Page 69 of One Night with a Prince
“Byrne,” she begged, while she could still speak. “Say…the words…”
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlHe withdrew, then thrust again, hard, furious. “I was jealous,” he bit out. “Iam jealous. Jealous of all those bloody idiots…in the card room. Who leer at you and…watch your arse while you walk—”
“Do they?” she whispered, surprised.
“And Stokely.” His gaze bored into hers. “I hate the idea of Stokely touching you.” He drove inside her again, so fiercely it made her gasp. “I’mthe only one who should touch you. I’m the only one who should kiss you.” His breath rasped against her ear. “I’mthe only one who should…put himself inside you…like this—” He nipped her earlobe, then soothed the nip with heated swaths of his tongue. “If I believed…for one moment that you…would really countenance another man’s—”
“No, never,” she vowed against his cheek. “It’s only you I want.” She wound her arms about his neck, arching up against him to find more of the glorious pleasure his delicious thrusts were rousing. “Only you.”
“Christabel,” he said hoarsely, then cast openmouthed kisses along her cheek, her jaw, her throat. “My God, Christabel…”
Byrne matched his kisses with wild, thundering thrusts, reaching down between them to rub her sensitive nub until she was falling, falling…falling into hell with the angel of darkness, the Prince of Sin himself. The man with no soul was plundering hers over and over, mercilessly, thoroughly, branding her with himself in every vein and muscle and limb, until she forgot where he ended and she began. Now she was truly in trouble. She fancied she could feel the heat of hellfire on her face, smell the brimstone in the air, yet it was as sweet as fragrant roses to her. Lord help her, she didn’t care where Byrne took her. Let hellfire consume her and the devil steal her soul. Because any hell with Byrne in it was better than a heaven without him.
“Damn you, lass,” he whispered, his voice harsh and guttural. “Christabel…my sweet…my darling…mine…mine…mine!”
It was the exultant cry of the devil claiming her soul, yet all she could think as he spilled himself inside her and her body burst into flames was,Mine, too, Byrne. You’re mine, too .
Chapter Fifteen
I found it wise never to ask a lover about
his former mistresses, in case I did not like
his answers.
—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress
Gavin lay sprawled on his back, staring at the canopy above them as Christabel’s sweet form curved against him. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t still the thundering of his heart. And it had nothing to do with his exertions of the past few minutes.
It was her and the things she’d forced him to admit. Had that humiliating litany of jealousies really come out of his mouth? And he hadn’t even been lying to get her to share his bed—he’d meant every word. Damn the chit. Damn her!
Plenty of his mistresses had used lovemaking to coax him into giving them jewels or gifts or excursions toGenerated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlexotic places. But none had ever used it to turn him confessional. Of course, none had ever made him want to strangle a man just for looking at them with lust, either. What the bloody hell had come over him? He might as well slice open his chest and offer her his heart for the plucking.Here, my sweet, rip it out. Colonel Christabel wasn’t satisfied with only his body, oh no. She wanted everything. If he weren’t careful, she’d turn him into a besotted fool. He turned to stare at her, and his anger abruptly vanished. She certainly didn’t look like a wily temptress bent on his destruction. More like a purring kitten curled up against him, her face softly content, sleepily happy.
He was in trouble now. Because the truth was—he’d speak every humiliating word again just to see that look on her face. Imagine what it would be like to wake up to that look every morning. To have that smile shine for him every single day of his life.
His breath caught in his throat. Damn her for doing this to him! He mustn’t let her guess what she’d done, or next thing he knew, he’d be married to her and surrounded with a passel of puling babes—
“Bloody hell!” He jerked up in bed. “I can’t believe I forgot to use them!”
“Use what?” she asked, her contentment abruptly fading.
“Too late this time anyway.” He settled back against the pillow, drawing her up to lean against his chest.
“I forgot to use my French letters to prevent children, my sweet.” Something else that had never happened with any other woman.
“Well,” she said in a small voice, “it probably doesn’t matter. I suspect I can’t have children anyway.”
A strange tightness seized his throat. “Why not?”
“I never conceived in all my years of marriage. So I’m probably barren.”
“How do you know your husband wasn’t the one at fault?”
“Men never are, or so the doctors told me.”
He snorted. “What else would they say? If men could be at fault, women might start abandoning their husbands for not giving them children, and they couldn’t have that. But if it takes two people to create a child, then it seems to me either person could be at fault fornot creating one. That’s merely logical.”
“And you’re nothing if not logical,” she said dryly.
