Page 50 of His Forgotten Bride
Another swallow of her champagne. He loosed the ribbon binding her hair in its neat plait and shook it free with his fingers.
She said, “This is the last time. I cannot do this again.” But he heard the quaver in her voice and knew that it was her own lack of determination she feared. That he would indeed come out the victor in their skirmish. That he might succeed in keeping her so unbalanced and off-kilter that she would end up acquiescing before she was even aware of having done so.
It had taken only moments to reduce her to a charming dishabille. There was something so satisfying about it, about seeing her without the trappings of a housekeeper, disheveled and placidly sipping champagne in his bed, as if she had finally ended up where she belonged.
When they were married, he would make certain they had champagne every night. When they were married, she wouldn’t perch at the edge of his bed—theirbed—like an agitated butterfly. He wouldn’t have to coax her into wickedness.
But he would enjoy it while it lasted.
He didn’t bother to dignify her assertion with a response. Instead he said, “Finish your champagne.” And she did, as he slid her wrapper off of her shoulders and pushed the sleeves down her arms. As he peeled her out of her nightgown, she pursed her lips together.
“I think I’d like another glass,” she said, and her voice was throaty, raspy.
“Later,” he said. “I’ll not have you say I pressed advantage.” He plucked a strawberry from the bowl and offered it to her. Watching her eat it was a sensual experience in itself; she closed her eyes and savored the fruit, fresh and perfectly ripe.
And that—that was as much as he could stand. The firelight flickered over her bare skin as he wished to do with his fingers. Her bare toes curled, and she restively tucked one ankle behind the other, affecting a proper seated pose made arresting by her nakedness.
He plucked the champagne flute from her fingers and set it aside. From his peripheral vision he saw her hand lift, stretch out toward him, hesitate, and then drop once more into her lap. As if she hadn’t the right to touch him. Perhaps she thought she did not, that there was some sort of invisible boundary between them even now.
Catching her hand in his, he drew it to his chest, pressed it over his heart. “Claire,” he said. “You’re going to be my wife. Of course you can touch me.”
Her fingers jerked beneath his. “I won’t,” she said, but it was a whisper, a rote response without meaning. Already she floundered, like a fish baited on a hook, struggling against the tides of fate. It was a senseless resistance. He would win anyway, eventually. Some battles were too important to lose, and he had more weapons in his arsenal than she could know.
It wasn’t only him she denied—she denied herself as well. It was there in the frenetic breaths that puffed against his cheek as he drew her closer, in the harried beat of her heart that he could feel in the pulse point at her throat, in the faint trembling of her limbs. She waged a fierce internal war beyond any reason he could understand, but she could not fight the enemy withinandthe enemy without.
Her eyes slid closed, thick dark lashes fanning her cheeks, and she shuddered as his fingers meandered across her smooth shoulders, spanned the narrow cage of her ribs, and caught her waist to lift her. It wasn’t enough to have heronhis bed—he wanted herinit, swathed in soft sheets and downy covers, a haven of comfort and security that belonged exclusively to them.
He cradled her head in one hand, lowered her to the pillows that dominated the head of his bed, and she squirmed restlessly as she sank into the plush softness of them. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if she could hold onto her convictions so long as she couldn’t see him, but that was all right. In her world of deliberate darkness, she could not fend off a surprise volley.
The first trickle of champagne to the hollow of her throat surprised her. Chill bumps chased along her arms, and she gasped at the rasp of his jaw as he sipped the champagne from her skin. Another splash to the valley between her breasts, and she clutched at his shoulders and whispered his name as he collected the liquid with his tongue, chasing a few wayward droplets as they slid down her belly to pool in the indention of her navel.
Her blunt nails needled his skin, prickling and scraping by turns as she forgot herself in the heat of the moment. He splayed his palm across her belly, anchoring her in preparation for that last dribble of champagne that slipped between her thighs into the delicate feminine hollow between them.
This she had not predicted, and when she realized his intent, she attempted to jackknife up, drawing her knees up for stability. But his hand held her where he wanted her, and he discarded the bottle of champagne and used his freed hand to open her, spreading her private flesh to the searching of his tongue.
With a piteous whimper she dropped back, surrendered. She tasted sweet and alluring, of crisp champagne and Claire herself, and when he knew she would no longer protest, he slid his hands beneath her and lifted her like a bowl to his lips, relishing the small sounds of pleasure she could not quite stifle. How easy it would be to bring her to come like this, to taste her fulfillment on his tongue, to savor her like she had savored the champagne.
And yet he would be selfish once again—he had to feel her around him, to bring the both of them to climax together, to show her once more how good it would be between them.
She gave a disconsolate cry as he drew away, her hands reaching out for him in protest. But she sighed as he slid up, as the weight of his body trapped hers. She groped for his shoulders, latching onto him with a sort of wild desperation.
Her hips arched into his, pleading wordlessly for satisfaction. He laid claim to just enough restraint yet to deny her, to tease her with the slick slide of his shaft along her sensitive tissues, the mere suggestion of breaching her body. Pinned beneath his weight, she couldn’t cant her hips enough to make it a reality, and he refused her. Despite her anguished whimpers, he refused her.
Her hands slipped on his skin, unable to find a grip through the fine misting of perspiration. He wanted to see her eyes, but she deprived him as he deprived her.
“Marry me, Claire.” It was cruel of him to manipulate her this way, and he saw her distress in the way her brows knit, in the thrash of her head on the pillow. And still he tormented her—tormented himself—with slow, agonizing strokes.
“No,” she said, and her nails scrabbled over his shoulders, seeking purchase, leverage she could use against him as he used her weakness against her.
“Yes.” He brushed a kiss to her forehead, tasted the salt of her own sweat there.
“I won’t.” Her breath hitched in a sob. “I can’t.” And her eyes opened, luminous with tears, troubled in a way he was helpless to understand.
Her vulnerability revealed his own. “Then hold me. I need you to hold me.” He pressed the words against her throat, coasting his hands along her smooth thighs, urging her legs around his waist. She cried out as he slid inside her at last, holding him with arms and legs, moving with him with breathless whimpers of pleasure.
She held him so tightly that he could almost believe there was genuine affection in her touch, in the fervent clasp of her hands. She held him with every trembling limb, and then she held him with the glorious clasp of her silky inner muscles as she came apart in his arms, and it was almosttoogood, almosttooperfect to draw back, when all he wanted was to stay in the cocoon of her arms, to spill himself within her and give her everything of him.
To give her his child. To create, within this perfect moment, a life that would bind them together forever.
