By Appointment Only (15 page)

“Maybe a century ago. I wouldn’t think there are too many surprises now.”

“There might be.”

“Such as?”

“Married sex could be different.”

He frowned. “You keep saying that. And maybe it’s true. But if so, I see it as a positive. And you don’t, apparently.” Despite his best efforts, the conversation had turned serious.

She pulled her knees to her chest. He caught a glimpse of bare toes, and now the damn skirt poofed out like an exotic mushroom. She wrapped her arms around her legs. Her protective posture cried
leave me alone
.

But he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

He winced. “So you’re not denying it. You do think married sex is a negative.”

She thrust out her bottom lip, her expression mulish. “Did you know that statistically the average man has seven sexual partners in his lifetime?”

“And where did you get this information? Oprah, maybe? You watch way too much TV with those old people. They’re poisoning your brain.” He tried to get a rise out of her, but she didn’t bite.

She frowned at him. “It’s true. I read it very recently. It was the CDC or somebody like that doing a scientific survey.”

“So what’s your point?”

“Monogamy is an unnatural state for the male animal of the species.”

“What about eagles and wolves?”

That stopped her for a minute. She cocked her head. “I don’t know. I’m not a biologist. And besides. We’re talking about human males.”

“You’re the one who mentioned the word
animal
.”

She glared at him. “You should have been a lawyer since you’re so damn good at arguing.”

He held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet and let you finish your pathetic theory.”

“Pathetic?” Her eyes tossed daggers at him.

He fingered the edge of her skirt where it pooled on the bedspread. “Statistics mean nothing to me. And besides, for every man who’s had fifteen partners in his lifetime, there has to be a guy like me to even out the average. A one-woman man.”

She snorted. “You weren’t a virgin when we met.”

He didn’t touch that one. “I’d be completely happy with you, Hannah, and no one else until they plant me in the ground.” Shit. He was supposed to be keeping this light, and instead he was making vows like he was a damn knight heading off to war.

Her face softened. “You’re a sweetheart, Morgan.”

Great. Now she was patronizing him. He cleared his throat. “We’re wasting time. Shouldn’t we be getting on with this wedding night scenario? I’d hate to flunk our test. Dr. Sheila scares me.”

Hannah wrinkled her nose, looking apologetic. “I don’t think I can do it . . . at least not like this.”

Disappointment churned acid in his gut. “I see.” She couldn’t even
pretend
to have a wedding night with him. So the chances of him ever getting the real thing were pretty damn slim. He tried to ignore his mounting frustration, but keeping his voice even was hard. “What do you suggest? Playing rummy for the next hour and a half? Sorry, babe. I’m fresh out of cards.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he realized he’d blown it. She sat up straight, deepening her cleavage and drawing his gaze away from her face, where storm clouds gathered.

She snapped her fingers. “Focus, Webber. My eyes are up here. And quit jumping to conclusions. All I was trying to say is that I can’t pretend we really got married today. If and when that happens, it will be a sacred moment, and I think it would be sacrilegious to make light of something so important.”

The muscles in his neck loosened and he hung his head, sucking in a raw lungful of much-needed air. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Then what
did
you mean?”

She ruffled his hair. “Let’s make a game out of it. Why don’t you be the evil Scottish laird and I’ll be the poor English girl you’ve stolen from her father’s farm? It can still be our wedding night, but you’ve kidnapped me and forced me into a marriage that I either have to agree to or be branded as a fallen woman and banished from polite society for the rest of my life.”

He struggled not to grin. “Lord save me from women and their romance novels.” He chuckled when she scowled. It was fun provoking her, but in truth, he was fascinated by her playful, creative mind. He glanced around the pseudo hotel suite in all its luxury. “This is hardly a historically accurate setting.”

She lifted her chin. “It’s called improvisation. A skill many unimaginative men lack.”

He stood up and stripped off his shirt. “Not me. I’m imagining all sorts of things already.”

Her face registered alarm. “What are you doing?”

He shoved his hands in his back pockets. “No self-respecting Scottish laird would wear a shirt in his own bedchamber. And besides, I had the servants stoke the fire so my virginal bride and I would be comfortable.”

She drew her lips between her teeth. “Oh.”

He was beginning to like this new role. His lovely fiancée looked excited and apprehensive all at the same time. She was beautiful sitting there on the bed with her hair tumbled about her shoulders and her face flushed with rosy color. For a split second he wished fervently that it
was
their wedding night. But then he locked the unwelcome thought away. No time for futile what-ifs. Not when the here and now was so titillating. He rubbed the side of his face. “What shall I call you?”

“What’s wrong with Hannah?”

He tilted his head. “I’m not feeling it. How about Angelique?”

“That sounds French.”

“Perhaps your mother was French.”

She grinned. “Maybe
you
could be a romance writer.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t change the subject, Angelique.”

She tried to rise to her knees, but the dress hampered her movements. She gave up with a huff and returned to her original position against the headboard. “So what do I call you?”

He smirked. “I’m not changing my name. Morgan is Scottish.”

“Is not.”

“Is, too. It means
sea warrior
. Kind of sexy, don’t you think?”

She rolled her eyes. “Good grief.”

He stroked his chin. “
Angelique and the Sea Warrior
. I like it. I see bestsellerdom in my future.”

She shook her head. “I see dumb. And it’s right here in front of me.”

He put his hands on his hips, curling his lip in a sneer. “Enough mockery, wench. Let’s get on with it. We’ve already wasted forty-five minutes. And a two-hour wedding night won’t even begin to satisfy me.” He put his hands on her waist and lifted her from the bed, grunting when his back twinged from the awkward angle.

Hannah giggled. “Being a romance hero isn’t so easy after all, is it?”

He glared down at her, working on his Scottish brogue. “I can do anything I set me mind to, lass. Which is how I snatched you right from under the nose of those weak Englishmen.”

“They weren’t weak. You drugged their mead.”

He rubbed her upper arms, smiling slightly. “I win by fair means or foul. Ye’d do well to remember it.”

She made a dash for the door, but she tripped over her skirt, and he dragged her back. “Where do ye think ye’re goin’, my shrewish bride?”

She struggled in his grasp, her chest heaving. The twisting and turning threatened to free one of her curvy breasts from its confinement.

Hannah cried out with convincing passion, “I’ll never submit, you barbaric oaf. You’ll have to force me.”

He sank his teeth into the soft flesh at the side of her neck and then bit her earlobe. “There’ll be no force, my sweet bride. Not on this night. But you’ll submit. That’s a promise.”

He wanted to rip the dress from her body, but it didn’t belong to either of them, and it looked expensive. Instead, he found the zipper, and despite his big hands, managed to unfasten it.

It took him long, frustrating seconds to gather up all of the damn skirt and then lift the dress over Hannah’s head. He tossed it on a chair and turned to face his scantily clad captive.

She wore nothing but a pair of black bikini panties. Across her breasts a thin red crease gave testimony to how the top of the dress had gripped her delicate flesh. Her dark nipples were tightly budded, either from excitement or from anticipation or both, and her long, slender legs were tanned and lovely.

He scowled down at her. “Don’t fight me, lass. It will only make it worse. And if you’ll recall, I’ve not had a woman in a month.”

She shoved him hard, both of her hands planted on his chest. “I don’t want to hear about your sordid past. I’m a gently reared lady. And my innocence is a gift I hope to give to the man I love.”

He grabbed a handful of her hair and guided her mouth to his. “Then he’s a sorry bastard, because tonight that innocence is mine.”

He ground his lips on hers, giving no quarter. Angelique struggled, biting and kicking. He hissed in pain when her knee came perilously close to his groin.

He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her toward the closet door. Given the detail with which the room had been outfitted, it was no surprise that a hotel-type robe hung on a hook, waiting to be used.

Morgan tucked it around her. “Pretend it’s made of animal fur,” he whispered. He blatantly toyed with her breasts as he slid her arms into the sleeves. Then, before she had a chance to realize what he was up to, he removed the tie belt and bound her hands at her back.

“What are you doing?” The words were breathless.

He picked her up and carried her back to the bed. “Merely ensuring that no bodily harm comes to me in the course of your induction.”

“Induction?” Her voice wobbled.

“Into the ranks of the fallen innocents.”

Again she struggled, but he was bigger and stronger, and he had the element of surprise in his favor. She didn’t know what he was going to do.

He left her facedown on the bed while he stripped out of his pants and underwear. His erection was painful, almost as if it really had been a month since he’d explored a woman’s body with his cock. His heart was pounding and his legs were weak. And the hunger in his gut was unfeigned and too damn real for comfort.

When he was nude, he stood by the bed for a moment or two. Her face was turned away from him. The curve from her spine to her ass was so beautiful he wanted to record it with paint and canvas.

On the wall above the dresser hung a small, rectangular mirror. He lifted it off the nail and brought it to the bed, resting it against the headboard. Then he rolled his captive to her back, somewhat awkwardly given her bound wrists, and smiled down at her. “Now, my lass. I’ll be having that wedding night I’ve been promised.”

Hannah winced as her shoulders strained in their sockets. She’d been afraid to act out a real wedding night with Morgan. But this crazy charade might be worse in some ways. Because Morgan was entirely too happy in his role as the evil laird. And she had a feeling he had several naughty surprises up his sleeve. Or he would if he’d been wearing sleeves.

She tried not to look at his big, gorgeous body. Seeing him nude with his dark hair tousled and that rakish gleam of humor in his eyes made her stomach do funny little flips. Her intimate flesh was damp already, stimulated by the game they were playing.

The robe in which Morgan had dressed her was little protection without the sash. It gaped open in lewd fashion, allowing him to look his fill. She was sprawled across his lap, and his erection pressed against her ass. She squeezed her legs together. “What are you going to do to me? I’ll scream if you force me. I swear it.”

He had the audacity to laugh. “I own this land and these people. No one would dare defy me. And as for the screaming, well, my Angelique, you may scream . . . it’s indeed possible, but it will be a cry of ecstasy.”

Her heart jerked in her chest. “You lie.”

He traced circles around her nipples. “It’s a promise,” he said softly. The planes of his face were hard and determined. The laird, much like his modern twin, was accustomed to winning his battles.

She yelped when he stood up and positioned her in a seated position facing the mirror. Now she could see both of them, and the image in the mirror made her pulse race as her blood heated.

She pretended to struggle again, and he subdued her easily, wrapping his hand in her hair and using his inexorable grip to make her obey. She was completely helpless.

He seated himself behind her on the bed, his legs spread wide. She was tucked up against his chest with his thick penis pressed intimately to her butt. In fact, unless she kept her elbows raised a bit, her hands were in danger of fondling him by accident.

He took her chin in one big hand. “Look at us in the mirror, Angelique.”

She closed her eyes stubbornly.

“So much passion,” he muttered, his voice thick and aroused.

She felt his fingers on her leg, and her eyelids flew open. She watched, mesmerized, as both of his hands skated from her thighs inward.

His cheek pressed close to hers. “Look at us,” he commanded. “See how I make your body weep.”

Tremors shook her body from head to toe as he parted her labia with his thumbs and gently probed her clitoris. She clenched her teeth, resisting on behalf of her alter ego. But the shards of pleasure were seductive and sweet.

And seeing it all in the mirror magnified every sensation. The robe was almost completely off now, caught only at the elbows by her bound arms. Morgan’s heat surrounded her as his arms enclosed her. His hair-covered legs bracketed hers. His forearms kept her thighs spread wide.

Softly, he stroked her aching center. She gasped, arching back into his embrace. He picked up the pace. She whimpered. Watching his fingers on her sex was unbearably erotic.

Even in the reflection she could witness the slick wetness that lubricated his path. He shifted sideways to reach her better. Now only one of his arms supported her. With his free hand, he played at her entrance.