The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt

  Dragging in an unsteady breath, she obeyed. He lifted his kerchief from her shoulder and lashed her wrists together, tightly enough so she couldn’t part them but could swivel her hands back and forth.

  “On your knees.”

  She felt heated but empty, and deliciously, fascinatingly, out of her depth. Excitement flickered through her as she lowered herself, settled on her knees, then looked up at him.

  His eyes were dark pools. “Open my breeches and take my member in your hands.”

  She knew enough—had heard gossip enough—to know where this was leading. She tried not to be too eager, to keep to her role of slave as she freed the buttons at his waistband, pushed open the placket of his breeches and took his straining erection between her hands.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d touched him there, skin to skin, yet she couldn’t hide her continuing curiosity, her avid fascination. Without waiting for any instruction, she traced the length, circled the empurpled head, then closed one fist and lightly squeezed.

  Heard his breath hitch, catch.

  Felt tension leap and snare him. Sensed the muscles all over his body tighten as beneath her palms his erection turned to steel. Rigid steel covered with skin the texture of fine satin; such a contrast, such a strange softness.

  Forgetting to wait for orders, she played, explored, learned.

  Felt his hands slide into her hair, glide beneath the heavy chignon that hung low on her nape, fingers spreading into the coiled tresses as he gripped.

  “Take me into your mouth.”

  She complied instantly.

  Greedily.

  Logan closed his eyes on a groan, one he only just managed to hold back as her lips slid over his engorged head, then lower, and her hot mouth engulfed him. He tightened his grip on her skull to guide her, only to have logical thought suspend as she licked, laved, then sucked.

  Where the hell had she learned …?

  Even as she set about shredding his control, he realized she was improvising. That she didn’t really know but was doing as she wished.…

  God help him.

  As if in answer to his prayer, she eased back and released him, but only to demand, “Tell me how to please you.”

  Opening his eyes, he looked down.

  Just as she glanced up, met his eyes. “Master.”

  She purred the word, her sinfully wicked lips brushing skin so sensitive he felt it like a burn.

  Looking into her green eyes, all he could think was: Master? Who was master here?

  But then she licked, broke the spell, and his hands tightened on her skull and pressed her back into servicing him, to which she enthusiastically devoted herself as, in a voice hoarse with passion, he instructed her.

  As he told her how to raze every defense he possessed against her and bring him to his knees.…

  Realizing, he looked down, saw her red head at his groin, felt the silk of her hair brush his exposed skin … felt his control sliding. Dragging air into lungs locked tight, he forced himself to act—to slide a thumb between her lips and withdraw his throbbing erection from the haven of her mouth.

  She complied with his implied directive. Sitting back on her ankles, she looked inquiringly up at him—undaunted, uncowed, undeterred.

  All he saw in her eyes was desire and brazen willfulness.

  Delight and the unalloyed anticipation of pleasure.

  His own lips tightened. Clamping his hands about her shoulders, he lifted her to her feet—and slanted his mouth over hers. Kissed her—devoured her. Passionately, possessively demanding, commanding, then ravishing without quarter. As he wished, as he wanted.

  As she wanted, too.

  She met him in a clash of tongues and rapidly escalating desire.

  He couldn’t get enough of her, the taste of her like this, wild and wanton, and so patently, potently, his. Surrendered, but joyously, gladly, eagerly. Dangerous, so dangerous …

  He was supposed to be teaching her about what she didn’t want, what she shouldn’t invite.…

  Wrenching his mouth from hers, he spun her around to face the side of the bed. Her hands were tied; grasping her waist, he lifted her. “Kneel on the edge.”

  She did. The mattress brought her hips to the perfect height; her knees spread for balance, she glanced over her shoulder.

  “Face forward. Keep your gaze fixed directly ahead.”

  His words were little more than a guttural growl. Linnet deciphered them well enough to obey, breasts aching, pulse thrumming, as she waited for what came next.

  A hard, hot, masculine presence, he stood close behind her, between her calves, and touched her again, but differently.

  He showed her how force could be wielded against her, taught her how feeling helpless could add a sharp edge to passion, how through nothing more than touch her senses could be razed, how desire could be honed into a whip to lash her until she sobbed.

  Until she moaned.

  Until desperation sank to her bones.

  He showed her how waiting for his touch could make her quake, how receiving it could make her gasp, then moan. Then sob, then scream.

  Showed her how passion could build, and build, until it grew claws and raked her, then shattered her.

  Taught her how pleasure could flay her, how raw need could beat her from the inside out, how pleasure could become a raging fire that consumed her.

  His hard hands moved over her with unveiled intent. Harshly, compellingly, driving her on. If he’d pressed possession on her before, now he gave her fire and conflagration—gave her no choice but to take it in and let it rage. Let it have her. Consume her.

  Eyes closed, giddy, she fought to keep upright, to keep her head from tipping back. Tried not to notice how her breathy pants converted again to moans, then to hitching sobs.

  Greedy passion again leapt high, flared cometbright, then raced over her skin, spreading beneath, then building like a fever.

  Until she burned again.

  Until primitive passion ran molten in her veins.

  Until visceral desire was an empty furnace in her belly and she ached with the need to feel him within her. Had to fight the compulsion to writhe under his hands.

  His wicked fingers continued to knead, to squeeze and explore, to possess every curve, every intimate hollow. From behind, he probed her sheath again, but purely to confirm that she was ready, wet and hot and slickly prepared to receive him.

  Gasping, sensually reeling, she felt him move closer. Between her thighs, he slid his fingers further forward, with the broad tip of one circled the delicate nubbin throbbing behind her curls, sending sensations spiraling and rising, pushing her arousal to even greater heights.

  “What do you want?” The words were a guttural whisper by her ear.

  “I want you inside me.” Eyes closed, she licked her lips. “Deep inside me. Now.”

  “Good.”

  She felt him at her back, then one hand flattened and pressed between her shoulder blades, forcing her down.

  “Bend over. Put your elbows on the bed.”

  Her skin crawling with need, she did. His hands clamped about her hips, gripped.

  She had an instant of warning—an instant for her nerves, every sense she possessed, to seize with expectation, then he drove himself into her—hard, deep, powerful and sure.

  Into the weeping furnace of her sheath.

  She couldn’t hold back a moan as he filled her, then he withdrew and thrust powerfully in again, pushing deeper still, and her moan turned to a strangled sob.

  The fabric of his breeches rode against the sensitized skin of her bottom, reminding her that he was all but fully clothed while she … was bent naked and helpless before him on her bed, her wrists tied, her sheath flagrantly offered for his use.

  Another layer of arousal, a deeper possession.

  She sobbed, panted, unable to do more than shake her head from side to side as he pounded into her, and she gladly—so gladly—received him. As she tightened and clung, e
mbracing the fullness of his shaft as he pressed deep and filled her, as she desperately clung to sanity as he drove her ever higher up the peak of sensation.

  She wanted every last moment, every senses-shattering instant of pleasure.

  She fought to shift, to ride his thrusts and prolong the engagement—and discovered she couldn’t. Discovered just how helpless she was as he held her immobile and repeatedly, relentlessly, filled her.

  As over and over he worked his erection, all steel and fire, deep in her sheath, until the friction felt like living flame.

  Logan held her in position, refused to let her buck, let her move her hips at all as he stroked repetitively, pressing deep, as he felt her instinctively clamp and cling, the most primitively intimate caress of all.

  Her head threshed as he drove her harder, higher up the peak; the sounds falling from her lips were gasping sobs of entreaty and surrender.

  He felt her muscles clench, closed his eyes, and thrust forcefully deep—heard her scream as she came apart, her sheath clamping hard, pulling him in.

  Jaw tight, he hung on, pumped steadily through the powerful, rippling contractions, until he felt them slowly ebb, then fade.

  Opening his eyes, he looked down at her. Her hair had come loose; a rumpled red curtain, it flowed over her shoulders and veiled her face as she lay slumped, panting, still gasping, her cheek on the covers as she struggled to catch her breath.

  Her skin glowed like a pale-rose-tinted pearl, flushed with desire, sheened with spent passion.

  He still held her hips clamped between his hands, was still sunk to the balls in her bounty.

  He’d slowed his thrusts while he’d looked. He picked up the pace, worked his erection deeper into her surrendered body, enjoying the sensations of having her so open, so intimately exposed and conquered.

  He stroked deep, felt sensation shiver through him, long, luscious, a lingering sense of triumphant possession.

  He’d planned to let go and plunder her body anew, to finish like this, in this position, reinforcing what he hoped was the lesson she’d learned—that she could be made helpless by passion, then taken, conquered, and used in whatever way her conqueror desired.…

  He’d thought that was what he would want, but … no.

  She’d demanded he use her to satisfy his most potent desires.

  There was no reason he shouldn’t. Withdrawing from her, he stepped back, and stripped off his clothes.

  Lifting her, he laid her on her back in the middle of the bed, her body flat, her head barely touching the pillows, her arms extended above her head, her hands, still tied, between the pillows. Her limbs were still lax; she struggled to lift her lids, tried to frown. Naked, on his knees, he grasped her ankles and spread them wide, then moved between and let his body down on hers.

  Came down on his elbows, wedged his hips between hers, caught her gaze as her lids rose to reveal dazed green eyes.

  He thrust powerfully into her.

  Watched her eyes flare, heard her breath catch.

  Then he bent his head and took her mouth.

  Rapaciously, ravenously plundered, sinking deep and claiming both her mouth and her body.

  Felt her rise beneath him as he did.

  Felt her join with him and ride the uninhibited crest of unleashed passion, of unfettered desire.

  This was what he wanted—his most potent desire—to have her spread beneath him, his to plunder, yet with her with him, an active participant, every heated inch of the way.

  He filled her forcefully, repeatedly, unrelentingly. Yet even as he reached for her knees, she lifted her legs, wrapped them about his hips and tilted hers, inviting him deeper yet, luring him further yet, riding him as he rode her in an unreservedly primitive consummation.

  Taking unreservedly.

  Being taken unreservedly.

  But as he sensed their climax roaring down on them, as the wave of release reared, about to crash, as her body clung to his, abandonly enticing, he realized …

  Then she screamed his name and shattered, and her release brought on his own, and all thought was drowned beneath an orgy of sensation.

  Bliss rolled in on a heavy wave of aftermath.

  In the instant before he succumbed, he acknowledged defeat.

  She hadn’t drawn back. She hadn’t been frightened—not the faintest lick of even reticence had touched her.

  She’d loved every minute, every intense second.

  On a long-drawn groan, he slumped on top of her.

  He’d achieved the opposite of what he’d intended—and more. Worse.

  Only one thought, one reaction, managed to surface in his exhausted brain. How the devil had it come to this?

  He should have guessed she’d revel in the power, the passion, the intensity. She was like no woman he’d ever known, ergo …

  Some untold time later, when he’d managed to lift from her and settle them in the bed, with her curled beside him, he lay staring at the shadowed ceiling—thinking. Of what, beneath all the heat and fire, courtesy of the power, the passion, and the intensity that had undeniably ruled, had actually occurred.

  Had happened.

  There was no going back.

  It had definitely not been what he’d intended—almost certainly not what she’d expected, either. But she’d stubbornly brought it on, engineered the encounter, and it had happened, come to pass, and so here they now were.

  Somewhere they hadn’t been before.

  He’d thought that being so dominant a personality, she’d recoil from being dominated—that she wouldn’t like it, would draw back from it. Instead, she’d gloried in his possession, welcomed and embraced it, and him, and wrapped him in something akin to heaven—an angel’s embrace. He’d thought she’d run screaming, at least figuratively. Instead … he was the one conquered.

  The one now addicted.

  She’d satisfied every dream—every potent desire—he’d ever had.

  Even if he dreamt up more, and he could—definitely could—he felt certain, now, that she would happily fulfill them.

  After what had happened … things between them had changed. Irreparably, irretrievably. He wasn’t going back, could no longer step back. Not now he knew what it was like to touch heaven and come to rest in an angel’s arms.

  Even if she was, very definitely, no angel at all.

  Seven

  December 14, 1822

  Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

  Linnet woke, once again, to the sensation of being filled, of being swept away, smoothly, irresistibly, on a tide of pleasure and quiet passion, of being taken, whisked high, and shattered, drained, then suffused with indescribable glory as she sank to rest, sated and bliss-filled, in her lover’s arms.

  As she slipped, helplessly, back into slumber, Logan slumped by her side, and felt his lips curve. His new direction was irrefutably right. Satisfied, reassured, he surrendered to the combined lure of her warmth and his satiation and let sleep have him again.

  He woke as Linnet slid from the bed. Opening his eyes, he raised his head, looked at her. Arched his brows.

  Linnet stared into his dark blue eyes—into the smug, distinctly masculine, self-satisfied expression inhabiting them—and nearly panicked. She never panicked.

  “Don’t get up—it’s early yet. You should rest.” After your amazing exertions of the night. And the morning. Desperately ignoring her naked state, she walked to where she’d, dropped her clothes, swiped her chemise from the top of the pile, and tugged it on.

  Better. She could still feel his gaze—all over. The flimsy chemise didn’t dull its edge. Donning her shift helped, gave her a touch more confidence.

  Enough to ignore him as he rolled over the better to watch her dress.

  She’d told him to go back to sleep, so she wasn’t going to talk to him. Talking could wait until her mind was working again.

  It was early, earlier than usual, but she had to get away. Had to get out of sight of him, out of reach of him, before sh
e did something stupid.

  Like grab him again, demand he make love to her however he wished again.

  Foolish, foolish, but how could she have known? No one had ever told her “making love” could be like that—something that seized you, sank claws so deep you couldn’t escape, then turned you inside out with need.

  Before satisfying every last iota of that need with mind-bending pleasure.

  Her mind had definitely been bent. She didn’t think she could trust it to work again, not where he was concerned.

  She kept herself facing away from the bed. Yet—damn it—she was already thinking, mentally flirting, with notions she shouldn’t. Like imagining what it would be like to keep him in her life. To have him there to satisfy … all he’d shown her, the deep cravings she’d never known she had.

  Now she knew, and she couldn’t undo the damage. She would know she craved that—preferably with him—for the rest of her life.

  Her lonely, largely solitary life. The life that stretched before her, much as the life she’d had to date—the one without a large, naked, entirely capable man in her bed.

  Without a man by her side to share the day’s burdens … oh, this was not good.

  On a personal level, she was alone, and always had been.

  She’d survived before, and she would again—once he’d left and she’d recovered her equilibrium.

  Annoyance and irritation came to her aid. Annoyance at him for being all she’d never known she desperately wanted, irritation at herself for wishing for something that could never be.

  Pulling a dark navy gown from her armoire, she yanked it over her head, tied the laces as she headed for the door. She was almost surprised to reach it without some comment from him, but she told herself she was inexpressibly grateful. Don’t look back.

  She put her hand on the knob—and glanced at the bed.

  Arms crossed behind his head, like a dark Adonis he lay watching her.

  “I’ll see you at the breakfast table.” Opening the door, she stalked out, and shut it carefully behind her.

  Any day—perhaps today—he would remember the missing pieces of the jigsaw of his life, and then he would leave.

  That was the one thing above all others she had to remember.