My Favorite Bride

by Christina Dodd

  She grabbed his lapels, yanked him toward her, and kissed him.

  He could almost hear the last fragments of his restraint crack.

  She pressed her lips against his, slanting her mouth as he had taught her, and bit his lower lip. Gently, yet with an aggression that lifted the hairs on the back of his neck.

  He sure as hell hadn’t taught her that.

  But he wasn’t going to let her take charge. Not when lust pulsed through him: blinding, blood-red lust. Sitting on the railing, he spread his legs to brace himself. He wrapped his hands around the back of her head and held her in place. He drove his tongue into her mouth. He tasted her momentary surprise, a fleeting resistance, then the surge of her response.

  She held nothing back. She tried to devour him, skirmishing, answering his every feint. Her palms slid up over his shoulders, a deliberate caress that left a path of fire on his skin.

  He nipped at her lips, then soothed the bite with small licks of his tongue.

  She stepped between his legs and pressed herself against him. Chest to chest. Groin to groin.

  Her breasts pushed against him, and he wanted . . . everything. Now. Now. He stood.

  She whimpered as he broke the kiss.

  Embracing her, his arms around her waist, he hurried her backward and pushed her against the cottage, trapped between him and the wall.

  She gripped his arms and writhed against him. Not to escape, but like a cat enticing him to pet her.

  He obliged, moving his hips against her, trying to scratch the itch she had created with her languorous eyes and pert mouth, her smooth skin and that body that moved with such sinuous sensuality. Sliding his hands up from her waist, he discovered . . . dear God, she wore no corset. No corset. No chemise. Her skin resided beneath a single layer of thin silk, and he would touch every inch. Soon. But not soon enough.

  He found her breasts, and cupped them. Full. Sensitive, if that gasp she gave was anything to go by. “Were you coming to me?” He didn’t recognize his own voice, it was so deep.

  She leaned against the wall, her head thrown back and her neck exposed, the portrait of a woman in the throes of passion. “What?” She sounded as breathy as he sounded guttural. “What did you say?”

  “Were you coming to find me?”

  She didn’t answer, she only rolled her head back and forth.

  “Samantha.” It killed him to step away, but he had to know. “Answer me.”

  She caught him, pulled him back against her. “Yes. You. I want you.”

  He rewarded her by circling her nipples with his thumbs.

  She rewarded him with hardening nipples, and a heartbreaking moan.

  The clear, smooth expanse of her neck beckoned, and he leaned down to kiss it, to taste the sweet cream of her skin. She intoxicated him. “From the first moment I saw you . . . on that road . . . I knew you would be trouble.”

  She laughed, a warm, husky chuckle of amusement. “You frightened me half to death.”

  “I would never have known.” He fumbled with the buttons on the back of her dress. He’d lost his dexterity—or he was simply so desperate he couldn’t . . . there! Three buttons in a row. Enough for him to slip the sleeves off her shoulders. “You stood up to me.”

  Grasping his shoulders, she arched her back to allow him greater access. “I thought you were stealing my reticule. Promise me.”

  The buttons opened easier now, and the bodice dropped to her waist.

  “Promise me you won’t get yourself . . . killed.”

  “No. No, I won’t get myself killed.”

  He would have said more, but her breasts spilled into his hands, soft skin peaked with nipples as velvety and tight as ripe berries. He savored the weight of them. Wrapping his arm around her back, he arched her backward and caught the soft, precious mound in his mouth.

  She gave a cry, strangled and uncertain. Then, as he suckled, a moan escaped her. She trembled in his embrace. She cradled his head. Stroked his hair back from his forehead. “William. Please, William.”

  The weeks of watching her, the nights of desiring her, drove him to a frenzy. He circled her nipple with his tongue, used his lips in wanton arousal, and struggled to control the mad woman he had created. He wanted to laugh with her, to dance with her . . . he wanted to plunge inside her until she acknowledged him as her master. He wanted to love her until she was as wild as he knew she could be.

  And she . . . the little witch, she wanted to wrest control from him and drive him as insane as he had driven her.

  With a swipe of her hand, she untied his cravat and cast it aside. She fumbled at his collar and discarded it. She spread his shirt wide, and slid her hand inside, on his bare skin.

  Her hand . . . on him.

  He could scarcely breathe. He bit down, gently, threatening her and pleasuring her at the same time.

  She gave a choked cry, and slid one leg up around his hip.

  If nothing stood between them . . . if his trousers had miraculously disappeared and her skirts were hiked up to her waist . . . he would be inside her. Thrusting his cock past the entrance to her body, into her depths. Stroking her to the depths of her womb. Making her respond to him as he demanded. If nothing stood between them . . .

  Purposefully, her hands wandered down and latched onto his trousers. Her fingers stroked over him, touching his hip, his belly . . . my God. She found his cock and fondled the length of it. His heart stopped at her daring. At the gratification of her touch. It didn’t matter that his trousers blunted the sensation, or that his undergarments stood between him and ecstasy, or that she didn’t yet know how best to pleasure a man. She was his. His woman. His mate. And he responded to her from the marrow of his bones and the depths of his being.

  He pressed her against the wall and caught a handful of her skirts. He lifted them, caught another handful, lifted them. With his knee, he separated her legs. There was no finesse about his gesture. He moved to conquer . . . and the choked cry she gave was not an objection, but simple surprise. He ran his hand up her thigh and discovered . . . he shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was bare beneath her petticoats, her legs smooth and long and daring.

  He laughed aloud, his triumph expressed in merriment. She had hoped to disconcert him. Instead, she’d sanctioned his brashest move. He slid his leg up until she rode his thigh. She gasped and tried to lift herself onto her toes, away from him. He followed, giving her no surcease, pressing his knee against the wall, lifting her so her most sensitive parts rubbed against him.

  “William,” she whispered, and her voice quavered. “Don’t.”

  He chuckled again, and reached between her legs. He found the thatch of curling hair, delved deeper and touched her. The barest, most sensitive skin. The vulnerable nub that could bring her—would bring her—the most exquisite pleasure. Using his fingers, he opened her so nothing remained between her and satisfaction.

  “William.” Her hands clawed at his shoulders. “Please.”

  “Don’t?” he murmured. “Or please do?” And he raised his thigh. He held her bare hips and moved her, back and forth, allowing the weight of her body and the contact with his leg to work on her.

  She couldn’t get away. She tried, God knows. She squashed herself against the wall. She pushed at his chest. She tried everything, but at last she surrendered.

  And as he’d always known, when Samantha surrendered, she surrendered everything. She held nothing back. She leaned her head against the wall. She bunched his shirt in her hands. She breathed harshly, haltingly. And as he held her, arm around her waist, she shook with the onset of climax. And when climax struck—she cried out until he had to cover her mouth with his own to stifle her. No one wandering in the garden could mistake that sound for anything but a woman in the throes of rapture.

  He wanted to protect her from censure, and at the same time—he wanted to puff out his chest and tell the world. He had brought Samantha to the peak. Forced Samantha to the peak. Controlled a woman whose heart an
d mind challenged everything he was.

  Supporting Samantha in his arms, he slid his leg down. He held her, and kissed her forehead, and prided himself on his handling of her. He might be half-mad with desire, but he’d driven her over the edge.

  Then he felt the tug of her fingers at his trousers. And his drawers. Somehow, she’d managed to unbutton him, and now . . . he caught his breath. He could scarcely breathe. Somehow, she’d managed to burrow beneath his clothing . . . she held his bare cock in her hands.

  No woman had ever done that before. Held him, stroked him, fondled him in curiosity and provocation. She slipped her fingers along the length, tracing each vein on his straining manhood. She circled the head, and he thought for one incredulous moment he would climax in her hand. But he grasped at control . . . barely. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “No, but I like it.” She sounded deep, husky, like a woman sated on love.

  He still held her bare hips. He’d show her satiation. Thrusting his hand between her legs, he opened her folds and with his fingers, found the entrance to her body.

  She jerked and trembled—and grasped him more firmly than before.

  He slid one finger into her.

  A groan tore from her, and she tried to wrap her leg around him again.

  “That’s it,” he decided. “That’s all.” He wanted between her legs. He wanted her now. He propelled her against the wall and pressed her against him, naked and bare, male and female. With two fingers, he opened her.

  “That hurts,” she said.

  For an answer, he lifted her chin with his other hand and kissed her. Ravished her mouth with his. Gave her no reprieve.

  She didn’t back away. Not Samantha.

  He had known she wouldn’t.

  Instead she kissed him back, bold and wild, and pressed herself closer again. Her whole body closer to his, and the way he stood, knees bent, ready to drive into her . . .

  They paused.

  He was just inside her. Just the head. Stretching her.

  It was the beginning of possession. It was what they’d been fighting against since the first moment they’d met.

  And this was inevitable.

  Both of them stopped breathing, stopping kissing. They stared at each other in the dim light, not seeing each other with any clarity. Not needing to. She moved her hips, a slow demand that forced him a little deeper. And she sucked in a pained breath.

  He put his mouth next to her ear. “You knew it would hurt you.”

  “Yes. I knew you would hurt me.”

  That wasn’t what he’d said, but she pressed downward again, and he couldn’t find the words to question her. The sensation was everything he’d ever dreamed. She was silk and sand, warm and tight. He wanted to get inside her and stay there. He wanted to finish quickly and start again. She wrapped him in a heat that thawed the frozen corners of his soul and made him whole for the first time in too many years. In his life.

  A burst of laughter came from the manor.

  They couldn’t do this here.

  He lifted his head and glanced around. “We’ve got to move.”

  “I don’t want to.” She drenched him with her arousal.

  He retained some level of sanity, if this could be called sanity. “We’ll be caught. Into the cottage.” He picked her up, his hands under her bottom.

  She wrapped her legs around him.

  And he slipped all the way inside.

  Her maidenhead broke. She gave a shout—of rage, of pain, he didn’t know—and smacked him hard on the shoulders. “Ruddy ‘ell!” She swore like a soldier as her muscles flexed around him.

  In the sudden, overwhelming gust of desire, he forgot the need for privacy. The need for discretion. The need for anything but satisfaction. He let the wall support her back and slowly pulled out of her . . . almost all the way. And back in. And out.

  Her breath sounded harsh in the night air. “William. Dear God. William.”

  She didn’t sound like she was in pain anymore, and he couldn’t have done anything if she was. His thighs, his calves ached from the strain of holding her up, but he couldn’t stop. He had to take her, and take her, and take her, until she knew she was his.

  She held his shoulders for balance, for support . . . this bliss was too exquisite to bear, and at the same time, he wanted her to hold him forever.

  He moved more quickly, his breath harsh, his lungs laboring, his hips thrusting without tenderness. He couldn’t get close enough. He couldn’t reach that one place . . . that place inside her . . . the place that promised ownership, control. Of Samantha. Forever. He had to reach it. He had to reach it now. “Now,” he demanded. “Now!”

  Her legs convulsed around his waist. She moaned deeply. And inside, her muscles clasped him, milked him, as he plunged over and over, filling her with his seed.

  Slowly, he collapsed onto his knees, holding her, sliding down the wall, groaning with satiation . . . and the need to take her once again.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Samantha woke to the sound of the kindling igniting in the fireplace, and the solid thunk of logs being tossed onto the coals. The heat blazed up toward her face. Snuggling her cheeks against the sofa cushion, she smiled and waited. She wasn’t disappointed. William placed the blankets over her shoulder and slid in behind her, pulling her against his warmth. “Um,” she moaned, “you’re like a stove.”

  His voice spoke right in her ear, profound and mellow. “Hot?”

  “So hot.” Opening her eyes, she slid around to face him. Firelight put streaks of gold in his dark hair, and gave his austere features a warm glow. He watched her with a smile, as if the sight of her gave him pleasure. Certainly the night had brought pleasure. After their stormy indiscretion on the porch, he’d carried her inside. They’d gotten no further than the sofa before desire swept them again. The cushions had ended up on the floor. Their clothes had ended up on the floor. They had ended up on the floor. There they’d stayed.

  Now he brought the blankets and pillows from her bed, making a nest like a mighty eagle enticing his mate.

  She skimmed her hand over his stubbled chin. “What time is it?”

  Without a glance toward the window, he said, “Two hours until dawn.”

  “I’m wide awake.” She looked down at his chest, then up into his eyes. “What would you like to do to pass the time?”

  “Flirt.” His fingers threaded their way into the fall of her hair. His blue eyes were almost black in the firelight, and stark in their intensity. “You’re so beautiful. Slender, with the sleekness and strength of a thoroughbred.”

  She grinned. Because she could tease him. Because he made her happy. “Are you saying I look like a horse?”

  “What do you think?”

  The smile disappeared, vanquished by the power of his question. “I think that you really see me as beautiful. And I think . . . I’ll bow to your superior perception.”

  “You confirm that you’re wise as well as beautiful.” With his palm on the small of her back, he brought her bare hips against his. He was aroused again, pressing himself against her. Yet he made no move to mount her, although she moved enticingly. “You’re too new for me to take you again.”

  “But don’t you want . . . ?” She moved her hands down his chest.

  “Yes.” He rose onto his elbow and propped his head on his hand. “But despite my disgraceful behavior tonight, I do know how to treat a woman.”

  She rose onto her elbow, also. “What disgraceful behavior?”

  “I took you standing up on the porch.”

  “What’s disgraceful about that? I have rather fond memories of—”

  “As do I.” He placed his palm over her lips. “But to initiate a virgin in such manner, so forcefully, without consideration to your comfort or your innocence!”

  She shoved his hand away. “Comfort? We were supposed to consider comfort? The thought never crossed my mind.”

  “A man should cherish a woman
her first time. Such roughness is for experienced lovers, not . . . not you.” He frowned in his stern, military disapproval. “Not so soon.”

  “Are you feeling guilty?”

  “I can’t believe I so lost control.”

  “You did, didn’t you?” Delighted, she stroked his shoulder. “Colonel Gregory lost his head over a woman.”

  “Not over any woman.” He stroked her shoulder with as much pleasure. “Over you. Only you.”

  She liked him so much.

  “Talk to me.” Taking a lock of her hair, he brought it forward, draped it over her breast, and over and over, he brushed her nipple. “Since we can’t make love, tell me about your family. About your childhood.”

  That woke her from her sensuous dream. He asked questions for a reason. He wanted to know the truth about the woman who had made him abandon his vaulted principles.

  He wasn’t involved as she was.

  He watched her so keenly, it was as if he could read her soul. “You look at me with those big brown eyes so accusing, when I’m trying to do the right thing.”

  “You want to know about the woman you’ve slept with,” she said flatly.

  “Lovers talk. They tell each other about their lives. Their memories.”

  She bristled with hostility. “Their families.”

  “I’ve made my choice. I want you. Not your family.”

  She knew it. She’d given him hints of her past. Tidbits of her reality. She could tell him about her mother and father, about her background, and he wouldn’t change his mind. As long as she didn’t push him too far . . . as long as she told him everything except what she’d done to so many people for so many years.

  “You were raised on the streets of London, I think,” he said.

  “You guessed. Is it the accent?” She dropped into Cockney. “The way Oi use me fingers t’ eat? Did ye see me wipe me nose on me sleeve?”

  His eyebrows rose, but he showed an insight that frightened her. “You’re angry.”

  No, she wasn’t. She was scared. For the first time in her life, she desperately wanted something she could never have. What had Lady Marchant said? If you catch a husband fast enough, he won’t find out about you until it’s too late. William admitted he couldn’t resist her. If she snatched him up . . . but he would find out. She had to remember that. She loved him, and she could never have him.