His Suitable Bride

by Cathy Williams/Abby Green/Kate Walker

  She needed to touch him, needed to feel the strength and the warmth of him under her hands, skin against skin, life against life. Just the thought that he might have been injured—worse, that she might have lost him before she had fully realised what he could mean to her was so terrible, so terrifying that she couldn’t control her reaction to it.

  ‘Alexa?’ Santos’s tone was soft, concerned but slightly rough at the edges as if he didn’t quite know how to pitch it. But that wasn’t possible, Santos always knew just what he was doing—he never opened his mouth without thinking. ‘Alexa, I’m fine—nothing happened. Nothing hit me.’

  Perhaps if he hadn’t been gentle, if that hand that covered hers hadn’t curved closer, pressed a little harder, she might have held it together. But his tenderness was just too much, breaking through the shattered barriers of her control, destroying them completely. From somewhere deep inside tears welled up again, pressing at the backs of her eyes but refusing to fall. Instead, she had to let her feelings out some way and so she launched herself forward, capturing his mouth with her own and pressing hungry, emotional kisses onto his warm lips.

  ‘Alexa!’

  Her name was a rough, shaken sound in his throat and for just the space of a single heartbeat as she felt him stiffen, strong muscles tautening, she feared that he was going to draw back, push her away. But then his whole mood changed, his mouth softening against her, his arms enfolding her in a new and very different way as he gathered her close and returned kiss for kiss, his hands lacing into her hair to cup the fine bones of her skull and hold her just where he wanted her. Where his hungry mouth could have the most devastating effect.

  For several long, heated moments they were oblivious to the storm that raged around them, only aware of the storm of sensation that was building up inside. But then on a long, low moan, another wilder, blisteringly cold flurry of hail whirled round them, lifting their hair on their heads, making their coats fly up around them and slowly, reluctantly, Santos lifted his head, drew back.

  ‘No …’ Alexa muttered a protest, reaching for him again, still with her eyes half-closed.

  ‘Alexa,’ Santos reproved softly, ‘we will freeze if we stay out here.’

  Freeze? In the privacy of her own thoughts, Alexa questioned the truth of his comment. She had never felt so hot in her life, so bone-deep, her blood pounding, totally warm from the inside out, and even the whirling wind and the lashing rain were having no effect on her.

  ‘No …’ she murmured again and felt rather than saw the shake of his dark head as she heard the low laughter that escaped him.

  ‘Yes, querida—already you are soaked … We must make our way back to the house.’

  Querida, she registered. He had used that word before but on a blackly ironical note. Now suddenly his tone seemed to have softened, almost as if he meant it, as if he was concerned by her reaction. As if he truly was calling her darling … Her head was spinning with the delight of it.

  ‘Then let’s go back.’ The thickness in her throat made the words as huskily provocative as she planned them to be. ‘And get warm.’

  Was her heart really thundering as heavily as it seemed? Or was that just the sound of the wind sending heavy branches thudding to the ground or the rain pounding on the cottage roof? She didn’t know or care. Her only thought was to get back into the cottage, to close the door on the world and shut herself in with Santos so that they could be alone together.

  She was not even sure if she was walking, if her feet were actually touching the ground as they hurried towards the tiny house. Santos had her held so close to his side, his grip around her waist so tight that she was sure he was carrying her part of the way rather than letting her manage it herself. And in the moment that they stumbled through the front door he caught her to him and crushed her mouth with his before he swung her up into his arms as he had done on the night of the wedding and carried her into the hall, kicking the door to behind him as he headed for the stairs.

  ‘First on the left …’ Alexa managed against his neck, the slightly salty taste of his skin making her heart skip a couple of ragged beats as she savoured it against her tongue.

  ‘Si …’

  Her room was dark and shadowy but the curtains were still open at the window and the moon gave enough light for Santos to see his way to the bed, taking her with him and tumbling her gently down onto the covers. But when she reached for him to pull him down with her he pulled away from her and turned away.

  ‘Santos!’

  It was a cry of protest and distress, the loss of the heat and strength of his body too much to bear.

  ‘What …?’

  ‘I was looking for a towel …’ The roughness of his voice told clearly of the struggle he too was having for control. ‘You need to dry your—’

  ‘I need no such thing!’

  It was impossible to tell if she was breathless with laughter, with the cold or with the deep frustration of the need that was eating away at her.

  ‘Santos, all I need is you! You can warm me best!’

  For a second she thought that she was going to have to get up and drag him onto the bed with her but before she could move he had swung round again, flinging off his coat and throwing it down onto the floor in the same moment as he came down beside her, gathering her up into his arms once more.

  If she had ever been cold, then Alexa couldn’t remember it now. Her whole body was on fire, burning up with need and the heated arousal Santos’s touch woke in her. And that heat didn’t fade as he stripped her clothes from her, hungry fingers occasionally fumbling with uncharacteristic clumsiness as he dealt with buttons and zips, the clasp on her bra. The truth was that every touch of his hands, every brush of his fingertips against her skin made her pulse kick up another notch, sending more blood throbbing in her veins, molten and hungry, a yearning desire uncoiling low down in her body, making her damp and aching between her legs.

  Her mouth clamped to his, Alexa’s own fingers were rough with need as she tugged at his shirt, sighing her satisfaction as he shrugged it off and tossed it aside. At last she could trail her fingers over the heated satin of his skin, tangle her fingers in the soft crispness of body hair, inhale the musky scent of his aroused body, a perfume so heady and intoxicating that it made her feel close to swooning in heavy, erotic pleasure.

  ‘I want you,’ she muttered against his chest, letting her tongue slide out and taste him, circling the small, dark nub of his nipple, feeling it harden underneath her kisses. ‘Oh, dear heaven, Santos, how I …’

  The words broke off on a long, gasping moan of pleasure as he matched her caresses with his own. Taking each breast in one hand, he cupped and stroked them, squeezing softly, lifting first one and then the other to his mouth, slicking his tongue across the yearning, sensitive tip, then blowing softly on the moistened bud, sending stinging, tingling sensations arrowing along every nerve, tugging at the most sensitive spot at the juncture of her thighs.

  Her jeans felt roughly constricting, far too tight, so that she moved restlessly on the plain white quilt, brushing her pelvis against the swollen, heated evidence of his desire until he groaned a hungry response.

  ‘You witch!’he muttered thickly. ‘Temptress—tormentor …’

  But even as he spoke he was freeing her from the confinement of her clothes, smoothing his hands along the slender lines of her legs, over the softness of her inner thighs, slipping through the cluster of curls to caress her intimately.

  ‘Santos …’

  His name was a sigh of surrender and need and she opened herself up to him, clutching her hands in his hair and arching her back so that her breasts were crushed against the hard wall of his chest, her legs tangling with his.

  But still it wasn’t enough; she needed more. Needed all of him; all of his possession. But the buckle of his belt seemed agonisingly stiff, resisting her attempts to tug it loose, bruising her fingers in frustrating resistance. She was close to tears of exasperation when hi
s hand came over hers, stilling her restless movements.

  ‘Let me …’ he muttered, his voice raw with a need that matched her own, his movements every bit as urgent and impatient as hers had been.

  But from the moment that she felt the heat of his flesh against her she suddenly wanted to slow everything down. She still felt every bit as hungry as before, more so, if that was possible, but in the instant that she felt the warm velvet-over-steel sensation of his erection nudging at her thighs she was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that it would never be this way again. Not the first time they had come together, but …

  The first time they had made love.

  It hit her like a blow in the face, making her gasp out loud. And as soon as the thought entered her head she knew that she should have realised it in the moment when she had gone to pieces at the sight of Santos’s car at the side of the road, almost crushed under the brutal weight of the fallen tree. In that moment when she had been unable to bear the thought of his beautiful body, of Santos himself hurt or injured in any way. So much so that it had almost destroyed her even to imagine it.

  And that was because she had fallen in love with him. She was in so deep that just imagining him hurt was worse than actually being injured herself.

  She was in love and she was about to make love to the man who had had such an impact on her; the man to whom she’d given her heart, even if he didn’t know it. And it was because he didn’t know it—would probably never, ever know it—that she hesitated now.

  He would never want to know how she felt. Why should he when he didn’t believe in love for himself or for anyone else in the world? He didn’t believe in love and so he would never want what she most wanted to give him and he could never give her the thing she most needed from him—his love in return.

  But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew that she didn’t care.

  He couldn’t give her that but he could give her this, the passion of his body. And that was all he would give her. So she wanted to take her time with this, savour it, enjoy every moment and store it away in her memory so that one day, when memories were all she had …

  ‘Alexa?’

  Santos had notice her withdrawal, the way she had disappeared into her own thoughts, and he raised his dark head, silvery eyes searching her hazel ones, looking deep into her face, into her heart, she could almost believe, feeling that he could see what was buried there.

  ‘What is it? Are you having second thoughts?’

  ‘Oh, no …’

  No, no, no! Never that. But she saw the frown that drew his black brows together and knew that she had to say something to explain her momentary hesitation.

  ‘It’s just … do you have anything—any protection?’

  She’d managed to distract him and he nodded in agreement.

  ‘Desde luego—of course …’

  Reaching over the side of the bed, he grabbed at his jacket, pulled a leather wallet from the pocket and extracted the necessary small foil packet that was tucked inside.

  ‘So sensible, belleza …’ he muttered, pressing a warm kiss on her forehead, then one onto each eyelid, pressing them closed. ‘So cautious.’

  If only he knew that cautious was the last thing she wanted to be. That what she really wanted was to throw all caution to the wind as she had done once before, and give herself to him totally and unreservedly, without the need for any protection—without anything coming between her and the full knowledge of his lovemaking.

  But of course for Santos it wasn’t lovemaking. For him it was just sex, purely physical passion and nothing more. He would always want to be careful, because he wouldn’t want any possible consequences from what, for him, was just a passing indulgence in sensual pleasure. The simple fact that he carried condoms with him, so readily available, was potent evidence of that.

  As she heard the foil packet tear and knew that he was sheathing himself—to protect her as well as him, she told herself fiercely—she was grateful for the fact that he had closed her eyes with his mouth. In the concealing darkness she could hide for a moment, knowing that her disappointment wouldn’t be revealed to him when he looked into her face. Behind her closed lids she could swallow down the weak, revealing tears, draw a much needed breath and bring herself back to calm acceptance of what had to be.

  No, not calm. There was nothing calm about the way she felt. She was hungry, needy, yearning both physically and mentally. There was nothing she could do about the mental ache, the one that centred in her heart and spread outwards into every part of her. But she could appease the physical hunger, she could give herself to Santos and know his physical possession, if nothing more. And if that was the only form of love that he would ever believe in, it would have to be enough. She could do that for him, and by doing so she could be almost happy.

  And so she reached for him. Closed her hands around his muscled arms and drew him close. Pressed her lips against his and kissed him with all the intensity of the feeling she knew. She opened her mouth to him and let her tongue tangle with his and when he moved over her, parting her legs with one powerful, hair-roughened thigh, she opened herself to him too with a new kind of joy that made her whole body sing in more than the sexual passion that glowed in her veins.

  But when at last he entered her, easing into her waiting body in one long, slow, controlled thrust, she felt the need and hunger ignite all over again. Her nerves burned with it, her head spun, her senses were on overload with the feel and scent of him all around her, inside her. Her mouth was on his skin, her fingers clenching over the tight, bunching muscles of his back as she met each strong movement, arching against him to take him more fully into her.

  ‘I needed this,’ Santos muttered against her mouth. ‘Needed you …’

  There was no doubting the truth of his words, it was there in the rush of colour along the carved cheekbones, the febrile glitter that turned his eyes to molten silver. It was in his voice too, in the rough, husky tones that deepened his accent, made it raw and thick in a way that was far removed from his usual clear speech.

  ‘And now you have me,’ Alexa returned, kissing the words onto his lips. Knowing that this was as close as she dared come to the declaration of the way she truly felt. ‘All of me—every last little bit …’

  The words broke on a gasp of delight as a wickedly knowing move of his strong body broke all trace of her control, taking her to the brink of ecstasy and holding her there. Oblivious to anything and everything beyond him, she could only cling on to his strength, lost, blind, abandoned, her whole being concentrated on the wild sensations she was experiencing, the forceful build-up, the yearning for release …

  And then he thrust again and again, taking her right over the edge this time, throwing her into the sensual free-fall of total oblivion while all her senses spun and the world whirled and shattered all around her. A moment later she was crushed tight in his arms, his powerful muscles clenching, his heart pounding underneath her cheek, and she heard his own raw cry as he followed her into the shimmering void, losing himself completely in her body’s welcoming embrace.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE LIGHT OF the dawn breaking beyond the uncurtained window was what slowly dragged Alexa back to wakefulness from the depths of the deep, exhausted sleep she had fallen into at some late point in the night. Her eyes opened slowly, blinked dreamily, staring up at the white-painted ceiling above her as she struggled to recognise where she was.

  In her home, in her bedroom—of course that was where she was. Every instinct told her she was in the all too familiar surroundings, every part of her recognised the wallpaper, the feel of the bed, the plain white bed linen … but at the same time everything seemed and felt so very different that it was as if she had awakened somewhere totally new and strange. Somewhere that she didn’t recognise at all.

  But then she blinked again, stretching slightly, and her right arm and leg came into contact with the hard warmth of a strong body lying relaxed and totally
at ease just beside her. A long, muscled, relaxed male body, she acknowledged and with the realisation came the rush of remembrance that told her it was not the room that was new, not her surroundings that were different, but that she herself had changed. The events of the night, and her realisation of the way that she felt about Santos, meant that she would never, ever be the same again.

  ‘Santos …’

  She tested his name on her tongue, almost as if trying it on for size, tasting it where she could still sense the essence of him in her mouth. For the moment she didn’t need to turn to see the man she loved where he lay relaxed in sleep beside her; her mind was still so full of the images of the night that she needed time to absorb them before she could take the reality of his presence without total overload.

  And so she lay there for a time, staring up at the ceiling, reviewing the hours she had spent locked in burning passion. She had lost count of how many times Santos had reached for her, or she for him. Lost track of how often they had come together, experienced the mindless bliss of total orgasm, and then collapsed, exhausted, into sleep. She only knew that the night had passed in a blur of sensual and emotional delights, and that now she faced the prospect of the day ahead with a smile and a glow of anticipation.

  Of course, there was no dodging away from the one flaw in her pleasure; no way of avoiding the harsh and bitter truth that Santos had never, and would never say that he loved her. The blazing passion that he had showed her through the night was the only expression of feeling he had ever allowed himself and it was all that he ever would let escape him. And she would be a total fool to ask for more.

  But he had said that he wanted—needed her. And he had made plain just how much that was true by the force of his desire, the hunger he had shown for her body. And for now that would be enough. It had to be. It was all she was going to get.