by Elisa Braden
She traced the strained cords of his thick, strong neck before trailing curious fingertips down to his collarbone. Then, without meaning to, she spoke aloud thoughts that should have stayed buried where they belonged—inside her head.
“This was broken, too.”
A wave caught her unawares. Surged upward as she traced warm, tough skin over bones that had been shattered. Because of her.
Oh, God. Suddenly, she was dangling in midair. Below her were jagged rocks and rushing water. Above her were leaves and sky, a frantic boy trying to save her, a narrow bridge with moss-covered stones. Next, she was staring down at her heart lying fractured and still and bleeding.
Like a demon loosed from hell, nightmarish memories surged out of darkness to strangle her. Everything hurt. Her chest. Her eyes. Her skin. Every part of her remembered, and every part felt torn open.
She heard a gasp. Keening. Felt trickles from her eyes flowing down her temples. Nothing seemed real. She couldn’t stop the words.
“How I want to kill that day,” she mourned through gritted teeth. “Tear it from existence like a horrifying page from a sketchbook. I want to burn it to ashes. How I wish I could.” Her throat closed, tight and burning. She shook and shook. Lost in a memory she rarely allowed to surface, she raised up to kiss the spot at the base of his throat, where his bone had cracked. Though it had been years since the injury, she took the greatest care, giving his skin a trembling brush.
His hand scooped beneath her neck. Suddenly, he reversed their positions so she straddled his lap. Then, he sat up on the bed, powerful arms banding her tightly against him. “It was not your fault, Bumblebee.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around his neck. Buried her face against linen and whiskery skin. Words formed a lump in her chest. He was wrong. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t followed him and John that day, he would not have been forced to save her. He would not have fallen and nearly died.
“Listen to me.” The rumble of his growl resonated throughout her body. “None of it was your fault, do you hear? It was just a mad accident.”
Kissing his skin over and over, she stifled a rising sob. “No,” she moaned, her fingers digging into his nape. She could not get close enough. She held him tighter than she should, clung and squeezed to keep him with her. Keep him safe. “No.”
He rocked her to and fro. Stroked her hair and held her tight. “I never blamed you, love. I know it seemed like I did. I am sorry for that. So sorry. I—I thought I was doing right. Nothing has ever hurt so badly.”
She heard his words, but they made no sense. The memories had come to drown her. “No.” The sound was low and raw. Mournful. Pain wanted out. “Noooo.”
“God, love. Please believe me. Please forgive me.” He continued rocking her. Back and forth. Back and forth. He kept stroking her hair, now somehow loosened from its plait. Stroke and breathe. Stroke and breathe.
“Robert.” His name quavered, but she managed to squeeze it out through a swollen throat. “I cannot lose you again.”
“You won’t.”
“You mustn’t ever send me away.”
“Never.”
“Even when I do foolish things. Even when I vex you so much you want to toss me in the Tisenby, sketchbook and all.”
He grunted. “I expect you to vex me. It is what Bumblebees do.”
She squeezed his neck tighter. Turned her lips to whisper in his ear, “You mustn’t ever fall or die, my dearest love. I shall have no choice but to follow you.”
“Do not say that.”
“It is true.”
“Annabelle …”
“I cannot lose you,” she repeated. “I won’t survive it again.”
For a long while, he simply rocked them together until his heat and heartbeat and strength seeped into her, surrounded her like a fortress. Every breath filled her with the fresh-air scent of his skin. She held him and swayed. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Slowly, when the dark waters of memory receded and her cheek rested upon his shoulder, she smiled. “This is all the reassurance I require,” she murmured. “Your arms around me. Your … nearness.”
His arms tightened. He turned his head and brushed her lips with his. “I’ll give you anything. Everything you desire. You need only ask.”
Her smile grew. She returned his kiss. Deepened it with a playful flicker of her tongue. “I thought you said you couldn’t dance.”
He frowned. “I can’t.”
She propelled their swaying to illustrate her point. “Then, why does this feel so much like dancing, Mr. Conrad?”
Blue eyes flared into a deep burn. Then, he gave her a slow, wicked grin she had never—ever—seen on Robert Conrad’s face.
It made her melt into him like butter over a crumpet.
“This isn’t dancing,” he rumbled, licking those delicious lips. Big, possessive hands stroked up and down her spine, ending in a position at the top of her hips. There, he gripped firmly and ground her softest center against his hard staff. “As I said, love, if dancing is what you desire”—he began tugging at her skirt, pulling the silk up past her knees until warm, dry hands gripped her bare thighs—“you need only ask.”
*~*~*
By all rights, Robert’s erection should have faded by now. Earlier, his lustful fervor had been thwarted, though not ended, by Annabelle’s strange remoteness. Annabelle was a passionate woman. She’d confused him with her lack of response. Then, she’d seemed to get sucked into a whirlpool of painful memories.
That had bloody well torn his heart out.
He could not allow his Bumblebee to hurt that way. The wrenching cries. The anguished regret. Never again. He’d sacrifice his three remaining limbs to prevent it.
The only thing he could think to do in the moment, however, had been to hold her fast, keeping as much contact between their bodies as possible. The closeness had soothed him, too. As she’d calmed, so had he. As her distress drained away, he’d simply absorbed everything about her. Summery scent. Lush curves covered in pink silk. Pearlescent skin. Gentle breaths and dainty fingers playing with his hair. In time, his cock had reacted as it always did whenever she was near. Or when he thought about her. Or when he woke from a dream about her. Or when he caught a scent similar to hers.
Bloody hell, perhaps this was madness.
And perhaps he didn’t care.
Now, she pulled back to cup his jaw between her hands. A small, pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. “I’ve dreamt about dancing with you,” she whispered, her cheeks blooming the sweetest shade of rose.
“Have you?” He found himself grinning wider.
She nodded.
“Are you certain you don’t wish to wait until tomorrow?”
She shook her head.
Thank God. Of course, the question was largely rhetorical. With her straddling him as she was, all it would take was releasing his fall, and he’d be poised to slide inside her.
But that was deceptive. Because his wife—blast, his intended wife—was innocent and required special consideration.
Soft lips explored his neck. Slender arms gripped and clung. Bountiful breasts pressed and rubbed. “I long to see you naked,” his siren whispered in his ear.
“Bloody hell, Annabelle.”
Her laugh was husky. Wicked. “It’s true.”
He threaded a hand through the soft waves of her hair. Wrapping a length of the brown silk around his wrist, he cupped her nape and replied, “I must be mindful of your innocence, love. How am I to do that when you behave like a temptress?”
She pulled back. Gave him a fierce frown. “Am I not to enjoy this dance as well?”
“Yes. You are.”
“Then, I should like to see you naked, Robert Conrad. Presently.”
He sighed. “We don’t want this dance to reach its crescendo too soon.”
“Why not?”
“Trust m
e.”
“No,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Explain.”
“It will hurt. When I take your virginity. The better you’re prepared, the more pleasurable it will be. That takes time.”
Her lips pursed. Her eyes narrowed. “I want to see you naked.”
He dug his fingers into her hips while groaning his arousal. “Every time you say the word ‘naked,’ I get harder.”
Slowly, his siren grinned. Sweet brown eyes went both soft and mischievous. Soft, pink lips hovered within a breath of his. In fact, he felt damp breaths fall against his chin as she whispered, “Naked.” A low, sensuous chuckle. “Naked, naked, naked.”
Abruptly, he lay back on the bed and rolled over until she was tucked beneath him.
She first squeaked her surprise then started laughing. “Oh, heavens. Dancing, indeed.” She laughed again, the sound like a balm in his ears.
He needed her laughter. Her grief earlier had wrecked him. Now, he propped on his elbows and stroked her cheeks with the backs of his fingers. “First, I will remove your gown.”
She bit her lip and nodded, obviously not listening. Her hands were measuring his shoulders again.
“Then, I will make sure you’re ready for me.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“When that’s done, I shall remove my—”
“Take your shirt off, Robert.” She was tugging at the linen, pulling the hem from inside his breeches. “I want to see.”
“Bloody hell, woman.”
Again, she laughed, her eyes dancing.
He looked closer. She was aroused. He hadn’t even touched her yet.
Blinking, he examined as much as he could see—mostly her eyes, which had darkened to black as the centers expanded. Her lids were half-lowered, her focus shifting in a circular route between his lips, neck, and shoulders. Rolling to one side, he eyed her breasts. Hard, needy nipples pouted inside pink silk.
He swallowed. “God.”
“The way you look at me,” she murmured. Her breaths quickened. Her hands tugged harder at his shirt. “It makes me burn.”
Speech abandoned him. He pulled back enough to grasp the hem of her skirt and toss the silk northward. When her lower half was exposed, he stopped to gaze upon her.
White thighs, soft and curved. A thatch of brown hair. And hips—oh, God, her hips were heavenly. Diabolical. Designed to torment mere mortals like him. He groaned. Circled her waist with one arm. Slid her higher on the bed so that he could grip the backs of her knees and spread her wide.
She squeaked and clutched his hair.
He could scarcely breathe for her beauty. Pink folds glistened with arousal. Dark and lush and swollen with need, they welcomed his sliding fingers as he traced perfect lines. Danced alongside her most demanding center. Then, he let her pleasured moans lead him through his explorations. A sweet, honeyed glide. A slow, silken slide.
He bent and gave her his tongue, glorying in her shocked gasps, her trembling arch. She chanted his name. First, her voice was a query. Then it was a revelation, filled with wonder.
Sweet, womanly honeysuckle. Summer rain and pure intoxication. That was his Annabelle. He tasted her in long strokes. Slid a finger deep inside her channel, reveling in the virginal tightness, the demanding clenches of silken flesh.
By God, this would be his new obsession. Hips were merely the frame. This was his prize.
“… cannot … bear much more. Oh, dear heaven, Robert.” She arched upward.
He gripped her thigh and held her against his stroking, flickering tongue. He felt her pulses coiling higher. Saw her belly rippling. Heard her cries and wanted more.
More. God, more and more and more. Would it ever be enough? No. He’d always want more of her.
Her pleasure broke over him as she reached her climax, seizing around his finger, sobbing his name. Fingers gripped his hair as she writhed against the mattress. He kept at her. Everything else disappeared—the room, the bed, the waning light. There was only his Annabelle. Pink and white. Wet and soft. An enchanting siren he could not resist.
He suckled the sweetest part of her, the swollen nub that fairly pulsed with her recent climax. Faintly, he heard her cries, felt her tugging his hair and clawing his shoulders. He knew she must be sensitized after coming so hard. But he couldn’t stop. He wanted more.
He slid another finger inside, stretching her sheath as he drew upon her swollen nub. Hard shudders wracked her small frame. Slowly, he became aware of the desperation in her voice.
And the pain in his cock. Bloody hell. One stroke and he’d be done.
Soothing her thighs with gentle kneading, he gave her one last lap of his tongue then withdrew his fingers.
“Robert,” she groaned, trembling badly.
“I’m going to remove your gown now, love.” He scarcely sounded human. Nothing remained of his voice but an animalistic growl. Nevertheless, he stripped her of her gown by simply pulling the thing off over her head.
Then, another obsession began. Her breasts. Full and round and pearl-white. Tipped with berry-bright nipples that stood up and demanded his complete attention. How very Annabelle. He smiled and traced them with wet fingertips.
“Please,” she sobbed. “Please.”
He couldn’t help himself. He cupped her. Kneaded her flesh until her breasts were even fuller, flushed pink with arousal and begging for his mouth. He gave her that, too, tasting the essence of his woman there.
How long precisely he’d been suckling her when his patience broke, he could not say. He knew she was arched and gasping. He knew she’d come again. He knew she’d torn the hem of his shirt trying to get the thing off him.
He stripped it in half a second. Another tick and he’d ripped his fall loose enough to grip his cock. Then, he splayed her wide, rolled fully between her thighs, and positioned himself to enter paradise.
That was when she cupped his jaw, and he felt some indefinable force compelling his gaze to meet hers. The force was golden. Pure. Inexorable.
Tears had streaked from her eyes at some point in the past few minutes. Ecstasy, he hoped. She was smiling up at him, but that was not what made his entire being light up like a sunrise filled with swans. No, it was the moment between them. A fusion of his soul with hers.
This was no mere coupling, no simple claim. It was a reknitting of something precious that had been torn asunder. They belonged to the same whole. She’d been born to bring him joy. He’d been born to keep her safe and happy.
He wanted to tell her, but as usual, he had no words for it. Instead, all he could do was kiss her. He worshipped her mouth, stroked her soft cheeks with his thumbs, paid homage to the woman who’d always been meant for him. Finally, he leaned his forehead against hers and whispered, “Now, Bumblebee. It must be now.”
She nodded, wrapped her arms around his neck, raised her hips, and squeezed him with her thighs.
With that, he slid inside her tight, silken sheath in a swift stroke. Gritting his teeth as he felt a brief resistance and heard her small gasp, he held still while she adjusted. As soon as he felt her relax, he went deep, driven by lust too long denied. She bit her lip and clutched at him, but she was slick and wet, welcoming his thrusts even as he drove harder than he should. Deeper and stronger. Over and over. Pounding at a mad pace.
Before long, a miracle happened. That golden thread between them began to glow. And she began to tighten. To squeeze. To ripple. And then to shout. Her little fist landed on his shoulder then pounded onto the bed. Her hips frantically sought his, as though she needed more.
More of him. More of them. More of the luminous bond that seemed to be stoking them both.
Three strokes before he detonated, her back arched high and his siren sang a song formed of his name and pleas to God for mercy. She came around him, gripped him so hard, he instantly followed her, filled her sweet body with an explosion as fierce as his love for her. Inchoate sounds burst from his chest as he
held her. Kissed her. Thrust deep inside her rippling sheath and felt the wonder of that golden thread, now a golden cord, pulsing with power.
Luminous waves of it washed over him in the aftermath. He lay with his head upon her splendid breasts, reveling in the simple knowledge that she was his. His hands could not stop roaming across her skin. He stroked her hips and her waist, her arms and thighs. She did likewise, her fingers trailing to every part of him she could reach.
When she spoke, her voice was frayed. “For a man with a cane, Mr. Conrad, I daresay you are a masterful dancer.”
Perhaps his laughter was louder than it should be. But he could not help it. No one had ever made him laugh like this. No one made him happier than his Bumblebee. And she was finally his again. Finally back where she belonged.
*~*~*
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“In the end, vows are promises. Promises may be kept or cast into the refuse pile. Marriage initiates at the altar, to be sure, but the choice to sustain it is made every day of one’s married life. And, for some of us, every day thereafter.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock answering his kind admiration of her character and regrets for opportunities left unexplored.
*~*~*
Dearest Robert,
John says I must cease writing these letters, as they can do no good. How can I stop when they are my only connection to you?
And how pitiful must I be to keep on with them, knowing you will never read a word?
Ever yours,
Annabelle
—Letter to Robert Conrad dated May 25, 1815
*~*~*
Leaving Annabelle’s bed just before dawn was downright painful, and not merely because he’d overworked his bad leg the previous day. He didn’t want to stop touching her. With her wrapped in his arms, he’d slept better than he’d done in years—or ever.
