exist; heavily muscled, with valleys and peaks of definition that came only from hard riding and constant activity. She wanted to ask what he did to keep so fit. Fencing? Boxing?

But it didn't matter. If she knew, it would be one more fact she had forever to brood about.

Flipping her hair over one shoulder, she bunched it like a whisk and brushed at his throat. She saw his Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed.

His hands closed on her shoulders, and he massaged them in deep, warm circles.

“You don't have to do anything,” she murmured against his skin.

“If I don't, I'll take you now.”

“We can't have that.” She brushed his hair back from his face, delighting in the curl that clung to her fingers like a living thing. He was so beautiful . . . but that was the wrong word. Not beautiful, but craggy. The bones of his face gave him an intimidating strength. His nose—she chuckled—his nose could only be called big, but no one dared say that for fear he would take umbrage. Or perhaps laugh, depending on his mood, because he wasn't vain and cared so little for others' opinions. His beard was a dark shadow across his jaw that scraped her fingertips as she passed over it. His
ears she admired for their neat set against his head, and because they enticed her to nibble at the lobe. And when she did that, his hands spasmed on her shoulders. Encouraged, she licked the folds.

He groaned.

Leaning her forehead against his, she looked into his gaze. “I've found something you like.”

“Anything you do to me.”

His lips moved with such etched precision, she couldn't take her gaze away. His lips . . . full, smooth, created solely to give pleasure to her. Bit by bit, she lowered her mouth to his and took his full lower lip between her teeth. She nibbled softly. His tongue came out to lick at her upper lip. And they were kissing, kissing like people starved of passion, of desire . . . of love. How she loved him! She feasted on his open mouth, tilting her head back and forth, dipping again and again into the sweet well, sucking at his tongue with tantalizing greed.

He remained still beneath her kiss, beneath the hands that rubbed his chest and stroked down his arms. His only response was to the kiss itself. He followed her lead, a male leashed by his own permission.

His neck was strong and thick, his shoulders so muscled his collarbones were almost invisible. Parting the hair on his chest, she lowered her mouth to his nipple and sipped delicately.

“My God.” He arched back on the pillow. “Samantha.”

“Hm?” She loved this. To have a strong, invincible man at her mercy. To drag her nails down his
ribs and feel his stomach collapse as he sucked in his breath. To know that beneath the blanket waited her reward. Nothing could interrupt these last moments between them . . . hastily, she wiped a tear off his chest.

Showing a sensitivity she wouldn't have expected, he asked, “Samantha?” He tried to lift her chin.

She slipped away, down his body, trying to distract him with the simple expedient of kissing him at the place on his diaphragm where his ribs met his breastbone.

“Samantha?” His voice sounded fainter, but still he tried to look at her face.

She slid her hand over his hip and down his thigh. His thigh . . . she tried to wrap her hand around one and squeeze, but it was too broad. Too hard. “I could write an epic poem about your thighs.”

“That would amuse polite society rather too much, and I wouldn't like that.”

“I wouldn't either.” She pressed her cheek to his belly. “I can't think of a word to rhyme with marble column.”

He chuckled.

She heard the sound beneath her ear, and rewarded him with a kiss on his navel, probing with her tongue, reveling in the scent of his skin.

His hand slid beneath her and cupped her breast.

Taking that hand, she placed it on his chest and patted it. “I told you. I'm doing this.”
I'm
memorizing your body. I'm storing up pleasure. I'm making good and sure you will never forget me. Or I you.

“If you expect me to keep my hands to myself, you'll have to tie me to the bed.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “It's a thought.” Rather a good one, since she knew he would argue when she left . . . and for him, she was weak. Far too weak.

Taking his hands, she wrapped them around the posts on the headboard. “Pretend I've tied you. That should help.”

“I doubt it,” he rumbled, but he held the bedposts.

She slid her hand under the covers, lifting them as she went, peering beneath as if whatever was there could only be a surprise. As it was, in a way. Rising from the froth of pubic hair was . . . “What do you call it?”

“What?” He sounded almost shocked.

“I can't keep calling it ‘
it.
' What do men call their
part
?”

“What men say is seldom for a lady's ears.”

She delighted in his repressive tone. “Then you can tell
me.
”

Unclasping his fingers, he reached out to touch her cheek. “Samantha . . .”

Exasperated, she took his wrist and carried his hand once more to the headboard. “Tell me what you call it.”

“You're a lady if I say you are.”

I can never be a lady. I don't belong in your world
. She took a quivering breath. It was better this way.
He would see. So would she. Someday . . .

“Samantha, listen to me . . .”

“What is this?” She feathered her finger along his tumescence.

“When I marry you, you'll be a lady.”

She stroked him. “What do you call it?”

“You're a lady because—”

She touched her lips to the tip of his penis, and ran her tongue around in a circle. “Tell me what you call it or I won't kiss it anymore.”

The muscles in his arms and his legs bulged. His knuckles turned white. At last, he was distracted. Thank God, he was distracted. “Dear heavens, Samantha.” He sounded hoarse with shock . . . and delight.

She took her mouth away.

He spoke as rapidly as possible. “Prick, cock, the old horn.”

She lavished a kiss on him—and stopped.

“Roaring jack, old Adam, roosterswain.”

She sucked lightly on the tip, just once and no more.

“Privy member, bushwacker . . .”

His voice trailed off, and she looked up.

“If you don't put yourself on top of me soon, I'll finish in your mouth and you'll have to wait an hour for your satisfaction.”

“Oh, we could invent something for you to do,” she drawled. But she had a coach to catch.
A life to seek
. So she slithered up his body, taking her time, trailing kisses and rubbing herself against him like an affectionate cat. Then she faltered.

“What's wrong?” he asked gutturally.

“I'm not sure how to proceed.”

“I'd show you, but I'm not to take my hands down.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He dared taunt her? Now, in his position? “I'll figure it out.”

She'd been beside him, stretched out or on her knees. All she had to do was skate her leg over the top of him and take him. He'd shown no hesitation. A smile flirted with her lips. Why should she?

Well, possibly because he wasn't opening himself to her. He wasn't making himself vulnerable. She was. Yet even last night, when he'd been reduced by anger and frustration to a beast, he had never hurt her. He never would. She knew that just as surely as she knew she would always love him.

Without further hesitation, she mounted him. The mattress sank beneath her knees. The white sheets were rumpled. William was sturdy beneath her, big-boned and well-muscled, so strong she reveled in the dominance she held. His hands still clutched the bedposts, his abdomen rippled as he breathed, and he was hers, all hers—for now.

Placing herself over his hips, she pressed onto him, opening herself along his length, teasing him with the knowledge that he was close, so close, to entering her. But she held power, and she murmured, “Not yet, not yet.” Because it felt good to rub herself against him, to see him strain and writhe. She scraped her fingernails lightly through the hair on his chest. She circled his nipples, she caressed his abdomen. Leaning over him, she kissed his lips, and whispered against them, “You're so
gorgeous, stretched out like a gift I've opened but in which I've yet to take pleasure.”