The Ideal Bride (39 page)

 
He nearly broke, but caught his reins in time to remind himself they had hours. Even more than the two he’d promised himself. There was time to play, to savor. And there would be only one first time.

 
Spearing one hand into the glory of her hair, he anchored her head and kissed her. As ravenously as he—and she—wished, as blatantly, wantonly, primitively evocative as they both desired.

 
No rush.

 
He took his time savoring her mouth anew, feeding from her, stoking their passion as, with slow deliberation, he explored her body. Found each hollow and stroked, traced, searched for each point where her nerves fluttered, where any touch, however light, made her breath catch. High on the backs of her thighs—she was excruciatingly sensitive there. The undersides of her breasts, too. Inch by inch, he eased her chemise up, until finally he broke from the kiss and drew the fine garment over her head.

 
The instant it was free he let it fall where it would, caught her and rolled, pressing her back to the bed, leaning over her, hand splaying over her midriff, holding her down as he sank deeply into her mouth, then drew back.

 
And looked at the treasure he’d uncovered. Discovered.

 
At the feminine beauty of lithe limbs and svelte curves encased in ivory silk already delicately flushed with desire.

 
Wits barely engaged, breathless, Caro watched his face as he examined her body. Saw the austere planes tighten as with his hand he almost reverently sculpted her flesh. Her nerves tightened with an anticipation more delicious than she’d imagined. She felt on the brink of shivering, yet she wasn’t cold.

 
It was a glorious midsummer afternoon; the window was open—a balmy breeze wafted in to caress them. To add its gentle warmth to the heat already pulsing so hotly within her. And him.

 
He was burning. For her.

 
She raised a hand, gently traced the harsh, almost graven lines of his face. His gaze deflected for one moment to her eyes, then he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. Desire glowed in his eyes, turning the soft blue more solid, more intense. It was passion that etched his face, that hardened its lines as he returned his attention to her body.

 
To drawing fire beneath her skin, with each increasingly intimate caress pulling her deeper into the vortex of her own hungry desire, tempting her need—a need only he had ever evoked. She watched his face, watched his concentration as he loved her, clung to that evidence of his commitment to their goal. The tension investing his large body, which had tightened his muscles to bands of steel, which she could feel through her fingers locked on his shoulder, likewise reassured. Then he bent and took one already ruched nipple into his mouth, and suckled. Deeply.

 
She moaned; sliding one hand to his head, clenching her fingers in his hair, she wordlessly lifted against him. Felt his rumble of approval as he shifted his attention to the other breast she so wantonly offered him, simultaneously soothing the first with clever fingers.

 
The path of his orchestrated worship was familiar; she gave herself up to it, valiantly trying to mute her cries until he murmured, his tone gravelly and low, “Scream all you like. There’s no one to hear… except me.”

 
The last two words made it clear it pleased him to hear the sounds he drew from her. Just as well; she found it increasingly difficult to mute them, to spare enough wit and strength to do so.

 
All her attention, all her senses, were caught in the flames, in the pulsing conflagration he was so assiduously building within her.

 
But when he pressed her thighs wide and touched her, traced the slick folds already swollen and wet, sudden uncertainty gripped her. Opening her eyes, she reached for him, with one palm boldly found, and cupped him.

 
He froze, sucked in a sudden breath as if her touch were painful; she knew enough—had gathered enough—to know it wasn’t pain that closed his eyes, that locked his features.

 
Then he opened his eyes, looked at her.

 
She met his gaze, hazed and burning. Caressed him, through his breeches let her fingers trace, then close about his length. Eyes locked with his, she licked her lips, forced herself to find breath enough to say, “I want you. This time . .

 
He shuddered; his lids started to fall, but then he forced them up. Impaled her with a burning blue gaze. “Yes. Definitely. This time…”

 
She sensed rather than heard his inward curse, saw the fight he waged to try to regain his control—then his fingers wrapped hard about her wrist and he drew her hand from him. “Wait.”

 
He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. Coming up on one elbow, ready to protest if need be, she watched—relief and a surge of giddy anticipation flooded her when she heard the dull thud of one boot hitting the floor. The second followed; he glanced back at her as he worked the buttons of his waistband free, then he stood, stripped his breeches down, stepped out of them as he turned, kneeled, then fell back on the bed beside her.

 
Her heart leapt, swelled, ached. He was beautiful, fully aroused, elementally male. Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t drag her eyes from him, from the evidence that his desire for her hadn’t, yet, waned. She reached for him, traced lightly, trailing her fingers up the burning, baby-fine skin, then she closed her hand about his length, felt the weight of him fill her palm.

 
He groaned, the sound heartfelt. “Damn! You’re going to be the death of me.”

 
He caught her hand, lifted it from him, and rolled, coming over her, pressing her into the bed, nudging her thighs wide and settling between. Ground out as he shifted, “We’ll take it slowly next time.”

 
Caro’s lungs seized; her heart leapt to her throat. The time had finally come; her question hovered, about to be answered. Unequivocally.

 
Her senses locked, focusing on the soft flesh between her thighs, feeling it throb as he reached down between them, with his fingers stroked, then probed, then parted her folds.

 
The broad head of his erection touched her, pressed against her, then eased in a fraction.

 
She nearly cried out; hips lifting in wordless entreaty, she closed her eyes, bit her lip, willing him to enter her. Every particle of her being strained, held poised on an emotional edge higher than any she’d previously climbed, acutely aware of the drop below her, of the ocean of disappointment that waited to swallow her if he didn’t…

 
Spreading her hands over his back, she held him to her, pressed her hips nearer, urged him on.

 
Beneath her hands, the long planes of his back flexed. With one slow, powerful thrust, he joined them.

 
Eyes closed, savoring every inch of her scalding sheath as it stretched, took him in, and enclosed him, Michael noticed the tightness, then the constriction as he thrust through it; caught in her sensual web, he might not have understood if it hadn’t been for the pained gasp she tried unsuccessfully to smother, and the telltale tensing that gripped her, held her.

 
Stunned, dazed, opening his eyes he looked down at her, into her eyes, molten silver looking back at him. Understood in that moment all she’d hidden, all she’d never told, him or anyone else.

 
Finally understood the truth of her past, the true reality of her marriage.

 
She was waiting, breathless… tense, nervous… he suddenly understood what she was waiting for.

 
Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew a fraction, then reseated himself fully within her.

 
Saw her eyes flare—with wonder, with a joy so profound he felt his own heart turn over. But this was no time for words or explanations. Bending his head, he covered her lips with his, and spun them both into the fire.

 
Into the intimate dance they both craved.

 
He didn’t spare her, didn’t try to be gentle, realized that that, assuredly, was not what she wanted, more, was very definitely not what she needed. He sank into her body, drove deep, then withdrew until he was almost free of her clinging heat and her fingernails had sunk into his skin, desperately holding him to her, before thrusting into her again, slowly, inexorably, so she could feel every inch of his throbbing erection as he buried himself inside her once more.

 
She pulled back from the kiss. Her sobbing gasp, echoing with relief, with pure happiness, urged him on.

 
He took her mouth again, pulled her ruthlessly back to him, back into the kiss, let his weight pin her, then sent one hand sliding down, around over her hip to cup her bottom, gripping, anchoring her at just the right angle beneath him, then he settled to ride her, to let his body plunder hers as he and she both wished. Let the driving rhythm take over, binding their heated bodies in an orgy of elemental lust, driven by desire, by the passion that swirled about them, unleashed and almost tangible.

 
She met him, matched him; not at any moment did he doubt that she wanted this. Every bit as much as he did.

 
It might be her first time, yet she was no wilting virgin; quite the opposite. She was a quick study; as their tongues tangled and their bodies strove, within minutes she’d learned how to meet his thrusts, how to most effectively ride them, how to clasp him within her body and drive him wild… he dimly realized that for her, this was a long-sought-after release—a freeing of all she’d held within her, trapped inside, denied outlet for so long.

 
A catharsis of passion, of desire, of the simple need for the intimacy of human mating.

 
He gave her all she needed, took all he wanted in return, conscious she surrendered it—all he wished to take—gladly.

 
It was certainly not his first time—he’d had more women than he could truly remember, all of them experienced ladies if not outright courtesans—yet as he sank into her body, into her mouth, plundered and gloried in her open welcome, there was something new, something different in the act.

 
Perhaps it was the simplicity—they knew each other so well, so completely in so many other ways, understood each other so instinctively that knowing each other in this way, skin to skin, hands searching, gripping, mouth to greedy mouth, tongues tangling, gasping, loins to heated loins, plunging, driving… all seemed so natural.

 
Meant to be. Without any veils or masks to disguise it.

 
Power, fueled by their joint passion, welled up, spilled through them both and took them.

 
Captured them, swept them into a sea of whirling, greedy need that suddenly, abruptly, coalesced.

 
Their skin was alive, nerves tense and tight; their bodies fused, driven by primal urgency. She pulled back from the kiss, gasped, eyes closed as she struggled to breathe.

 
He pushed her faster, harder; she strained upward, and with a cry touched the sun. Clutched, held tight to him as she shattered, then melted, pulsing around him.

 
Her release called on his own; he followed her quickly, drove deeper, harder, emptying himself into her, with a long groan finally collapsing atop her, sated to his toes.

 
Chapter 13

 
Caro lay beneath Michael and exulted. His hard body, his heavy muscles and even heavier bones, pressed her into the bed; she didn’t think she’d ever felt so comfortable, so… simply happy.