Warrior's Bride (22 page)

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a finger against her lips. "Not now, lass. We can discuss this later. I have other things on my mind."

  "Other things? Oh." She drew a startled breath as he began rubbing his thumbs in little circles against her arches. She tried to keep her body stiff, but the sensual magic he worked on her feet made it impossible. Her muscles turned soft and she relaxed against the coverlet. "Oh," she sighed.

  The shadows in his eyes disappeared, replaced by satisfaction as he continued. He compressed her heel, then slid his hand up the back of her ankle, only to repeat the motion over and over.

  "Oh," she murmured again as her eyes drifted closed. If he kept this up, she would never be able to speak again, let alone tell him her darkest secrets.

  He kneaded the balls of her feet, then with long, fluid movements worked the tension out of each one of her toes, dipping his fingers between each appendage, in delicious, sensual plunges. "How can anything feel so good?" she murmured, realizing too late that she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

  She tried to pull her feet out of his grasp, but he held firm. "You helped me in the woods. It is only right I should return the favor."

  He continued his smooth massage. One toe to the next until each felt special in turn. His touch a caress— so soft, so calming. She hated to end it with her next words, and yet she knew she must. "Lord .. Lord Gr—" His name stuck in her throat at the thought of the pain and torment that monster had caused the man before her.

  "I do not wish to speak of him. In fact, I do not want to know anything." Wolf slipped his hand along the length of her leg, from her ankle to her knee.

  Izzy gasped at the riot of tingling that chased up her leg. The warmth in her stomach spread to her limbs like honey across a warm slice of bread.

  His hand caressed the back of her thigh. A heaviness descended over his face. "I am burdened enough with responsibility, Isobel. Please be for me the one thing that is exactly as it appears. You are truly pure and innocent and unspoiled."

  He could not be more wrong.

  "I want you to be exactly what you are right here before me. Nothing else has to exist if we don't want it to." Never taking his gaze from hers, he sat forward until only a slight space separated his chest from her own.

  He didn't want to know the truth. Why? Did he suspect it and fear it all the same?

  She feared the truth but could not put it off. It was too important. "I—"

  "Things can be simple between us, Isobel, if only we allow them to be." The expression in his dark eyes shifted from awareness to something more. Heat. It was the only word she could think of to describe the intensity in his gaze. Tendrils of that very same heat reached out to her, ensnaring her in its trap.

  Slowly, carefully, he drew near her, his gaze never leaving her face. He lowered his mouth until she could feel his breath on her lips. As gentle as a breeze, his lips met hers. A simple touch and her body flooded with the same warmth she'd seen in his eyes. Her limbs felt weak, her mind numb, until all she could sense was him—his smell, his taste—spiced honey and mint. The combination as intoxicating as the feel of his hands on her cheeks, her neck.

  She leaned into him, her hands crept up his torso to wrap about his shoulders. He trembled beneath her touch. She urged him forward, into her own body, hoarding the sensation of power she held over him.

  The words she longed to put out before him shriveled, then died. He did not wish to know. And Lord help her, if he continued to kiss her like this, she would cease to care about anything at all.

  His tongue moved against the seam of her lips. She opened to him and he delved within. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she gave in to the overpowering assault. Weakness invaded and her body felt drugged, but this time from pleasure, not poison.

  She skimmed her hands up his chest. His heart thundered beneath her palm, contradicting the slow intoxication of his kiss.

  He made a sound, low and deep—a groan or laughter, she could not be certain—as his lips worked their way down her throat. His mouth against her flesh touched a note inside her, resonating, filling her with vibrations of heat and pleasure. He pulled back to loop a tendril of hair that had fallen over her shoulder about his finger.

  He worked the strands of her hair with his thumb and fingers, caressing the fibers with the same gentleness he'd lavished on her skin. "Your hair is beautiful." His fingers moved higher and higher until he caressed the nape of her neck.

 
Madness. Passionate madness.
Her body pulsed, then ached where his touch met her skin. Startled by her thoughts, she pulled back, then stood. "I must go." Her voice shook, as did her limbs.

  He came off the bed to stand somewhat unsteadily beside her. "Where will you go to escape this, Isobel? Am I not your husband? Are you not my wife?" He reached for her and brought her up against his chest.

  "You should stay off your leg."

  "I feel no pain now." He drew her toward him. She let herself be trapped as his lips found her neck, trailing kisses along the length down to her shoulder, and lower to the rise of her breasts.

  She arched her neck, allowing her head to fall back ever so slightly at the riotous sensations he brought forth. Near him, in his arms, she felt wantonly bared, yet free, as if nothing but sensation stood between them. No lies, no deceit. Just one exquisite sensation chased by another, pooling deep inside her core as if preparing for something more.

  And she knew what that something more would be. He'd said it himself. She was his wife. The reality of her situation seemed suddenly clear and the turmoil of doubts inside her shifted to a trembling, aching need.

  "Nothing else has to exist for us right now except each other. A man and a woman in need of forgetfulness." He reached behind her and released the ties that pulled her gown tight against her chest. She drew a startled breath as he then pulled the garment up over her head, leaving her dressed in the sheer fabric of her shift that skimmed against her skin with the lightness of a lover's caress.

  Wolf took a step back, but only far enough to draw his fine linen nightshirt off and toss it to the floor. She stared at him in helpless fascination. The dark hair thatching his chest looked soft and springy, and she felt a tingling in her hands. She wanted to touch him, to run her fingers through the downy softness she was certain she would find there, to explore the powerful muscles cording his chest and shoulders.

  "Can you forget about everything that stands between us and just allow yourself to feel?"

  She forgot everything as her gaze traveled down his chest to the tightness of his muscular abdomen, then down . ..

  He stood naked before her, with his legs apart, blatantly aroused, the very essence of bold masculinity. She could not pull her gaze away, nor could she fill her lungs with air.

  "What do you feel when you look at me?" he asked, his voice filled with as much vulnerability as there was confidence.

  "Everything I should not." There was only chaos in what she felt. She was hot and dizzy and confused and excited. He had chosen her over Fiona.

  "Come to me."

  Only one step separated them, she would not have to go far, and still she hesitated. There would be no turning back if she took that one step. Had her mother not warned her of the insanity that would follow?

  He took her right hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed her palm, his gaze never leaving hers. "I need you."

  The simple words brought forth a sudden surge of tenderness that swept away the last of her reserve. Insanity seemed but a small price to pay for the pleasure that awaited.

  She took a step forward. His arms came about her. Then the shift covering her body was gone, tossed aside along with his garments. Her nipples brushed the hair on his chest. She gasped at the sensation. His hands moved to her shoulders, her arms, her back, kneading her with a yearning tenderness, and an unbearable tension gripped her body.

  In the next moment, he cradled her in his arms and gently nestled her onto the bed. He followed her down until he half-lay, half-knelt beside her. Before she had a chance to feel frightened, his lips found hers. Mind-numbing sensations flowed through her, making her long for things she did not yet understand.

  His hands caressed her leg, her thigh, her midriff, and she lay open and exposed as she never had before. Only here, in his arms, she did not feel vulnerable. Instead she felt free—freed from the constraints that always had tethered her in place. Did he feel that way too? Was that why he had asked her to forget all else but this moment? So that he could find a moment of freedom from his oppressive responsibilities? And she could find freedom from her past?

  Morning air rushed against her flesh, cooling her only briefly before the warmth of his hands covered her, warmed her, pulled her toward something more. She watched his face, watched the tensions ease from the corners of his eyes, yet another type of tautness took its place.

  Bravely, she reached out and touched his chest. Her fingers coiled through the matting of hair she'd so ached to touch before. Her tentative exploration was met with a quick intake of breath, followed by a sound of pure pleasure. A groan, a sigh, a curse, a prayer, she could not tell precisely which.

  His reaction spurred her to trace the outline of his hair down across his smooth abdomen, down further as the edges narrowed to a   She paused, suddenly afraid to follow the hairline where it dipped closer to his manhood.

  "You may touch me where you like, Isobel."

  Could she be so bold?

  "Between us, like this, there are no rules but pleasure. There is nothing to fear."

  She drew her fingers back, hesitant.

  He gave her a wicked smile. "Let me show you."

  His hands skimmed across her waist, her abdomen. Where he touched, her body trembled, responding to him in a way she never imagined she could. He gave her no time for embarrassment. Nay, as his hands stroked her she could feel all reserve melt away, igniting a strange burning sensation between her thighs. As though reading her thoughts, his hand slid down her abdomen to the thatch of curls surrounding her womanhood. His fingers caressed, stroked, rubbing back and forth at the very entrance of her body.

  She closed her eyes, arching up against his hand, wanting more, craving more, and yet she knew not what she searched for. Sensation after bewildering sensation tore through her as his fingers slipped inside the soft folds of her flesh. Her eyes flew open and she gave a little cry. She clutched at his hand, suddenly afraid. "It hurts," she said, not knowing how else to describe what she felt.

  He eased back but did not pull his hand away. "Describe what you feel." He gently, slowly entered her again. "What does this make you feel?"

  She released his hand and relaxed, allowing the unfamiliar sensations to flow through her. "I feel warm. And I ache."

  "So do I, my dear. That's how pleasure starts. A slow, sweet ache that builds to so much more." His fingers delved deeper, his palm continuing his rhythmic caress.

  Unbelievable ripples of feeling spread through every part of her body, intensifying that ache, shifting it to desire—desire that tore through her reserve and made her bold. She pressed against him, and the movement brought his fingers deeper inside. She shuddered and cried out—for what, she did not know. Something threatened out there on the edge of nothingness, something she wanted but didn't know how to reach.

  The thought had barely formed when satisfaction exploded within her, bringing with it wave after wave of pure, physical rapture. She arched against him, until the waves of sensation settled, calmed. His hand moved to gently stroke her thighs.

  Weak and shaken by overwhelming sensations, she watched him. Light from the room spread across his hard body, bathing him in hues of red and gold from the colored glass above. Her eyes riveted on his chest, which rose and fell with each ragged breath as though he, too, had experienced what he'd given to her. And yet tension lay there in his muscles as well. She reached up to touch his chest. His skin was damp and hot beneath her touch. His muscles tightened reflexively as she trailed her fingers down, down, until she stopped a finger's reach from his rampant arousal. Desire, so recently sated, pooled again, flooding her body with need.

  "There is more if you are willing," he said as his gaze followed her own.

  His voice was low, ragged, and filled with as much unbridled hope as raw vulnerability. Something inside her responded, flared, opened to new possibilities. Her hand cupped his cheek. He leaned into her touch, and a soft groan escaped his lips. A moment later his lips replaced his cheek, and he trailed kisses against her palm and down the length of her arm. "Unspoiled and pure," he murmured against her flesh.

  She had no time to consider his words as he pressed her against the bed and moved between her thighs. His arousal nudged provocatively against the center of her womanhood. She gasped at the sensation and at the desire that flared so quickly inside her once more.

  She reached up and pulled his head down to hers, capturing his lips in a hungry kiss. His hands moved down her shoulders, trembling as they moved across her flesh, urgent with a passionate need.