Scandal's Bride (15 page)

His weight shifted on the bed; she heard the dull thwacks as his shoes, then his trousers hit the floor. She kept her eyes tight shut—she definitely wasn't going to look. Then she felt him beside her; he leaned over her, and his lips covered hers.

He kissed her deeply, commandingly—more intimately than before. He took her mouth as if she'd offered herself; in a way, she supposed she had. The claiming was complete, unrestrained—as if even asleep he knew she was his. His for the taking.

And he took.

Somewhere along the line, she opened her senses, let them reach and tell her what her eyes could not. She set her hands exploring, over the smooth acres of his chest, tight and hard under her hands and roughened by crinkly hair, then over the rounded curves of his shoulders. Flexing her fingers into the steel of his upper arms, she lifted against him, driven by his kiss—he was leaning far over her, his body, hot and hard, a mere inch from hers.

He was lying beside her, his hip against hers, his body radiating heat and a sensuality that wrapped about her, about them, and shielded them from the world.

And still he kissed her, reaching deep, asking for more and taking it. Emboldened, she met his demands—and let her hands stray lower.

To his hip. Fingers reaching, she traced the wide bone, sensed the slightly different texture of his skin. And sensed the sudden hiatus in their kiss—the abrupt refocusing of his senses.

Deliberately, she let her hand fall, fingers languidly trailing over his lower stomach.

His breath hitched—he pulled back from the kiss.

Just as she found him.

Eyes still closed, she touched tentatively, surprised to find such delicate skin. And felt him quiver, then tense. Intrigued, she slowly reached farther, and wrapped her fingers around the heavy length. Every muscle he possessed locked.

The one in her hands throbbed.

Lips curving in a wicked smile, she stroked, and caressed, closed her hands and weighed, then explored farther still.

He broke and caught her hands. “Sweet witch, you're killing me.”

The words sounded as if they'd been said through clenched teeth; she gave a wicked chuckle of her own.

Only to have him kiss her voraciously, ravenously, until her wits whirled and she lost touch with reality. Then he drew back.

“Now it's my turn.”

He swung over her, kneeling, his knees on either side of hers. Catching the hem of her nightgown, he raised it.

Eyes closed, expectation hammering in her veins, Catriona lay still and waited.

He pulled her gown up to her waist—then straight up to her shoulders, drawing her arms up, clearly intending to wrestle it from her.

Catriona gasped and came alive. Grabbing folds of the gown, she tried to wrestle it back down. He didn't need her naked to—

He chuckled, the sound even more evocative with her head wrapped in her gown, her body fully exposed. To the night, to him.

“Actually,” he drawled, “that's an even better idea.”

The gown shifted, twisted; Catriona waited half a second, then tried to move her arms, only to find them stuck. Her head, arms and shoulders were wrapped, trapped, in her gown.

“Hmm.
Excellent.”

The purring drawl had her biting her lip, had her tensing with expectation. An expectation fully borne out when she felt him lower his naked body upon hers. He shifted, sliding lower, his legs outside hers.

“Positively succulent.”

She felt his breath against the soft skin of her breasts and wondered what he meant.

The next instant, she arched wildly and nearly screamed as his mouth closed hotly about one nipple. He pressed open-mouthed kisses over her quivering flesh, then lovingly licked each peak to a tight bud—before torturing it with his tongue.

Catriona fought wildly—just to catch her breath. When she finally thought she'd become used to the new sensations, he suckled one nipple fiercely—she screamed and melted anew.

Luckily, the folds of her gown got into her mouth and muffled her shriek. As sanity returned, she realized his attentions hadn't faltered—she hadn't jarred him fully awake. When he suckled her other breast, she was prepared for the lightning bolt—the shocking strike of pure sensation. Her body arched, but she contained her scream.

Panting, gasping, her body afire, she waited, desperately trying to imagine what he would do next.

His lips drifted lower, leaving trails of fire down her body, over her waist. He pressed hot kisses to her stomach; she tensed, then relaxed as the trails continued down her thighs, first one, then the other.

Then he shifted, moving back and away. Senses searching, Catriona placed him kneeling astride her calves. Then she felt his hands close about her knees and lift them, parting her thighs.

After the slightest hesitation, she let him open her; catching her breath, she waited for him to cover her.

Instead, she felt a feathery touch, then feathery kisses dotting along her inner thigh. First one, then the other.

As what he
might
intend broke on her mind, she gasped and tried to clamp her thighs shut, only to find his broad shoulders between.

He chuckled wickedly.

And pressed a long, hot kiss to her damp curls.

“Not yet, sweet witch.”

Then he kissed her.

And licked her. And sucked so gently she thought she would die.

Mindless, she threshed, trying to fight her way free of her nightgown; defeated, she tried to sit up—only to feel the heavy weight of his forearm across her waist press her down. Only to feel his other hand slide beneath her bottom and tilt her up. So he could savor her softness more thoroughly.

And savor her he did. Long and slow, languid and devastating, his lips and tongue wove their magic, until fires burned under every inch of her skin, until her bones had melted and her nerves shrivelled and her wits had reduced to ashes. Until she was panting, almost crying in her need.

She was hot, she was needy—she was ready.

She was frantic.

Then
he pulled back.

“Richard!”

Her cry was weak—a demand and a plea.

He shifted back onto his knees with a satisfied groan; the next instant, he smoothed aside the folds of her gown, searching for her hands. Their fingers touched, and locked; he drew her up so she was sitting.

Catriona swung her legs under her so she was kneeling, too—but before she could push her gown down, he whisked it off over her head. Aghast, she watched it float over the end of the bed.

She looked at her tormentor.

Which was a big mistake.

Fully dressed, he was intimidating. Naked, he was mesmerizing. Fascinatingly, mind-numbingly male—a potent, powerful presence just waiting to claim her.

In all that had led to this moment, she had steadfastly refused to let her mind form any picture—to imagine how he would look naked, without the civilized cloak he wore when he stalked the world. Dragging in a tight breath, she wondered if imagining might have been better—might have better prepared her to face this.

To her mind, to all her senses, he was magnificent, his long, lean frame covered with taut muscle. The sight of him stirred her powerfully, unfurled some primitive emotion in her.

She gulped, and forced her gaze upward, relieved to see his boyish grin still in place.

“That's better.”

While her eyes had been roaming, so had his, with very evident results. He reached for her; she tried to hold back but her knees slid across the sheets. To her surprise, he didn't gather her into his arms, but, sinking back on his ankles, stopped her with her knees against his and eased her back so she was sitting as he was, on her ankles, knees wide.

He grinned, his expression the very essence of male sexual expectation. “Next installment.”

Her wits long gone, her senses reeling, she couldn't even summon a frown. “Installment?”

His hands closed over her breasts, confident and firm. His thumbs rubbed her tightly budded nipples; her body came instantly alive. Her lids fell of their own accord as she arched lightly, pressing her breasts into his palms. “What do you mean?”

“I want to see how high you can go—how high I can take you before you shatter.”

She struggled to frown, struggled to make sense of his words, and couldn't. Not with his hands on her breasts, then roaming her body, her sides, her thighs, quiveringly tight.

Then he stroked her soft curls, then slid long fingers past to stroke her there, where she was hot and molten. Two fingers pressed in and filled her, then retreated; he circled her entrance, then pressed—and she gasped. His fingers slid away, and played, then returned to the same excruciatingly sensitive spot, and pressed again.

White light flared behind her lids. And suddenly, Catriona understood. She grabbed his wrist—and felt, beneath her fingers, the seductive shift of tendon and muscle as he probed her—slowly, deliberately, evocatively.

She snapped open her eyes and looked at his face. Harsh-edged with passion, the planes were set. Fully aroused, his gaze was locked on where his hand worked between her thighs.

She couldn't believe her senses. “You're teasing me? Like
this?”

He looked up and met her gaze. His was still clouded, his eyes like black pools; if anything, the hold of the drugs was deepening. Then he smiled—the same boyish smile. “I've been itching to sink into you since first I set eyes on you—I've been aroused virtually every minute I've spent in your sight. Being around you, especially every time you put your pert nose in the air, has been torture. I thought I'd give you a dose of your own magic before I ease my pain.” His smile grew soft, distinctly dreamy. “And as for this”—he pressed again; Catriona gasped and swayed—“I plan on teasing you a lot more yet.”

“A lot
more?
” Aghast, she stared at him and tried to think of what he hadn't yet done.

His grin widened. “When I'm inside you. It'll be long and slow—the most perfect torture for a sexy witch.”

Catriona simply stared—what had she done? What had she set in train? He was dreaming. He really
was
dreaming—reality fluidly merging with fantasy. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't realize he was frightening her, pushing her too far. Making her feel far too much. He didn't know she was real.

She was going to lose her mind if he didn't fill her soon. Simply lay her on her back and take her. Quickly. She could feel the passion mounting, bubbling through her veins, exactly as he had predicted. Her inner fires were raging, she was molten with liquid heat. And she needed to release it.

She wanted him—now, immediately, ten minutes ago. It was her own need that was scaring her, not his.

But he didn't know that—and she couldn't explain. She didn't want to beg. Unexpected panic flared within her.

It must have shown in her face, for he frowned. His fingers slowed, and he cocked his head slightly, studying her. He blinked once, twice—confusion was writ plain in his face. “What is it?”

Catriona opened her lips—but no words came out. What should she say? What should she admit to? He was clearly dazed, increasingly hazy—he was operating on instinct. What sort of instinct did a rake have?

Her gaze locked with his, she moistened her lips, suddenly aware of the huge risk she'd taken. Algaria had tried to warn her, but she hadn't understood. She wasn't in control of this situation—and neither was he.

Which meant she'd thrown herself on the mercy of a rake's true soul, his real, inner self, his true character—and she didn't know what that was.

She was about to find out.

Acting on instinct, she held out her arms to him. “I want you now.”

She didn't try to hide the genuineness of her need—her vulnerability. Her only guarantee that she would be safe in so doing was The Lady's insistence that he was the one. Placing her trust in The Lady's judgment, with her arms, with her eyes, she reached for him. “
Please
.”

She didn't see him move, only felt his arms close about her as he gathered her close.

“Sshhh.” He held her against him, hot skin to hot skin, and pressed his face into her hair. “I didn't mean to frighten you.” His hands stroked her back, soothingly, comfortingly. Cupping her bottom lightly, he shifted against her, his erection riding against her belly. “Put it down to too much imagining. I've been fantasizing for so long about you—how you'd feel”—he slid his hands over her back and hips—“how you'd taste.” With his shoulder, he nudged her head up and kissed her—gently, lingeringly—the hunger in him held back, the tangy taste of her still there on his lips and tongue.

Then he raised his head and looked into her face. “I want you in the worst possible way”—he grinned ruefully, boyishness overlaid by passion—“in every way known to man. I want to see you flower for me—spread your legs for me and hold out your arms for me. I want to be inside you more than I want to breathe—I want to feel you rising beneath me as I ride you. And I want to wake and find you beside me—I want to hold you forever.” He pressed a kiss to her lips. “I want to
care
for you forever.” Lifting his head, he looked into her eyes. “I want to be your lover in all ways—in every sense of the word, and the deed.”

Locked in his dark, cloudy gaze, Catriona could only quiver. He'd seduced her all over again. “Come.”

It was she who took his hand, she who lay down upon the bed, spread her thighs wide and held out her arms to him.

And he came to her—the invincible warrior without a cause—devoid, because of her scheming, of his mask, the shield he held up to the world. In that instant, when he'd looked into her eyes and made his declaration, he hadn't been capable of lying. He wanted to love her—and to have her love him. Not just physically but in all ways. He wanted her as part of his life—and wanted to be part of hers. She'd needed no higher powers to read the truth—it had been there, transparent in his unshielded eyes.