Reluctant Bride

by Sam Crescent

  Alice hastened to her husband’s side, and the tall man said, “Miss Kenniston, I’m Michael Reilly.”

  She nodded, and Luke closed in at her side, his hand seeking hers, a strange solace.

  She could scent him, a bouquet of spice and male, somehow clearer than in the confines of the car, and every one of her senses was excruciatingly aware of him. Aware that she’d be at his sensual command soon.

  Her I do was quiet but clear. Had she protested, what exactly were Reilly’s options? She had no doubt of his role within the Family.

  Luke responded more fervently, and she now believed he meant it when he’d said he wanted her, had chosen her as his wife. Unfortunately, she’d never been given the opportunity to determine if she wanted him.

  Liar. She twitched as the little voice spoke loudly in the forefront of her mind. Okay, so she’d concede she might want him. Physically. But then, she’d hardly had any basis for comparison. Maybe lots of men kissed like that. He doubtless had reams of experience.

  The wedding band slid inexorably over her finger, where it would soon be joined by that staggering emerald she left behind.

  “You may kiss your bride.”

  Luke’s arm snaked around her waist to pull her against him, his other hand working into her hair to cup her head and hold her steady. She barely had time to draw in a breath before he stole it.

  His mouth took hers with masculine arrogance, a firm, determined pressure she well recalled before he coaxed her lips open and explored her with his tongue. She fought to stay distant, but their chemistry wrested away all control.

  She found herself kissing him back, ineptly but with enthusiasm.

  When he released her, gently supporting her wavering form, she blinked and fought to control her breathing. Niall stared at her, concern in his eyes. Sean and Alice beamed benevolently, twin dictators.

  “We’ll be leaving now.” Luke was polite, but he wasn’t asking permission.

  “Of course. Lots of time later to celebrate.”

  So, she was a married woman. From fleeing, to learning her overall appeal—as chattel—to tying the knot all in the same day. Go, her. She resolutely didn’t think of what was to come later with her husband—and how a part of her couldn’t wait.

  She suffered a hug from her father, and they left the big house. Luke’s hand at the small of her back felt like a brand.

  “I’ll take good care of you, Sorcha.” His words were was saturated with the promise of dark and dangerous delights.

  Chapter Eight

  Escorting his wife into their house, Luke watched her take a quick look around, though she said nothing. It bothered him because he’d built it with her in mind, but what did he expect?

  Taking into account her apparent exhaustion, he walked her into the master suite. “Shower or take a bath, if you like. I’ll make you something to eat.”

  She cast him a sideways glance and made her way to the ensuite. He watched her slender figure until she disappeared from sight. His arousal kicked up another notch, but he reminded himself she was exhausted and decided not to push.

  When he made his way to their bedroom with a plate of fruit and cheese, Sorcha was a small lump beneath the covers. He supposed she might be avoiding him, but her sonorous slumber couldn’t be faked. He softened—she held some level of trust for him if she could fall asleep in his bed.

  He stripped and crawled in beside her, the domesticity tightening his chest. His body ached for her too, and he contented himself with drawing her close before following her into sleep.

  ****

  Sorcha woke, suddenly and excruciatingly aware she was in Luke’s bedroom, in his bed, as his wife. The bulwark of his heated body pushed the point home. She’d stared at the king-size mattress with its sumptuous linens before picking a side and clambering in. She could have chosen the floor, or a chair, just to make a point but was fast becoming resigned to the inevitable—and maybe not fighting it.

  Exhaustion had carried her off, and she hadn’t even heard him join her. He’d let her sleep, and she tried not to wonder why. Shouldn’t she want to perceive him as the bad guy? A little voice piped up and suggested she could take advantage of certain parts of this marriage.

  “Morning.” Luke’s deep voice stirred her belly—and lower, and she blushed, caught out with her thoughts.

  “Morning.” She squeaked it, to her chagrin, and gasped when his muscled arms effortlessly turned her to face him.

  He looked great in the morning, with rumpled hair and sleepy blue eyes, not that it detracted from the virility he oozed, especially when the linens fell back, revealing his bare chest.

  She stared at his cut pecs and the intricate Celtic tattoo that wrapped around one upper arm. Another trailed over his ribs. She noted the ridges of his abdomen, where a trail of dark hair arrowed lower—he was naked! She wrestled with her chaotic reaction to that fact and involuntarily squirmed against him, seeing those blue eyes darken as her thigh met a thick bar of flesh.

  His mouth took hers in another breath-stealing kiss, and this time she didn’t resist an iota, giving over to him, shushing any second guesses.

  His lips then pressed against the side of her throat, right where her pulse would be pounding away like fury. He tasted her, and she shivered.

  His voice muffled by her skin, he said, “Are you anxious?”

  Indeed, she was. But part of her wanted to get it over with. “Maybe you should just … you know.”

  His chuckle wafted warm air down her neck and over the slope of her breasts, her nightgown gaping and the covers somewhere around her hips.

  “I know?” He set his mouth over her heart, and she stiffened. Instantly, he eased back, and she bit her bottom lip. “Sorcha?”

  “We should get it over with.” She sounded determined in her ears.

  “Over with?” His smile transformed his face from forbiddingly handsome to sunnily gorgeous.

  Sorcha sucked in air. Had she never seen him smile before?

  Laughter colored his voice when he said, “I can do that.”

  When his hands reached for the hem of her nightgown, she asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Getting it over with. It’s customary for the participants to be naked. Most times.”

  She wondered what one wore the other times before he efficiently divested her of the garment, leaving her in a scanty pair of underpants. Cool air washed over her exposed breasts, but the nipples were already hard and pointing. Needy, somehow.

  “You are so beautiful.” His big hands gently cupped her, and then he caught the tender tips between his fingertips, lightly twisting them and bringing a moan to her lips at the sensation. She forgot to be embarrassed.

  When his mouth replaced his fingers, she arched into the suckling, and her hands clutched his hair. He bit down on her nipple, then laved the tiny hurt with a swipe of his tongue before transferring his attention to the other.

  Startled at the racing thrill that traveled from her breasts to her apex, she sought to get closer to Luke, shamelessly rubbing her silk-covered sex against his hard flesh.

  Tension built in her body, mostly centered in her lower belly, and as if he knew, Luke released her with one last tender draw, and his lips followed a path downward to drift over her skin, inch by inch.

  He nuzzled the soft dip beside her hipbone, his breath hot against her. “You smell so good.”

  Mortified, knowing she was damp between her thighs, she struggled, ceasing when he grasped her waist to still her and then dipped his tongue into her navel. Her panties slipped away, and she forgot everything when he pressed his face against her mound.

  Her thighs parted as his wide shoulders insinuated themselves between them, and that clever tongue sought out her core. Frissons of pleasure danced everywhere he licked and cumulated when he, at last, focused on the knot of nerves begging for attention.

  Driven ever upward, she crested as the tension built impossibly … and snapped. Her vision sheeted white, and
for a moment, she couldn’t get her breath as a cry of completion burst from her throat.

  ****

  He watched with male satisfaction as Sorcha sagged back on the bed, boneless from her release. Her beautiful features were slack, and she panted, her gorgeous breasts bouncing with the effort, their peach nipples now softening. Softening as he hoped she was softening toward their marriage—and him.

  Shaking off any negative thoughts, he gathered her close until she recovered. “Sorcha?”

  “Uh.” Pink colored her cheeks, matching the orgasmic flush on her chest. “What?”

  “Do you want me to use protection?”

  “Protection?”

  He hid a smile, knowing she’d be embarrassed at her lack of coherence. “I don’t imagine you want a baby right away?”

  Her gaze focused, and her sharp mind shone through. He saw speculation and then appreciation on her face. She said, “No, I don’t.”

  He figured he had his own share of brains, and he’d come to understand her point of view on some things. Not to mention the other events he’d pondered in the middle of the night when he’d woken with a hard-on to rival any others in his life. Pondering disturbing matters he’d never had the reason to take notice of before.

  Grabbing a condom, he rolled it on his desperate flesh, not unaware of Sorcha’s interested gaze—she’d liked what she’d seen of him earlier. He eased over her, marking the apprehension she now tried to hide. “It’ll be okay.”

  He fit himself between her legs, and she widened her stance to accommodate him, satin thighs clasping his hips. She never took her stare from his, and he fought the urge to close his eyes, to shield himself from that piercing look, but let her in.

  Unerringly, he found her gate and pressed inside, working past the initial stricture of her entrance. She drew a panicked breath, and he said, “Relax, sweetheart.”

  He waited for her to do so, again hiding a smile at her look of concentration, and immediately drove forward. Sorcha gave a tiny shriek of surprise and pain, and he stilled, allowing her to adjust. She was all impossibly tight, liquid heat, and he gritted his teeth, determined not to rush but already desperate to move.

  When she shifted, and her muscles tightened on him, he deemed her ready and began to thrust, short forays at first then deeper ones. His heart soared when she tentatively lifted and met him in the instinctual dance, and he lost himself in chasing their pleasure.

  Her arms slipped around his shoulders, one hand delving through his hair, his scalp already tender from her earlier frantic clutching. He welcomed the bite of pain as it pulled him back from releasing too soon, lost in excruciating satisfaction.

  Striving to put friction where it counted, he labored, grasping her silky buttocks to angle her to best effect. He felt the ripples of her orgasm caress him even as she gasped his name against his chest. He poured himself into her, his lungs heaving and his heart pounding.

  He rolled with her, not yet willing to break their bond, and she sprawled over him, a vastly welcome weight. He smoothed the wild tumble of curls and stroked over the length of her spine.

  At length, Sorcha lifted her head. “Is it over with?”

  He choked on a laugh. “Part one.” He didn’t tell her there were infinite parts where she was concerned.

  “Right.” Her tone was dry, but he read curiosity on her expressive face.

  Before she might find her position awkward, he eased her to the bed, slipping out of her. “Want a shower? Bath?”

  She recognized the invitation for what it was and blushed again. “Part two,” he suggested.

  At her stiffening, he worried he’d pushed too hard, but she felt around for her nightgown and tugged it on, then pattered toward the master bath. He chuckled at her modesty but liked it, too, and hastened to follow.

  Chapter Nine

  She was softening—hell, she’d melted in the face of Luke’s honest attraction—and passion—for her. Passion she would be chasing again in the shower apparently, without the worry of pregnancy, though she could have done without the condom. She could tell herself, with some honesty, she was making the best of a bad situation. And it wasn’t as if she had a choice—which still galled—but she was viewing Luke differently.

  She huffed a laugh under her breath as she relieved herself, noting a certain tenderness, then washed her hands. She wasn’t thinking with her brain, obviously, and hardly recognized this side of herself. Though she was having fun…

  Luke wandered in, and she boldly surveyed his naked form, including that part of him—“Sorcha?”

  She fought a blush as she met his amused stare. Well, he’d seen all of her, touched it, too. Not that she was complaining, and shouldn’t that be weird? “Luke?”

  “Want to start the water?”

  She nodded and turned away to give him privacy, setting the dials in the huge shower, marveling at the rain head. He stepped into her and nuzzled her hair aside, kissing her neck. She had a spot there that made her shiver, and he found it.

  He drew her gown up and over her head and then smoothed his rough hands from her shoulders down the length of her arms. When he cupped her hips, she pushed her bottom into his groin, feeling his definite interest. Seemed there was a different kind of power to be had.

  Scooping her up without apparent effort, he carried her into the glass enclosure and set her down. “I should have done this at the front door.”

  The romantic in her swooned a bit, even if she mocked it.

  He proceeded to wash her from head to toe—with a certain focus on parts in between. Sorcha couldn’t stifle the tiny sounds he drew from her, feeling the continual building of need. He kissed her, the shower beating on his handsome face, his bulk shielding her from much of the deluge, and she lost herself in his touch.

  When they came up for air, she was seized by the desire to return the favor and filled a sponge with foam. Luke stilled as she swept it over his chest and followed the design of his tattoos. She washed the other arm, and he turned at her urging so she could tend to his powerful back and wide shoulders—and his fine ass.

  It took a bit more confidence to wield the soapy sponge below his waist, but his muffled groan instilled that sense of power in her again. She cleansed him, daring to stroke his length with her hand—silk over iron. She wanted to make him come undone the way he’d made her dissolve.

  “Sweetheart.” He turned back to her, and his startling blue eyes watched her with passion and something else. Something that spoke to her past passion. “Another time. I want to be inside you.”

  She wanted that too, and nodded.

  He drew her to him and lifted her. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, opening her to the thrust of him. Luke held her still, his features strained. “Wait. Condom.”

  “S’okay. I have it covered.” The depo shot was easy to get at the university clinic, and she wanted to be protected just in case. Seemed the just in case was now.

  His eyes widened, and he pushed inside. He filled her, and she welcomed him, finding a rhythm that worked for her as her back braced against the tile.

  “So good,” Luke gritted out.

  She felt him prod deeper and higher, and a rush of sensation spiraled out of her control. She was possessed by the urge to engulf him, her body tightening impossibly as she orgasmed, Luke’s shout echoing in the enclosed space when he followed.

  When he lowered her, an eternity later, her legs trembled, and his chest worked against her as he breathed heavily. His fervent words were muffled by her soaked hair, but she discerned them.

  As he found them both a towel and wrapped her up first, she avoided his eyes. Might she come to love him, too?

  ****

  He’d given Sorcha the perfect weapon with his confession in the shower, passionate if not maybe as romantic as he’d envisioned. The question was if she’d wield it.

  They dried off in a comfortable silence—comfortable on his part at least. He’d put it out there, and there was some rel
ief in that.

  “Why did you want to marry me?” she suddenly asked.

  “I told you some of it. I saw your passion and light, sweetheart. Your intelligence. That’s what drew me, even past how lovely you are. But you were too young.”

  “I said you were too old for me. Maybe you’re not.” She blushed and headed for the bedroom, where he found her glumly regarding her soiled clothes.

  “Your clothes are in the closet and dresser. Morag was busy.”

  “I like her, and I’ll apologize.”

  “Another reason I wanted you—you treat people right.”

  She found some kind of stretchy pants and a t-shirt, hustling into underwear and a bra before donning the casual attire, without responding.

  As he dressed, she stared out the window. “You have a pool.”

  “I put it in for you. I know you love to swim.”

  “Did you … do the kitchen for me, too?”

  So she’d taken in some things last night, “I did. The bathroom. Pretty much everything, though the other rooms could stand decorating. And your touch added. Some of the furniture is masculine.”

  She clasped her hands together. “I’m trying to reconcile your … interest.”

  “I’m obsessed.” It sounded like a psychiatric diagnosis coming out of his mouth, but he didn’t do anything to retrieve it. It was the truth and not in a bad way.

  “I should be heading for the hills.”

  “You tried that.”

  She chuckled. “A crappy attempt.” Her face sobered. “The Finnegans… It feels like a fairy tale.”

  Luke consciously blanked his features. “Let’s put breakfast together. Do you cook?”

  “Don’t all women in the Family?” But he could tell she liked that he hadn’t assigned her that role.

  “I do eggs. Any kind,” he offered.

  Over omelets and toast, he drew facets of information from Sorcha, marveling that she had chosen such a divergent career. The desire to be distinct from the Family was unmistakable. And, given her intellect, perhaps a good career choice considering the latest interests old Sean was following. He might disdain the outside world, but he apparently followed some of its worst edicts.