Scandal's Bride

  His arms locked around her, heavy and warm across her waist—denying her quest to reach lower.

  Not that she needed to touch him there—he was already fully aroused. The steely length of him rode against her hip, hot and urgent. That much of him, at least, was cooperating. The rest of him was not.

  Shifting, she lay fully atop him, settling his erection between her thighs. She rolled her hips, experimenting until she found the particular shifting slide that most evocatively stroked him.

  And felt the muscles in his arms shift, tensing, relaxing, then tensing again, as if he couldn’t make up his mind.

  Swallowing a curse, she trapped his lips with hers—and put her heart and soul into a slow, deliberate undulation, breasts, hips and thighs—even the curls at the base of her belly—coming into play. Deliberately evocative, she called to him.

  And he answered. She felt the wave of response building in his body, felt the need she baited flare and swell. Felt hard become harder, felt tense muscles turn taut.

  With a gasp—of relief, of anticipation—she dragged her lips from his and half wriggled, half slid to the side. Puppet like, his body followed; as she turned on her back, she grasped his upper arm, tugging him over her.

  The reins of his lust locked in a grip of iron, Richard followed her lead—let her shift, let her tug—let her believe he was dazedly following her directions as she urged him over her. He complied, moving heavily, unhurriedly.

  While she panted, in heat.

  Consumed by heat. At his touch, her thighs parted. He swung heavily over her, then let himself down between, then took his time settling himself—and her. Impatient, she arched, and he felt her heat scald him, touch and cling to that most exquisitely sensitive part of him.

  He caught his breath—and felt, in his chest, something shift, something lock. With a soft, desperate gasp, she arched again—and he eased into her.

  Slowly. Savoring every inch of her hot softness as she stretched to accommodate him, savoring the subtle easing of her body as she accepted him.

  She sighed as he sank home, then her hands, tensed on his arms, relaxed. And skimmed down his sides.

  He caught them—first one, then the other—letting his weight down on her as he trapped them. And gently but firmly removed the reins from her grasp. Beneath him, she shifted, sinking deeper into the soft mattress, angling her hips to cradle him more effectively.

  Tentatively, she lifted her legs, sliding them over his flanks.

  “Yes.” He breathed the word against her lips as he settled fully upon her. He found her lips with his and took them, took her mouth, then pressed deeper into her.

  He drank her instinctive gasp—a gasp of pure pleasure. Inwardly smiling, he drew back, then sank deep again, and felt her flaring response. He set himself to feed it.

  To stoke her fires, to drive her frantic. More frantic than she’d ever been.

  With each slow, controlled thrust, the flames within her rose higher; he held to a steady, rolling rhythm until she was burning. Until, hot and heated, awash with desire, she rose beneath him, meeting every thrust, her body caressing him, clinging to him, cleaving to him. Until she was aflame, urgent in her wanting, desperate in her need.

  Frantic.

  Trapped in the heat, Catriona flexed her fingers, trying to slip them from his grasp, frantic to hold him, desperate to draw him to her—to reach the bright pinnacle of physical bliss that hovered on her horizon. Sunk deep in the mattress, she squirmed and panted, trying to get that last inch closer, trying to get him that last fraction of an inch deeper. His fingers, clamped about hers, didn’t give, but, to her surging relief, surging expectation, he raised his chest slightly, just enough so her nipples, excruciatingly tight, brushed his chest.

  So they were brushed by his chest.

  A scream welled in her throat; struggling to lift her heavy lids, she swallowed it as he lifted higher, breaking their kiss. He was a dense shadow looming over her, shoulders and chest surging in a slow, powerful rhythm, a rhythm she could feel in her marrow. In her womb.

  With her hands still anchored, one on either side of her head, she gripped his flanks with her thighs, gasping, arching, as he thrust harder, deeper.

  Then he drew back farther; lips parted, senses whirling, she waited, quivering, for the next impaling stroke. Only to feel him rock lightly, penetrating her with just the tip of the hard length she wanted buried inside her.

  She opened her lips on a protest—instead, she gasped anew as, bending his head, he took one ruched nipple into his mouth. Hips rocking gently, teasingly, he feasted on her swollen breasts, until she was awash on an endless sea. A sea of pure pleasure.

  After laving her hot flesh, his lips burned when they again brushed hers.

  “Why are you here?”

  She wasn’t, at first, sure whether he had spoken, or she’d simply heard the words in her head. But his hips stopped rocking; he lay, hot and hard as a brand, just parting the swollen folds about her entrance.

  Leaving her empty. “

  Because I want you.”

  After an instant’s pause, he started rocking again, once, twice—then he slid into her anew. She sighed, then lost what breath she had left as he pushed deep, then nudged deeper, and let his weight down on her once more.

  Richard rode her, just a little deeper, just a little harder, just a fraction more intimately. He was having a hard time clinging to his reins—only rock-hard determination, and his Cynster strength of will—of endurance—allowed him to do it—to see her panting beneath him, her hair a burning veil spread across the pillows, her thighs gripping him urgently as he loved her. She responded without guile, without reticence, without hesitation—with a complete lack of reserve, the strongest feminine spell he’d ever encountered.

  Her welcome, every time he sank into her, was bone deep. The temptation to lose himself in her arms, in her body, grew with every passing second.

  But he needed to know her reasons, as well as her.

  Gradually, he slowed, letting the rhythm stretch—not die, but slow to the point where her frantic need—a need he knew well how to manage—rose to the fore again.

  When she whimpered, and squirmed, trying to urge him on, he brushed a kiss to her temple. “Why do you want me? Why me? Why now?”

  A frown passed across her face like a breeze rippling corn, then she shook her head and it was gone. She lifted beneath him, wriggling more urgently; swallowing a curse, he impaled her fully again, then kissed her breathless.

  And gave her a little more—rode her a little higher up the mountain of desire. Despite his weight, she undulated beneath him, hips rising, meeting him more fully. Letting go of her hands, he grabbed a pillow; releasing her from their kiss, he eased back, lifted her hips and stuffed the pillow beneath them.

  Tilting her up so he could sink deeper—without stimulating her to completion. Her breath fractured when he thrust deep—an urgently evocative sound. He shut his ears to it. “Wrap your legs about me.”

  She did, immediately; arms braced, he held himself over her and drove her up, up, and on to the next level, the next plane of passion. Eagerly, she clung to him, her hands, now free, trailing over his chest and arms, then gripping tight as he delved deeper and pushed her on.

  Fingers sinking into flexing sinews, Catriona let her head fall back, lips parted as she struggled to breathe. Senses a swirl, her wits long gone, she surrendered to the whirlpool of sensations he commanded, surrendered to the power she could feel in every thrust that joined them, in every synchronous beat of their hearts. A sense of beauty, of delight, of joy unimaginable hovered—just out of reach.

  “Why are you here, with your legs spread wide, locked about my waist—with me buried to the hilt inside you?”

  The question floated down to her, a whisper in the night. It was beyond her—eyes closed, she shook her head. And concentrated on the steely flex of his body as it melded with hers.

  Powerfully, yet still slowly. In some dim corner
of her mind, a hazy, rather acid thought formed: If this was his performance when asleep, what would he be like awake?

  A soft moan surprised her—she bit her lip, determined to be quiet. Then gasped as he surged more powerfully, faster, deeper . . .

  She caught her breath on a strangled gasp—then cried out, in shocked disbelief, when he pulled back and left her. Fighting to raise her lids, she saw him lift fully away from her. Stunned she reached for him, half-sitting—

  Large hands caught her and flipped her over, then locked about her hips and pulled her back onto her knees.

  And they were everywhere, those large, hard hands—kneading, stroking, squeezing, probing. Until her breasts ached, until her skin glowed, until her nerves were taut and tingling. Until the heat within her was a raging furnace and pure molten need filled her veins. And her loins.

  Kneeling behind her, reaching over and around her, a dark, rampantly aroused presence in the night, he bent his head and nipped her ear lobe, then soothed it with his lips. “Lean farther forward.”

  His hands clamped about her hips as she did, steadying her. Then he nudged her thighs wider, and caressed her—stroked her slick, swollen flesh until it was throbbing anew, until she sobbed his name.

  He slid into her—smoothly, easily—filling her deeply, until she was so full of him she could sense him throughout her body. Eyes closed in rapturous delight, she pressed back and took him all.

  Richard felt her clamp tight about him; features set, etched with passion, he couldn’t smile, not even smugly. She needed him inside her now—if he was not there, she’d feel empty, hot and aching. This way, he could fill her without risking her willfullness getting the upper hand. She couldn’t reach heaven this way, not without his active cooperation. Taking her from behind, with her on her knees, he could keep her locked for just a little longer in the web he’d woven—and try again to get the answer to his question.

  But first . . .

  He was going to love her until she couldn’t think, until she had no will left to deny him.

  So he caressed her, inside and out, using his body, hands, and lips in concert, consciously bringing the full force of his expertise and experience to bear.

  He intended to be ruthless.

  He filled his hands with her swollen breasts and kneaded, and she whimpered with desire; he shut his ears to the sound, and dotted kisses along her exposed nape. Locating her nipples, he teased and tweaked, until she moaned and sobbed. Nuzzling aside the heavy fall of her hair, he pressed hot open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder, then down her spine.

  And all the while he filled her, to a slow, steady rhythm guaranteed to leave her both satisfied and wanting—glorying in what was, and ready to sell her soul—tell the truth—in order to get more.

  He was going to be ruthless.

  He had already studied her curves—he knew them well. Now, with her on her knees before him, he took in other aspects of her beauty—her delicate bones, the sleek, supple strength of her, the very feminine curve of her spine. The sweet hollow between shoulder and throat, the long sweep of her neck.

  Letting his gaze roam, he straightened, hands drifting back to close about her hips. The smooth planes of her back were exquisite, perfect ivory, unblemished, unmarred. Hands trailing farther, he traced the long muscles of her thighs, braced, lightly quivering, flexing slightly as he rode her. His gaze, however, had fixed—on the firm globes of her bottom, ivory hemispheres meeting his body with satisfying force every time he thrust into her, on his staff, rigid and engorged, gleaming with her slickness, sliding effortlessly into her, deep into the embrace of her waiting, willing sheath.

  The sight held him entranced. She moaned softly, then rotated her hips, clinging to him, closing like a burning glove about him as he pressed deep.

  Richard gasped; he closed his eyes and tightened his death grip on his impulses.

  Opening his eyes again, he drew a ragged breath—and leaned forward. And reminded himself to be ruthless.

  But the instant his hands curved about her shoulders, then trailed down to cup her breasts, he knew the best he could hope to be—with her—was ruthlessly gentle.

  Not even she could worship her Lady with the same devotion with which he worshipped her—felt compelled to worship her. She was his temple, he her priest, serving her. Lavishing attention on her. Helplessly in thrall, drawn deeper with every heated thrust, every caress he pressed on her—and she pressed on him—he was a victim of emotion that bound him to her through this act and yet more deeply, reaching to his soul. Demanding his obedience, his acceptance, his surrender. It was as if some deeply buried part of him recognized her as his mate—and his salvation.

  When next he straightened, his breathing was beyond ragged, his control badly frayed. He knew he had a question—it took a moment to recall what it was. With her on her knees before him, with his staff buried in her sweet heat, it was difficult to imagine anything else mattered.

  But one thing did. Chest swelling, he set himself to take her up the last stretch of their road. Fingers tightening about her hips, he looked down—and noticed a birthmark, just by his thumb on her right buttock—a strawberry mark in the shape of a butterfly in flight. The size of his thumbnail, the mark showed clearly against her pale skin.

  Richard dragged in a deep breath; fingers sinking into her hips, he anchored her, and thrust deep. Again, and again—pushing her high, then higher, swiftly taking her toward the shattering climax that he’d deliberately designed for her. On and on, higher and higher—she panted, then sobbed in her need.

  He took her to the last but one step—

  And withdrew from her, drawing her up against him, his hands full of her breasts, his throbbing erection riding between the globes of her bottom. He held her upright on her knees against him, and delicately kissed one ear.

  The change was so swift, Catriona could barely take it in, barely heard, over the desperate thudding of her heart, his gravelly whisper.

  “Why do you want me inside you?”

  She couldn’t see his face; she was so heated and urgent and needy she couldn’t think—yet she heard the warrior’s demand in his voice; she answered truthfully.

  “Because I need you.” The words came out on a sob—a sob of pure need. Raising one hand, she reached back and traced his lean cheek. “Please, Richard. Now.” His face was beside hers; she heard a soft hiss, then a smothered curse.

  Then he reached around her, grabbing first one pillow, then another, piling them before her, even as his other hand pressed on her back and guided her down. Swiftly, he drew her knees back, and she was lying on her stomach, the piled pillows beneath her hips.

  And he was behind her, between her spread thighs, his hips pressing against her bottom. Against skin flickering with heightened nerves, her inner thighs excruciatingly sensitive to the brush of his hair-dusted limbs.

  With one thrust, he surged into her.

  She screamed with sheer delight. Horrified, she grabbed handfuls of the twisted sheets and held them to her face. And heard him groan—braced above her, his hands planted on either side of her, he drew back, and surged deep—so deep—again.

  In bliss—and knowing there was more to come—Catriona closed her eyes, buried her face in the bedclothes, and surrendered—her wits, her senses, her body—to the glory that beckoned. Surrendered to the desire to take him deep and love him, hold him tight and caress him.

  He rode her hard, filling her completely, driving her on—straight over a precipice and into the sun.

  She screamed as it shattered about her.

  Eyes closed tight, braced above her, Richard drank in the lovely sound. Half muffled by the sheets, it was still pure magic; the sound of her ecstasy was pure ecstasy to him. Sunk to the hilt inside her, he held still, rigid, tense as a coiled spring, and savored her contractions, the rippling caress of her body as release swept through her.

  He waited, not patiently, but with steely determination, until she eased beneath him, the
n, gritting his teeth, he leaned forward, grabbed two more pillows, lifted her, and raised her hips still higher.

  So he could ride her on, up the next peak—the one she hadn’t even guessed existed. When she realized it was there, she joined him—eagerly, wantonly—as focused as he. Heated once more, flushed, her skin dewed, she writhed beneath him, urging him on not with words but with deeds, with the flagrant encouragement of her lush body.

  And when he sent her tumbling through the stars again, the effect was cataclysmic. He heard it in her unrestrained scream. The sound caught him up—tugged at his heart, his loins, his soul. Closing his eyes, he filled her completely and swiftly followed her beyond the end of the world.

  * * *

  Catriona awoke, disoriented, not entirely sure she was awake. Sweet peace held her; warmth surrounded her—she didn’t want to move, to disturb the spell.

  But presentiment nagged her—reluctantly, she lifted her lids. And looked into gloomy darkness. Blinking rapidly improved her vision marginally, enough to realize where she still was—where she shouldn’t be.

  In Richard’s bed.

  The warmth around her was him. The fact she could see at all warned her that deepest night had passed—morning was not far away.

  Wielding a mental whip, she drew a shallow breath—all she could manage with his arm over her waist—and started the process of carefully untangling her limbs from his. This was the third morning she’d had to ease from his arms, but the task wasn’t getting any easier with practice.

  Eventually, she managed to slide from the bed. Quickly donning her robe, she fastened it, then swiftly straightened the sheet, settled the covers and silently plumped the pillow.

  Pausing, she looked down at her companion of the night. He slept sprawled on his stomach, the arm and leg that had been thrown over her now relaxed on the bed. She studied his face, what she could see of it. The harsh planes had eased, but still retained their hardness, the promise of strength; his lashes lay, black crescents on his cheekbones, his lips still firm, purposeful. Even in repose, his face told her little—beyond the fact that here lay a warrior without a cause.