The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her breasts were already swollen, achy, even though he hadn’t touched them, not even brushed them. Her nipples were furled so tight they hurt.

  “Open the buttons.”

  The chemise had a front placket that reached to her navel, closed by tiny flat buttons she never bothered undoing. One by one, she slipped them free. The placket gaped as her hands descended, revealing the creamy whiteness of her skin, the valley between her breasts.

  By the time she reached the end of the line, her nerves had tightened, expectation gripping.

  “Draw the sides apart and show me your breasts. I’m your audience—display them for me.”

  Curling her fingers in the fine material, she boldly, brazenly, drew the sides wide, baring her breasts to his hot gaze. She could feel it moving over her exposed flesh.

  “Keep your eyes on your body, not on me.”

  She obeyed, shifting her gaze from the darkness behind her to the white glow of her breasts—and found the peculiarity of seeing and feeling simultaneously strangely arousing. She saw the light flush spread beneath her white skin, felt the telltale warmth spread, saw her nipples tighten even more as sensation heightened and her breasts grew heavy.

  “Very good.” The raspy murmur washed over her ear. “Keep watching.”

  His hands came around her and lightly cupped her breasts. Too lightly at first, but within a minute his touch had changed—to one of flagrant possession. His tanned hands and fingers stood out in stark contrast against her white skin as they surrounded her breasts, as he captured her nipples, rolled, then squeezed—and her knees went weak.

  “Stand straight—don’t lean back.”

  She swallowed and tried to comply. His body was close behind her—mere inches away, given the heat bathing her back. His strong arms reached around her, a steely cage, yet only his hands—those wicked, hungry hands—were touching her.

  She wanted more, her body burned for more, yet for long minutes his hands remained on her breasts, kneading, increasingly explicitly claiming, spreading fire beneath her skin, turning the taut, swollen mounds rosy—until, head tipping, back, she moaned, careful nevertheless to keep her eyes on the mirror. In truth, it would have been hard to wrench her gaze away; a fascination she’d never imagined might exist kept her eyes locked on her body.

  On his hands making free with it.

  A shiver slithered down her spine.

  “It’s time to show me what else you’re hiding beneath your chemise.” The gravelly whisper tickled her ear. Briefly, his lips cruised the delicate whorl, a trickle of fire, a promise of more. “Use both hands and lift the hem. Show me.”

  Her heart thudding heavily, she did. Drew the fine fabric up, exposing her upper thighs, then higher, revealing the red-gold fire of the curls at the apex of her thighs.

  Dragging in a breath, she raised the hem still higher, to the curve of her belly.

  “Excellent.” His purr was almost guttural.

  She still had on her garters, stockings, and slippers, but he didn’t seem concerned with those, and in truth, neither was she. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his hands. While one continued to play, firmly and possessively, with her breasts, the other skated down, over the rucked edge of the chemise, to stroke her curls.

  He touched them, ruffled them, played until she hauled in a tight breath and shifted. Then he chuckled and said, “Let’s see.”

  He angled his hand so she could watch as he pressed one long finger into the shadowed hollow beneath her curls.

  She dragged in a quick, too-shallow breath, held it as the sensation of his touch, of each successive deliberate caress, married with the vision in the mirror.

  The impact only escalated as she instinctively eased her feet wider apart, and he reached further, deeper, and the combined stimulation rolled in wave after wave through her.

  She bit her lip against another moan, saw the flush of arousal deepen and spread until her skin glowed rosy in the candlelight. Felt the dew of desire break like a fever across her exposed skin.

  And still his hands worked her flesh—her breasts, the swollen slickness between her thighs. And still she watched, unable to look away as the fires inside grew, as he stoked them relentlessly.

  “Put your hands on mine.” The gravelly command was barely comprehensible. “One on each—close your palms over the backs of my hands and feel what I’m doing to you.”

  She obeyed—because she had to. Because she couldn’t stand not to, not to know what might come.

  She wasn’t prepared for the instantaneous heightening of her senses—through his hands, their tensing movements, she knew what would come an instant before it happened. Now she knew, saw, felt; anticipation was added to the sensual tumult burgeoning inside her.

  Gasping, panting, barely able to remain upright, she couldn’t take much more …

  His hands slowed. “Tsk, tsk—you still have your stockings and slippers on.”

  Because he hadn’t told her to remove them yet. She bit her lip against the tart rejoinder she suspected he was waiting for.

  His chuckle said she’d guessed aright, but then he said, “Release my hands.”

  She did. To her dismay, he drew his hands from her. She felt bereft to have lost the contact.

  “Pull your chemise off over your head.”

  She rushed to do so, realizing as she did that he’d moved. Even as she refocused on the shadows behind her, he set the straight-backed chair that had stood beside her dressing table down on her left, its seat toward her.

  She stared at it. Before she could figure out what he would have her do, he rapped out, “Face forward. Keep your eyes on your body.”

  Yes, he’d been a cavalry officer. She snapped her gaze back—and felt something inside quiver. She rarely used her mirror, had never used it to view herself naked.

  “Drop the chemise.”

  Realizing she was still holding the garment in her right hand, she released it, forgot it as it floated to the floor.

  Forgot everything as she looked at herself—naked and on display—as the knowledge he was doing the same washed over her. A shiver she couldn’t hide racked her.

  “Are you cold?”

  Despite the fire burning in the nearby hearth, she should have felt the air’s chill, but the heat in his gaze, the warmth suffusing her skin, left her immune. She opened her mouth, then remembered and shook her head.

  “I didn’t think you would be.” Experience, knowledge, rang in the words.

  His hands appeared on her shoulders, lightly touching. Then they moved.

  Over her. He touched, caressed, stroked, explored—every inch of her skin, all he could reach.

  She was reeling, senses drowning in the tactile pleasure of his too-knowing touch when, largely out of sight behind her, he caressed her derriere, explored, stroked, weighed, then kneaded—knowingly, firmly, openly possessively.

  In keeping with his orders, she’d kept her eyes on herself—startled, then mesmerized by what she’d seen in her face. Had she always been this wanton, this sexually abandoned?

  Had she just been waiting for him to be herself? For him to show her herself?

  He shifted closer, his dark head dipping by her ear, even though his strong hands continued to fondle her bottom. “Put your left leg up on the chair, bend over, and slowly roll down your garter and your stocking. Leave them and your slipper on the chair, and wait for my next order.”

  Breathing had grown difficult; she felt giddy as she complied, couldn’t think as she lifted her left foot to balance it on the wooden chair, then, grasping her garter, she slowly rolled it down, bending over as she did.

  Two long, hard fingers slid into her sheath. Her hands on her calf, she froze, bent over, inwardly shuddering as one callused hand caressed her bottom while the fingers of his other hand explored her intimately.

  Recalling his order, she struggled to roll her garter and stocking all the way down, to slide off her slipper, then, bent over her knee, hands on the chair
seat, wait, wait …

  She was panting, all but sobbing, nerves excruciatingly alive, aware to her bones of every touch inside and out, when he gave her the order to straighten, then he shifted the chair to her right, and instructed her to repeat the exercise with her other garter, stocking, and slipper.

  It took every ounce of control she possessed to comply—to give herself up to such intimate exploration.

  But she wanted every touch, gloried in every deft stroke of his hard fingers inside her.

  She knew he could make her shatter with just his fingers, expected him to do so, yet even as she felt herself inexorably tightening, he drew back. Drew his hands from her.

  “Stand up.”

  Lowering her right leg, she did, blinking as she focused on her reflection in the mirror.

  More of her hair had tumbled down, a river of fire lacing over her flushed skin. Her lips were parted; her tongue came out to moisten them. Even in the dim light, her eyes glittered emerald green. And her body …

  Was that her?

  “Time for the rest of tonight’s lesson.”

  Before she could think, he gripped her waist, spun her to face him, then lifted her, turned, and tossed her on the bed.

  She landed with her head almost on the pillows, bounced once. He reached around her, dragging the pillows down to either side of her.

  “Wait.” He stripped off his coat, unknotted the neckerchief he’d worn about his throat. Tossed both aside, sat to haul off her father’s boots, strip off his stockings.

  Then he came up on the bed on his knees, walked himself, closer. His gaze had locked on her lower body. Reaching out, he grasped her calves and spread her legs wide apart.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Nearly sobbed with resurging need.

  He looked down at what he’d revealed. His face was a harsh mask of stark male desire. Releasing one leg, he reached down, trailed one long finger up through the sopping wetness. His lips curved in pure masculine anticipation.

  He reached for the pillows, scooped her hips up in one arm, and stuffed the soft padding beneath her, raising her hips as he slid down to lie between her spread legs.

  His shoulders kept her legs forced wide as he brought his mouth down on her, as he sucked, suckled, and she shrieked.

  In seconds he’d reduced her to a writhing mass of wanting.

  Within a minute she needed—needed—release.

  Yet no matter how much she moaned and sobbed, how much she thrashed and wordlessly pleaded, even when she sank her hands in his hair and tugged, he kept pushing her tighter only to let her fall back again, up and back, up and back, until she thought she’d go mad.

  Then he took her with his tongue and she soared over the precipice, straight over that indefinable edge.

  She’d thought she’d known what he could do to her, but this time she saw stars. This time she felt the cataclysmic shock all the way to her soul.

  By the time her senses, drowning in glory, had resurfaced enough to be aware, he’d stripped out of his shirt, out of his breeches. Naked but for the bandages she’d wrapped tightly about his torso, he looked like a wounded god as he returned to kneel between her legs again, hooked his arms beneath her thighs so the back of her knees lay across his bent elbows, then closed his large hands about her hips.

  And lifted her, drew her hips up and to him.

  He set the head of his erection at her entrance, looked up and caught her gaze, then thrust powerfully in, hard and deep.

  Looking down, he withdrew and repeated the process.

  Helpless to do otherwise, she watched as he held her hips immobile and thrust himself into her, relentlessly plunging deep to her core, harder, faster, hotter, deeper.

  The friction was shattering.

  She came apart on a wild cry, but he continued to use her—use her, fill her, take her, possess her—until she shattered again, more completely and deeply and soul-wrenchingly than she ever had.

  This time he followed her.

  Unable to resist any longer, to hold out against the powerful, milking contractions of her sheath, Logan gasped, closed his eyes, dropped forward to prop on one braced arm above her as his hips bucked helplessly, and he pounded into her, then with a muted roar, he thrust one last time and spilled his seed deep within her.

  Her body clutched, clung.

  Held him.

  As the bright nova faded, he became aware of small hands weakly stroking his body, gently tugging. Dredging up the last of his strength, he pushed aside the pillows, then let himself down. Onto the one female body that cradled his perfectly. He let himself slump into her embrace.

  Later, much, much later, when he finally stirred enough to lift from her and, pulling up the covers, settle beside her, Logan had a moment of not unaccustomed crystal-clear clarity; in most situations, this would be the point when he left the lady’s bed.

  He wasn’t leaving Linnet’s bed.

  The determination behind the thought, the innate stubbornness, stood in direct contradiction to what rational thought suggested the eventual outcome would be.

  At that moment, the notion that any future between them was doomed didn’t seem able to impinge. The knowledge, the certainty, that him remaining in her bed like this would inevitably lead to emotional difficulties didn’t seem to matter.

  The only thing that did matter was that he was there, and she lay beside him, taken, possessed, and sated to her toes.

  He couldn’t think beyond that, beyond the wonder he’d felt in her body, the completeness, the triumph he’d found in possessing it. In drawing so much closer to her.

  That last was dangerous, but he no longer cared.

  If she demanded, he would give, and would keep giving until she no longer wanted him.

  Regardless of honor, of safety, of danger, that was his new reality.

  Sleep tugged. Confident there was no point in further thought, he gave in and let it drag him under.

  December 12, 1822

  Close to midnight

  Shrewton House, London

  “This really is a beautiful room.” With a negligent wave, Alex indicated the delicate white-and-gilt moldings, the pale blue silk wallpaper, the French Imperial-style chairs upholstered in the same blue silk. Turning to the large bed, Alex raised approving brows. “The counterpane, too. Nothing but the best for our dear sire’s offspring.” Regarding Daniel Thurgood as he shut the door, Alex added, “Even if we were born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  Daniel’s lips curved. “It was a nice thought to use Shrewton House as our London base. Might as well enjoy our sire’s hospitality, even if he never knows.”

  “How fortuitous that he winters at Wymondham.”

  “Indeed.” Shrugging off his coat, Daniel laid it over a chair, then bent to warm his hands at the fire in the hearth. The room had been chosen and readied by his man, Creighton, and Alex’s houseman, M’wallah. Watching Alex circle the room examining the various expensive trinkets placed here and there, Daniel mentally blessed Creighton. A pleasantly distracted Alex made life much less stressful.

  And their lives, unexpectedly, had taken a stressful turn.

  He, Alex, and their half brother Roderick had formed a close—indeed, closed—circle years before. While Roderick was the present Earl of Shrewton’s legitimate son, he and Alex were illegitimate, yet both were of decent birth and thus able to pass in society. London had been their playground for some years, but when Roderick’s position at the Foreign Office had resulted in the chance to visit India, all three of them had jumped at the opportunity—and what an opportunity it had proved to be.

  Roderick had requested and been granted a posting to the Governor of Bombay’s staff, a position that had made him privy to the details of many of the trade caravans. Once Alex and Daniel had joined him, they’d quickly set about exploiting the situation.

  The outcome had been the Black Cobra cult—a creation of their own making that had satisfied the vicious appetites the three of the
m shared in ways not even they had dared dream. For the last several years, the Black Cobra cult had delivered to them a steady diet of money, sex, sadistic pleasure, and, above all, power.

  All three had grown adept at manipulating and exploiting the cult members—hardly innocents—to shore up, then steadily expand, the cult’s activities. For several years, they’d pursued their hedonistic purposes without any serious hindrance from the authorities, represented by the Honorable East India Company. As the Earl of Shrewton, their dear father, was a member of the board, and as the Governor of India, the Marquess of Hastings, was beholden to the Prince Regent—who in turn was deeply indebted to the earl—there had seemed no reason to fear any threat from that quarter, or at least none they couldn’t easily see off.

  That had all changed one day in late August, when a letter written by Roderick as the Black Cobra, signed with the Black Cobra’s distinctive mark but, by unfortunate ill luck, sealed with Roderick’s personal family seal, had fallen into the hands of a cadre of officers Hastings had, months before, dispatched from Calcutta with specific orders to expose the Black Cobra.

  Roderick, Daniel, and Alex had laughed off the officers’ efforts until then, but the realization that the letter could, if it reached the right hands in England, bring Roderick down—thus compromising the ability of the Black Cobra cult to prey on the caravans, the primary source of Daniel’s and Alex’s wealth—had sobered them. Even though it was Roderick alone at risk, Alex had agreed that to safeguard the cult’s continuing prosperity, Daniel and Alex should return to England with Roderick, to assist in seizing the letter and dealing appropriately with the officers responsible.

  Such threats to the Black Cobra couldn’t be allowed to go unpunished.

  Unfortunately, by the time they’d learned of the letter and the threat it posed, the four officers had copied the letter, then separated and fled Bombay. Which of the four was carrying the real letter—the original with Roderick’s incriminating seal, the only letter they needed to regain—was anyone’s guess.

  By luck and good management, they’d reached England before any of the officers.