Royally Pregnant (Crown & Glory Book 9)

by Barbara Mccauley

  “Dylan, wait—” she dragged her mouth from his. “Please, I need—”

  “Tell me what you need,” he murmured. “Is it this?”

  She sucked in a breath when his lips moved to her neck.

  “Dylan…”

  “Is this what you need?” His hands slid upward and cupped her breasts. She gasped when he squeezed lightly, then found her nipples with his thumbs and circled the already hardened peaks.

  She needed to tell him something, she was certain of it, but the sensations rippling through her body, wave after warm wave of pleasure, left her helpless and weak. Dizzy.

  One by one, he opened the buttons on her blouse, then pressed his mouth to the shoulder he’d bared. He nipped at her naked skin with his lips and his teeth, made her tremble, then sigh.

  And then her blouse was gone, and she stood before him in her bra. While his mouth continued to brew magic on her shoulder, his fingers slowly skimmed the rise of her breasts, then traced the edge of white lace to the front clasp. A quick flick and it popped open, then slid to the floor.

  “Or perhaps this is what you need,” he said huskily. He lowered his mouth to her breast and tasted.

  On a soft moan, she dug her hands into his thick hair. His tongue, hot and wet and skilled, flicked her pearled nipple, laved the sensitive tip until she thought she could stand no more, then he pulled her more deeply into his mouth, tugging, sucking, in a rhythm that sent white-hot arrows of intense pleasure shooting straight to the core of her womanhood.

  She’d never experienced anything like this before, had never known such passion. It frightened, yet thrilled and excited her at the same time. She felt as if she might break apart any moment, or simply die from pleasure this intense. The ache steadily growing between her legs bordered on pain.

  “I need you,” she gasped when he turned his attention to her other breast. “Dylan, please…”

  He ignored her, continued to drive her crazy with his mouth and his hands. Her mind swirled with sensations, sights and sounds, colors. Her blood rushed hot through her veins.

  When she started to tug at his shirt, he lifted his head and yanked the garment off, then pulled her into his arms again and caught her mouth to his. They stood bare torso to bare torso, warm skin against warm skin. She held on to the thick, corded muscles of his upper arms, felt the ripple of sinew under her hands, then slid her fingers up his powerful shoulders and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  With his mouth still on hers, he scooped her up in his arms and laid her on the large bed, then rose over her. She trembled, part fear, part need and anticipation, and lifted her arms to him. He bent down, kissed her deeply, thoroughly, until she writhed under him, whimpering for more.

  Those small sounds of need were nearly Dylan’s undoing. It took every last ounce of willpower not to simply free himself from the tortuous confines of his clothing, yank her slacks down her long legs and thrust himself deeply inside her. His body screamed for release, but he set his teeth and fought the overwhelming barbaric urge to claim her with aggression.

  He straddled her then, reached for the clasp of her slacks and unhooked it. Her eyes, glazed with passion, lifted to his. Slowly, he inched the zipper down, then slid his hands under the fabric and eased the garment off.

  She arched upward, but he gripped her hips in his hands and stilled her. “Don’t move,” he said hoarsely.

  If she moved, he’d forget his vow to take his time, to be careful with her. He wanted to pleasure her, knew that she would take him now, that he could rip away her clothing and make her his. But he held back, determined to control the thrashing beast inside him. The effort made sweat break on his brow, made his throat tighten and his breath harsh.

  Slowly, he removed her slacks, felt her tremble when he ran his fingertips down her thighs, her calves, her ankles. Shoes and slacks fell to the floor, and she lay before him naked, except for the small triangle of white lace.

  His heart slammed in his chest at the sight of her. Her glorious thick, dark hair fanned across the pillow. Her skin was the color of fine ivory, her breasts, firm and full, the rosy peaks made for a man’s touch. For his touch. Her legs were long, her waist slender, her hips curved.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  Her lashes fluttered down, and a blush colored her cheeks. She raised an arm to cover herself, but he moved over her, brought her hand to his mouth and kissed each finger, moved to her wrist and touched his tongue lightly to her pulse, felt the furious beating of her heart. He moved up her arm, tasted her silky skin. She moaned when he nibbled at the juncture of her elbow, squirmed under him when he nipped the sensitive spot with his teeth.

  She arched up, offering herself, and he turned his attention back to her breasts, caressed the soft flesh in his palms, then took one pebbled nipple in his mouth and sucked. She gasped, moaned deeply and dragged her fingernails over his shoulders, then raked her hands through his hair.

  “Dylan, please…hurry…”

  Moving his hand down her smooth, flat belly, he cupped her, then slid under lace and dipped into the wonderful, moist heat of her body. The small sound she made deep in her throat, wild and primitive, aroused him beyond anything he’d ever known. With his mouth still on her breast, he stroked her, slowly increasing the pressure.

  When he knew she was ready for him, he quickly moved away, stood at the foot of the bed as he stripped off his clothing. He kept his gaze on her; she kept hers on him. Her eyes widened at the sight of him standing before her, naked and aroused. He circled her ankles with his hands, moved up her legs, slowly spread them. She quivered under his touch, bowed her neck and bit her lip when he bent and kissed the back of her knee.

  He moved up her leg, gripped her hips with his hands and lowered his head to the soft feminine mound at the V of her thighs. She squirmed under him, made a frantic sound and clutched at his shoulders. Through the soft silk, he nipped lightly, then gently kissed.

  She rose up, nearly sobbing. “Dylan, please, now.”

  Knowing that he was too close to the edge himself, he rose over her, ripped the small scrap of silk from her hips, then thrust himself inside her, hard and fast and deep.

  When she cried out from distress, not pleasure, he froze.

  “Emily—”

  “Don’t stop.” She wrapped her legs around him. “Please, don’t stop.”

  When she arched up and moved against him, the last tiny thread of rational thought snapped. She sheathed him in the tight, hot glove of her body and he lost himself completely. Blood pounded in his head, through his veins. Need, raw and primitive, more powerful than anything he’d every experienced, consumed him.

  He felt the first shudder radiate from her body into his, then heard her startled cry. She trembled, tightened around him as the convulsions overtook her. His own release came, wave after crashing wave, as savage as it was fierce.

  Still shuddering, both of them struggling to find their breath, he rolled to his side and held her close.

  How long they lay there in each other’s arms was difficult to tell. It seemed to Emily as if time had slowed, or quite possibly stopped altogether. She lay with her head on Dylan’s chest, listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart. Her own heart was still racing, her breathing still quick. A sense of weightlessness filled her, made her feel as if she were floating.

  She’d heard women talk about such things, but she’d never dreamed, never imagined making love could be like this. Never knew that a man’s touch could make her completely lose control, turn her body inside out and expose every nerve, that pain and pleasure were so intertwined they became one.

  But in spite of her inexperience, she was certain that what had just happened was not ordinary love-making. It couldn’t possibly be, she thought. Her body still hummed, her mind reeled. Emily was certain that no other man could have brought her to that place, no other man could have come close.

  Only Dylan.

  The one man she could never have. The one man
who would never want her after he learned the truth.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice strained, edged with concern.

  Nodding, she pressed her lips to his chest, felt the ripple of hard muscle under her mouth. “Yes.”

  But she wasn’t all right. Reality began to seep in, guilt settled over her like a heavy gray blanket.

  Closing her eyes, she drew in a long, slow breath.

  What am I going to do? she asked herself. Dear God, what am I going to do?

  But she knew. In her heart, in her soul, she knew exactly what she had to do.

  He felt her pulling away from him, knew that he needed to say something, something significant, but he wasn’t certain what. That he wouldn’t have taken her if he’d known she was a virgin? That he was sorry he’d made love to her?

  No. It would be a lie to say those things. Because even if he had known, he was certain he would have made love to her anyway. Because he wasn’t sorry. He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, had been determined to take her to his bed. The fact that no man had taken her before him did not change what he’d felt.

  And if he were to be completely honest with himself, he was glad she hadn’t been to another man’s bed. He felt a smug satisfaction that he was her first. He realized it might complicate matters when she remembered who she was, but they would deal with that then.

  No woman had ever given him pleasure like that before. It wasn’t her innocence, he’d been lost to her long before he’d realized that. It was her. Emily. The skim of her fingertips over his cheek, the brush of her mouth on his shoulder, the soft sounds she’d made while he’d loved her. Every kiss, every touch, every sigh, had spurred a need in him that went beyond the physical. He wasn’t certain he liked it, but he knew it was something he would have to confront.

  For now, he was content to hold her. Her heart had settled to a steady beat, and her breathing had slowed. When she slid one long leg over his to move away from him, he felt the need rear up in him again. He carefully forced it back down. As much as he wanted to slip inside her body again, as much as he wanted to bring her to the edge, then take her over, he knew she would need a little time.

  He sighed, rubbed a soothing hand over her arm. “I do believe we settled the issue of whether or not a husband might be waiting for you.”

  She stiffened at his words, then turned her face into his chest. When he felt the warm moisture of her tears, he frowned, then took her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him.

  “I thought that would ease your worry,” he said, confused by her reaction, then realized that might not be why she was crying. “Or are you upset that you’ve lost your virginity to me?”

  “No. It’s not you,” she whispered. “It’s me. What I’ve done, it’s wrong.”

  His frown deepened. “It’s done, Emily. We’re both adults. I wanted you, you wanted me. Why is that so wrong?”

  She moved away from him, reached for her blouse beside the bed and pulled it on, then her slacks. He sat, dragged a hand through his hair and felt a flicker of annoyance that she hadn’t answered him, that she had already turned cold, even when the rumpled sheets beneath them were still warm.

  He watched as she moved to the French doors in the bedroom and stared out. He heard the distant screech of the seagulls, the crash of the waves below, waited impatiently for her answer.

  “Bridgewater,” she said unexpectedly.

  “Bridgewater?”

  “That is my name. Emily Bridgewater.”

  Something in her voice sent warning signals, chilled his blood and set his teeth on edge. He slid from the bed, reached for his trousers. “You’ve remembered your name?”

  She turned to him, glanced away at the sight of him standing there naked. “I’m a school teacher at Clarton Elementary in West County.”

  “In Marjoco?” He’d heard of the town on the island to the west, though he’d never been there.

  “Yes. I live there with my grandmother, Olivia Bridgewater.”

  He kept his gaze on her as he pulled on his pants and closed the zipper. “You’ve just remembered all this?”

  “I’ve always known who I was,” she whispered. “From the first day.”

  “What the hell are you telling me?”

  “I’ve lied to you.” Her voice trembled. She closed her eyes, then drew in a breath and opened them again, met his gaze. “I’ve lied to you about everything.”

  Nine

  “You’ve been lying to me?”

  Dylan’s words, spoken with such icy calm, such control, shivered up Emily’s spine. He moved toward her, kept his dark-blue gaze locked on hers. Breath held, she steeled herself for whatever might happen next. She’d listened to her heart and made a decision.

  There was no turning back now.

  “Yes.”

  Once, on a wildlife show, Emily had seen a cougar corner a deer. Muscles coiled, body stiff, its entire being focused on its prey, the cougar had approached the deer the same way Dylan now approached her.

  As strong as the temptation was, she didn’t back away; as weak as her knees felt, she willed herself to stand firm, to face him down. To accept the consequences.

  Still, when he moved into her space, when she felt the heat of his body, caught the musky scent of his skin, saw the anger glinting in his narrowed eyes, her legs trembled.

  If he hadn’t grabbed her, reached out and roughly snatched her arms, she was certain she’d be lying on the floor at his feet right now.

  “The accident,” he said tightly. “My car striking you.”

  “It was no accident,” she whispered raggedly.

  The single word he uttered was coarse and to the point. “Why?”

  “I—I had no choice. I swear to you—”

  “A person always has a choice, Emily.” His hands tightened on her arms, and he shook her. “Always.”

  She winced at the pain radiating up her arms. “They kidnapped my grandmother.”

  Dylan went still. His eyes narrowed to slits. “Who?” he demanded. “Tell me.”

  “I—” She struggled to breathe, to see past the stars beginning to swim in front of her eyes. “I don’t know who they are,” she gasped. “Except for the man who brought me up to the mountain road, I never saw anyone’s face. I was contacted by phone, by a man named Frederick. He told me they would kill my grandmother if I didn’t do exactly as he said.”

  “And what exactly,” he ground the word out, “did he tell you to do?”

  “To…to get close to you.”

  “Well, Miss Bridgewater,” he said, yanking her close, “I commend you. You’ve certainly accomplished that part of your mission well, haven’t you?”

  He released her suddenly, and she stumbled against the French doors, heard the rattle of glass and wood where her back struck the jamb. Like a hot arrow, pain shot through her shoulder.

  “Did you think that having sex with me would lessen your punishment if you were caught?” he said tightly. “Is that why you came to my bed?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I never intended this to happen. I thought I could do what they’d asked of me without…being intimate.”

  Unrelenting, he stood over her, his fists at his sides. “Why you, Emily? Why did they choose you?”

  “I don’t know how they found me, but they told me I resembled someone you were in love with once, a woman named Katherine.”

  “Katherine was the daughter of one of my father’s aides. I was eighteen, she was twenty-one. Love had nothing to do with our relationship.” He shook his head and swore. “Where the hell are these idiots getting their information, bathroom walls?”

  He whirled away, took three steps, then whirled back again. “What were you supposed to do once you got inside the palace?”

  “Get inside your suite. They gave me the security code to your alarm panel and the combination to your safe.”

  “My safe?” The fury in his expression continued to darken. “How
did they get the combination to my safe?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “Don’t lie to me, dammit.” He moved in closer again, grabbed her chin in his hand. “I’ll hear the truth now, Emily. All of it.”

  She swallowed the thickness in her throat, blinked back the moisture burning her eyes. “I’m telling the truth. The only thing I know is that there are papers inside your safe they want, documents I was supposed to steal and bring to them.”

  “Which documents? What is it they want?”

  His face was only inches from hers, a face that had been smiling and loving only a few minutes ago. She knew that he would never look at her that way again, that from now on there would only be hatred and disgust.

  “Diamonds.” She damned the tear that slid from the corner of her eye. “They said your family has their diamonds, that the documents have the information they need to get them back.”

  “Fools and idiots.” On an oath, he released her, then grabbed his shirt lying on the bed and pulled it over his head. He began to pace. “You said you never saw anyone’s face except for the day on the mountain road. Does the man have a name?”

  “Sutton.” Emily rubbed at her arms, knew she was shivering, but couldn’t stop herself. “I’m certain that isn’t his real name, but I can describe him. And he was here, at the palace, yesterday when we were standing on the balcony above the ballroom. It was right after you—”

  Kissed me, she nearly said, but quickly bit the words back. She couldn’t think about any of that now, couldn’t let herself remember the passion they’d shared. If she did, she’d surely fall apart.

  Eyes narrowed, Dylan stopped his pacing and stared at her. “One of the Black Knights came here? To the palace?”

  “Black Knights?” Emily pressed a hand to her throat. She’d heard of the subversive group that had been responsible for numerous attacks on Penwyck, but she’d had no idea they were the ones who’d taken Olivia. “The Black Knights have my grandmother?”