The Brazen Bride

  She tilted her chin and stared back at him, stubbornness in every line of her face, of her body. “Tonight,” she stated, her tone a ringing challenge, “that’s my price.” Her gaze held his. “And I believe you’re obligated to pay.”

  He struggled not to react. All but shook with the impulse to seize her and devour. How had he got into this? Every time he thought he’d be able to control her, she took another step into deeper waters—and effortlessly dragged him with her.

  If he did as she asked. . .

  You don’t know what you’re asking for.

  Truer words he’d never spoken—he knew to his bones she had no idea. Compared to him, she was an innocent. Why she was pushing him in that particular direction he didn’t know, but given said innocence, if he complied, even half complied . . . perhaps she wouldn’t push him again. At least not along such a dangerous path.

  The last thing he wanted was to see fear in her eyes, yet just a lick, a suggestion, would with luck have her shying from any further dangerous games—not with him or anyone else.

  God forbid she tried this with anyone else.

  That thought sealed his fate. Better him than any other. If he wanted to protect the damned witch, then picking up the gauntlet she’d just flung at his feet was the right course.

  To make sure she never flung it again.

  “All right.” He nodded. “You’re my pleasure slave for the night. You don’t speak unless asked a question, and you obey every order I give instantly—without hesitation.”

  Her lips curved in subtle triumph as she inclined her head.

  “Fetch the candlestick.”

  She turned and walked back to the tallboy. He flung himself into the armchair angled before the wide window. She returned, candlestick in hand.

  “Put it on the table by the bed.”

  She did, then looked at him.

  He pointed to a spot a yard before his feet. Obediently, she crossed to stand there. Cloud-veiled moonlight and starlight washed through the window, combining with the candle glow to illuminate her while leaving him largely in shadow.

  He met her gaze. “Take off your clothes.”

  Her lips curved, and she obliged. She patently understood enough of her role to do so without haste, yet without unnecessary hesitation.

  He watched as she revealed herself, the long lines of her limbs, her delectable curves, all encased in alabaster-white. He debated, but didn’t instruct her to let down her hair; the rippling mass would conceal too much of her body, and he was leaving her no modesty tonight.

  That was part of his plan. As he watched, he worked out more.

  When she tossed her chemise aside and it floated down to join the rest of her clothes scattered to one side on the floor, he openly examined her, ran his gaze slowly over the white curves and hollows, over the full peaks of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the thatch of red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs. Long, sleekly muscled thighs, sculpted knees, svelte calves and delicate feet.

  Slowly, still blatantly assessing, he ran his gaze back up, to her face. “Put your hands on your breasts. Cup them.”

  She blinked, but obeyed, supporting the white mounds in her hands.

  “Fondle them.” He gave her directions, watched as she complied—watched the arrested expression in her eyes. He debated how far he might take that tack, but the activity wasn’t making his life any easier.

  His gaze on her breasts as they overflowed her hands, he reached up and unknotted the kerchief about his neck, slowly pulled it free, knowing she’d noticed and was watching.

  Slowly, he stood, then walked toward her. “Keep fondling.” Unhurriedly he circled her, then halted behind her, with less than a foot between her back and his chest.

  He draped the kerchief over her shoulder, clearly intending to use it later. For what, he left her imagination to supply, for now.

  Then he curved his palms about the ends of her shoulders and began.

  Linnet fought to stay upright, to keep her spine rigid while his hard hands and long, strong fingers commanded her senses and suborned her will.

  His hands roved her body and possession seared her skin.

  Until her nerve endings sparked, until every inch of her skin came alive, delicately flushed, heating.

  Abruptly he pushed his hands under hers, still loosely cupping her breasts.

  “Leave yours on top of mine.”

  The rough command fell by her ear, then he closed his hands and kneaded, much more firmly, more devastatingly knowingly, than she had. His fingers found her nipples and squeezed, squeezed until she came up on her toes, head tipping back as her spine bowed and she gasped for her next breath.

  He drew his hands away, pressed hers to the now swollen and aching mounds. “Like that.”

  An order, one she bit her lip and tried to obey.

  As his hands slid down to her waist, then back and over her hips.

  To caress her bottom. To explore, flagrantly possessive, to examine.

  The night air turned cool as her skin fevered and dewed.

  Without warning, he clamped one hand about her hip, with the other reached beneath the globes of her bottom and touched her—stroked once, long and sure—then he thrust one finger into her, penetrating deep into her sheath.

  Her lungs locked; she couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes—and felt her own hands on her breasts, felt her awareness heighten, felt sensation streak like lightning through her.

  She closed her hands, sucked in a tight breath as he eased his hand back, but only to push a second finger in alongside the first.

  He stroked, deep, hard, the pressure nothing less than an intimate invasion.

  Her heart raced. Desperate, she trapped her nipples and squeezed as he worked his fingers relentlessly within her, his fist flexing beneath her bottom, pushing her on.

  The tension built, soared. Head back, she gasped. His iron grip on her hip guided her as she helplessly rode his invading fingers.

  As release drew closer, brighter, as her nerves tightened and coiled.

  His fingers slowed, then left her.

  Eyes snapping open, lips parted and dry, she fought to stand steady as her senses reeled.

  He walked around to face her. His face a mask carved in stone, he met her gaze. “Pleasure slaves have to earn their pleasure.” His gaze fell to her hands, still locked about her breasts. “Hold out your hands, wrists together.”

  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.” br />
  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, embracing 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, sheene
d 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.