The Bride Wore Scarlet (21 page)

But Geoff was not in a cooperative mood. He was frustrated—in more ways than one. “Oh, I think we're done with that strategy,” he murmured.

And he was. If she wouldn't talk, then he'd tame her, this wild, fierce thing. He yearned to hold the flame to his breast, even to be burned by it. And suddenly, Anaïs's best interests, Lady Anisha's breathtaking beauty, even Lord de Vendenheim's wrath—none of it seemed to matter.

Rolling the weight of his body over her, he slid his fingers into the hair at her temple and opened his mouth over hers. This time he did not hesitate, kissing her instead in the most carnal of ways, sliding deep on his first thrust, then setting a slow, steady rhythm that made plain what he wanted of her.

As if to protest, Anaïs raised her right knee and shoved at his shoulders with the heels of her hands. Undeterred, Geoff caught her hands in his, then urged them above her head, holding them palm to palm as he continued to thrust and taste.

Trembling beneath him, she was like fire and quicksilver all at once, hot and vibrant and hard to hold. He wanted to lose himself inside her. To make her bend to him, in the way a woman gave to a man. Already his head was beginning to swim with her scent, his ballocks tightening dangerously.

Beneath him, Anaïs squirmed and made a little sound of indignation, rubbing his swollen cock through the fabric of his trousers as she thrashed again, leaving him hard enough to hammer nails.

He slanted his mouth over hers one last time, then reluctantly lifted his head. “Is that
stop
, love?” he murmured. “Seriously?”

Her eyes flashed, but already they were dark with desire. “Would you?”

“Not willingly,” he managed. “But aye, if the lady wishes it.”

He rose up to see that Anaïs lay beneath him like some wanton earth goddess, the throat of her shirt pulled open to the breastbone, her inky curls fired with a thousand tiny diamonds in the sinking afternoon sun. He looked at her and his heart ached with a longing he did not understand, and it brought home to him the powerful certainty that—at least in that moment—he might well do anything she asked.

She did not speak again. His heart sinking a little, Geoff shifted his weight, but the glint of satisfaction in her eye stopped him.

He cursed beneath his breath, then set his forehead to hers, his breathing still rough. “You said you wanted Mr. Right-for-Now, love,” he rasped. “And that's what I'm offering. Do you want me to beg?”

“No,” she whispered, her voice dark and suggestive. “I want you to ask—no pretty words, mind. Just say what you want. And then I want
you
to make
me
beg.”

She was going to drive him mad.

He was sure of it. He clasped her hands tighter, and pushed them higher over her head, holding her captive beneath the weight of his body. “Anaïs, I want to fuck you,” he said. “There. Plain and simple enough? I want you so badly I can't breathe. And yes, I can make you beg. I'll make your eyes roll back in your head.”

“
Hmm
,” she said. “Now that
is
plain. Keep talking.”

His eyes searched her face—her beautiful, remarkable face. “Sometimes I can't sleep for knowing you're in the next room,” he whispered. “If I do sleep, I feel the heat of your body in my dreams. I feel the press of your breasts against my chest, and I feel your hair tangled in my—”

She cut him off with her mouth, lifting her head to kiss him as her eyes closed, feathering impossibly black lashes over her cheeks. He released her hands and took his weight onto his elbows, cradling her face between his palms as he tasted her.

“Anaïs,” he murmured, skimming his lips up her cheek. “You are so beautiful.”

“Don't say that,” she replied, her hands sliding down his shoulders to settle at the small of his back. “Geoff, you don't have to say that.”

“Aye, then, I'll show you,” he rasped, just before kissed her again. And he did show her, with his tongue, and his hands, plumbing her mouth slowly and sweetly as he weighed one lush, perfect breast in his palm, stroking her nipple with the ball of his thumb.

She sighed with pleasure and he rose up, astraddle her now, and stripped off his shirt. “I'd best lock the door,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes trailing down his chest. “But Geoff, I—”

She stopped, and swallowed hard. He bent to kiss her again, threading his fingers through her glorious mane of hair. “What is it, Anaïs?”

She winced a little. “It's been a long time for me,” she said. “And I'm just not that . . . skilled. Not like the women you're used to.”

“Anaïs, love, a woman like you doesn't need skill.” He brushed his lips over her forehead. “It's been a while for me as well. But I think I can remember how it's done.”

“How long?” Anaïs looked at him earnestly.

He thought about it, and could barely recall. It was as if she had already displaced all others from his mind. “A few months, I suppose,” he said. “I've never been the sort of man, Anaïs, to keep a string of mistresses.”

“There is no one else, then?” she said with a muted smile.

He shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “And when I look at you, Anaïs, I wonder if there ever was.”

“Liar,” she said. But she smiled all the same; a low, sensuous smile that suggested the possibility of a long night to come. Then she held up her arms. “Undress me, you beautiful liar.”

He bent his head, and did as she asked, drawing off her clothing slowly and purposefully, kissing away her faint blushes as he did so. In gradual increments her perfect, pearlescent skin, was laid bare, Geoff pausing to touch and stroke at will. Her breasts were more beautiful than he remembered, not that he'd ever seen them quite this exposed. Her legs, not surprisingly, were long, and more muscular than thin, which oddly pleased him.

Her hair had fallen completely free from its braid. It ran like silk through his hands, and made him think of the night he'd held her on the
Jolie Marie—
of all he had burned for. Of all he had feared. That this woman was different.

That this one might cost him dear.

The sun was fading now, and Geoff realized dimly he had lost track of time. He shucked off his own drawers last, and watched in male satisfaction as her eyes widened with disconcertion, then warmed again.

He turned and came down on top of her.

Anaïs drew up her knees, cradling him intimately as she tilted back her head. “I want you,” she whispered. “Geoff. I ache for you inside.”

The simplicity of it touched him to the heart. He kissed her on the mouth again—he thought he could die a happy man from just kissing her—then slowly trailed his lips down the long, supple column of her throat. He kissed her along her collarbone, then set his mouth to her nipple, suckling gently.

Anaïs felt Geoff's mouth close around her breast, and cried out at the intimacy. Spearing her fingers into his hair, she tilted her head back and gasped at the sensation. She could feel that exquisite longing go twisting through her, pulling and aching, all the way to her womb.

Lightly circling with his tongue, he stroked and teased her nipple to a perfect, hard peak, then turned his attention to the other breast.

“
Geoff
.” She tilted her pelvis invitingly. “Geoff, please.”

“I'm supposed to make you beg, love, remember?” he whispered, spreading a row of little kisses down her belly.

“That . . .” She paused to gasp. “That wasn't begging?”

“Not even close.” He stroked the tip of his tongue round her belly button, then trailed lower.

“Geoff?” she whispered uncertainly.

He set his lips to her inner thigh. “Shall I?” he murmured.

Dimly, she understood what he asked. She was not naïve—not entirely. She set her hands flat against the canvas mat and clung to it.

“I don't know,” she finally whispered.

He kissed the other thigh. “Ah,” he said. “Then we must find out.”

As gently as one might a flower, he opened her with his thumb and forefinger, then let his tongue slide into her warmth, drowning her in desire. The ache that had curled inside her began to well up at once. He touched her lightly, delicately, teasing her in a way so intimate she would have died of embarrassment if it hadn't felt so exquisitely wonderful.

Instead it felt as though she was more apt to die of pleasure.

“Anaïs, so lovely,” he murmured, his lips soft against her most intimate place. “Let me show you.”

This time he stroked his tongue deep, causing her to shudder. She made a sound of sorts, a soft moan deep in her throat, and any hope she might have had of resisting his charms melted away. Anaïs wanted to lose herself to this thing—this magical, aching touch that seemed designed to break her entirely to his will.

Over and over he stroked, teasing with his tongue until she shook, and sliding first one finger, and then another, into her warmth. She was wet and aching; her womanly passage pulling almost traitorously on his fingers, begging him for more.

And then something impossible edged near.

Something new, and unexpected.

Her breath came fast and short, her hands dug into the canvas as she writhed. It was as if she lost consciousness; as if her mind became one with her body, or went to another place altogether. The
little death
, the French called it—and Anaïs was beginning to fear she knew why.

When the pleasure struck full force, it came at her like a warm ocean, rippling through her body and drowning her in bliss. Anaïs gave in to it; lost herself in it, allowing herself to be carried far, far away on a swell of exquisite, erotic delight.

In gradual increments, she returned to the living, becoming slowly aware of the world around her. She could feel Geoff's head lying comfortably on the swell of her belly, and the faint rasp of his beard on her skin. Could hear the last of the day's birdsong beyond the windows. She lifted her head to see that the sky was now striped with purple and azure, the last burst of life in a dying day.

And in that glorious afternoon light, Anaïs could not miss the unmistakable mark inked into Geoff's flesh, blue-black against the creamy swell of his left buttock. The mark of the golden cross—the
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis—
overlaid upon a thistle to indicate his descent from the order's most powerful line. The Scottish line.

It surprised her, and brought home to her once again precisely who he was. Why they were there. And how very short-lived this pleasure would be.

On a groan, she let her head fall back onto the mat. “All right,” she said, setting the back of her hand to her brow. “I haven't the strength even to beg now. Do with me as you will.”

He chuckled without lifting his head, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated through her as if they were one.

As if they were one.

Oh, she could see how it began, the losing of one's self. She was reminded again how the hunger might sweep you away from your better, more sensible nature. And she didn't care. For once she didn't want to think about anyone but herself; about the pleasure this beautiful man could give her. She caught his hand and drew him up, widening her legs to take him.

Closing his eyes, he knelt there, one hand easing down his erection, which was thick, heavily veined, and a little disconcerting in its length.

Yes, he was exquisitely, magnificently made, this man she did not deserve yet longed for. Geoff's chest was wide and smooth, his muscles hard and finely delineated, as if carved from creamy marble. She set her hands to his chest and felt him shiver, felt the life and warmth that burned there.

His mouth turning up into a soft smile, Geoff leaned over her, his curtain of shimmering bronze hair falling forward, shadowing the hard turn of his cheekbones as he moved, and began to push himself inside her.

He made a sound, a little grunt of exertion—or more likely restraint. In answer, Anaïs set her hands at the turn of his waist and pulled him deeper, drawing up her knees as she did so. Bracing his hands on the mat above her shoulders, Geoff brought his weight forward, pushing and filling her so deeply she began to fear they mightn't fit at all.

They fit.

Oh, they fit. Perfectly.

Eagerly she tipped her hips to allow him to deepen the intimacy. He groaned again, the tendons of his neck cording like ropes drawn taut. He drew out, and pushed again, deeper still, pulling at her flesh and making that deep, sweet trembling start all over again.

“Ohh,” she whispered. “That is . . .
delicious
.”

And it was. If his mouth had been exquisitely sinful, this was beyond it. Beyond it, and yet entirely natural—like breathing. Like something meant to be. Something perfect.

Thrusting again, Geoff stiffened his arms, which were layered with muscle and roped with tendons. “Anaïs,” he whispered. “This is
us
, love. We are perfect together.”

But what they were together, it soon seemed, was more like kerosene on a banked fire.

He set a rhythm, thrusting deeply and slowly, pushing into her with relentless precision. Anaïs rose to him instinctively, felt her body come to his in a symphony of pleasure, as if they had done this a thousand times. And yet it was wholly new. She began to fear it always would feel this way; forever old, forever new, and that a part of her might feel stripped away when he stopped.

But that was a fear for another moment. Not this one, not this timeless stretch of perfect joy. Anaïs stroked her hands down his back, taking in the pleasure of the hard, curving breadth of his shoulders, then down the sculpted muscles of his back, all the way down to the round swells of his backside that tightened and shivered as he thrust.

His very essence surrounded her in a sensual cloud; male musk, a hint of tobacco, and the rich, warm scent of his cologne. Anaïs tipped back her head and breathed him deep. Drew him deep. Curled one leg around his waist and pulled herself to him, as if they might melt into each other.