Page 17 of The Beast's Captive Bride
She's wearing white beneath it—of course she is. Simple cotton bra and panties, modest but devastating on her lush curves. Nothing fancy or elaborate, but she takes my breath away.
"So beautiful," I say, because there are no other words.
Her hands come up to cover herself, but I catch them gently. "Don't hide from me."
"I'm not... experienced," she admits, the blush spreading down her neck to her chest. "Not at all, actually."
Something primitive and possessive roars to life inside me. "You've never been with anyone?"
She shakes her head, eyes downcast. "Daddy was... protective. And I never met anyone I wanted enough to defy him for." Her gaze lifts to mine. "Until you."
Christ. The responsibility of it hits me like a physical blow. I'm not just her first; I'm her choice, her rebellion, her leap of faith.
"I'll be gentle," I promise, cupping her face in my hands. "I'll make it good for you."
"I trust you." Three simple words that cut deeper than any knife.
I lead her to the bed, settling her on the edge before stepping back to remove my own clothes. Her eyes widen as I strip off my shirt, taking in the scars that map my torso—remnants of the night her father left me for dead.
"Oh, Cullen," she breathes, reaching out as if to touch them.
"Don't," I warn, the word harsher than I intend. "They're not pretty."
"They're part of you." She rises to her knees on the bed, putting us at eye level for once. "Nothing about you could be ugly to me."
Before I can stop her, her hands are on my chest, fingers tracing the largest scar—a jagged line from collarbone to sternum. Her touch is feather-light but burns like fire. I allow it, standing rigid as she explores me, learning the map of my pain by touch.
When she leans forward and presses her lips to the scar on my neck, I nearly come undone.
"Amber," I groan, catching her wrists in my hands. "Be careful."
"Why?" Her eyes meet mine, guileless yet knowing. "You're my husband. I'm allowed to touch you."
The word—husband—hits me like a punch. Yes, I am her husband. This impossible, beautiful creature is my wife. I'veclaimed her in the eyes of the law, but not yet in the way that matters most.
I release her wrists to finish undressing, aware of her eyes on me, her quick intake of breath as I stand before her completely naked. I know what she sees—a body built for violence, for power. Too large, too hard for someone as soft as her.
"Still sure?" I ask, giving her one last chance to back away.
In answer, she reaches behind to unhook her bra, letting it fall away. I drink in the sight of her—small, perfect breasts tipped with dusky rose nipples that pebble under my gaze.
"Come here," I murmur, and when she does, I lift her as if she weighs nothing, laying her against the pillows. I follow her down, careful to keep my weight off her, braced on my forearms.
The first kiss is gentle—a question, not a demand. She answers by opening beneath me, her arms twining around my neck to pull me closer. I taste her deeply, thoroughly, letting her set the pace even as I guide her.
"I'm going to touch you," I tell her between kisses. "Tell me if anything doesn't feel good."
She nods, eyes wide and trusting. I trail my mouth down her throat, learning the taste of her skin—sweet, with a hint of the vanilla perfume she dabbed on for our wedding. When I reach her breast, I pause, looking up to find her watching me.
"Okay?" I check.
"Please," she whispers, and the need in that single word shatters my control.
I take her nipple into my mouth, suckling gently at first, then with more pressure as she arches beneath me. My hand slides down her side, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, until I reach the edge of her panties.
"These need to go," I murmur against her skin, hooking my fingers in the elastic.
She lifts her hips in answer, letting me slide the last barrier down her legs. And then she's naked beneath me, all cream skin and soft curves, completely exposed to my gaze.
