A Proper Wife

by Sandra Marton

  “Ryan.” Her voice was a whisper, a sigh against his lips. “Ryan, please. I want—I want...”

  He swept her up into his arms, his mouth never leaving hers, and carried her up the stairs, up and up through the silence and the darkness to the deep softness of his bed.

  Her bathing suit peeled away in his hands, leaving her trembling and naked in his arms. He tore off his own clothing, then came down on the bed beside her.

  She was so beautiful. He drew back so he could see her: the high, rounded breasts, the curve of her waist, the womanly flare of her hips and the pale crest below them that he had waited so long to claim.

  He wanted everything. Everything. He wanted to touch her, to run his fingertips over her skin and learn her body with his hands. To kiss her everywhere until the taste of her would become part of him.

  Most of all, he wanted to bury himself deep in her heat and her softness.

  “Devon,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Devon...”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth until it opened to his. His tongue swept over her lips and touched hers; her response was tentative and then he felt her tremble and the tip of her tongue darted into his mouth.

  He was ready to explode. He had never wanted a woman so badly.

  But he would wait. He would wait if it killed him, not just to prolong the ecstasy but because he could sense something beneath Devon’s passion, a hesitation that almost made him think—that almost made him hope...

  “Ryan?” she whispered, and the question and the need in her voice were almost his undoing.

  He cupped her breast in his hand, rubbed his thumb over the nipple.

  “Such perfect breasts,” he said thickly. “So sweet...”

  He bent his head to her, licked the beaded tip, then drew her flesh into his mouth, taking fierce pleasure in the sharp intake of her breath when he did. She was sobbing in his arms now, moving blindly against him, her body as pliant as quicksilver.

  She tensed when his hand slipped over her belly; her fingers curled over his but he hushed her, kissed her eyes and her mouth and her throat and then, very slowly slid his hand down to the soft curls that hid her feminine heart. A fierce exaltation swept through him when he felt the dampness of those curls. He was trembling now, too, as he opened her, spreading the petals of her labia gently with his fingertips.

  He touched her softly, slowly, moving his finger against her swollen flesh until her hips arched toward him and she was calling out his name.

  Then, finally, he rose above her and knelt between her thighs.

  “Devon,” he said, “look at me.”

  And when she did, he leaned forward and entered her, filling her slowly... until he encountered that tiny bit of flesh he had only moments before let himself imagine he might find.

  Imagining was one thing. Reality was another. The shock of the fragile barrier against the tip of his penis almost undid him.

  He started to pull back—but Devon stopped him, her hands drawing his hips forward, her body arching toward his.

  “Don’t leave me now,” she pleaded. “I’d die if you left me now, Ryan, I’d die.”

  I’d die, too, Ryan thought. Die at the thought of being without you, of never having said—of never having said...

  He slipped his hands under Devon’s hips, lifted her to him, and buried himself fully in the sweet, softly yielding body of his wife.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DEVON lay in the warmth of Ryan’s arms, softly sated with passion...

  And almost breathless with love.

  She thought of all the weeks she’d been married to Ryan, living in the same house with him and telling herself she hated him.

  It would have been laughable, had loving him not been so dangerous. How much safer her heart had been before tonight!

  It was hard to remember that she’d once seen him as stubborn or arrogant or impossible. He was none of those things.

  He was, instead, determined. Confident. Self-assured. Wonderfully, magnificently male. And he was funny, too, and bright and charming.

  He was everything a woman could possibly want a man to be, and he was her husband—except he wasn’t. Not really.

  Unshed tears stung behind Devon’s closed eyelids. What a stupid thing she’d done, falling in love when there was no future to it. She was a temporary part of Ryan’s life; that was the way they’d both wanted it. The two of them had gone into this marriage with their eyes open.

  That he’d made love to her changed absolutely nothing. He’d never made any pretense about wanting her in his bed. It was she who’d done all the pretending. Telling herself she despised him when right now her heart was whispering that—in a way no scientist could ever explain—she had loved Ryan from the dawn of time.

  Tonight, in one single instant, all her self-deception had been swept aside. It had happened when she’d stepped out of the pool and found him standing in the gym doorway, watching her.

  The look on his face—that almost savage look of raw, uncompromising desire—should have set her heart racing with fear.

  Instead, it had turned her bones to jelly.

  She’d known what Ryan had to be seeing, that the water must have left her white maillot clinging to the contours of her body like wet silk. There was no way to disguise her reaction to him, either: the rapid rise of her breasts as her breathing quickened, the swift hardening of her nipples as her body responded to his.

  Cover yourself, her brain had shrieked.

  Let him look, her racing pulse had answered. Let him see what he does to you, let him know that you want him as badly as he wants you.

  It was the very first time she’d dared admit the truth to herself. And, on the heels of that truth had come the stunning realization that somewhere between that first awful meeting at Montano’s and now, she’d fallen deeply in love with Ryan Kincaid.

  And she wanted him. Oh, yes, she wanted him with all her heart.

  The air between them had seemed to shimmer with heat. The tension had stretched, until Devon could no more have prevented herself from going to him than she could have kept the sun from rising.

  With a cry of surrender, she’d flown into his outstretched arms, lifting her mouth to his with all the pent-up hunger that filled her soul.

  And he had met that hunger, met it and sated it, taken her from trembling innocence to the joyful fulfillment of womanhood in his arms.

  Now, her joy was fading. She lay in the embrace of the man she loved and fought to keep from weeping.

  Ryan had brought her happiness beyond imagining. And she had brought him pleasure. He had told her so, with his kisses, with the touch of his hands, with words that had thrilled her and made her blush.

  But he hadn’t said the simplest words of all, the ones that her heart ached for.

  He hadn’t said, “I love you.”

  Why should he? She was in his life by accident. He hadn’t wanted her. He hadn’t wanted a wife at all. Circumstance and honor had forced him into a marriage that wasn’t a marriage—a marriage that would all too soon be over.

  A sob rose in Devon’s throat. Horrified, she bit down on her lip, but it was too late. The choked sound burst out anyway.

  Ryan took her into his arms.

  “Sweetheart?” he said. “What is it?”

  She shook her head, smiling as best she could.

  “Nothing,” she whispered.

  Ryan knew it wasn’t true. In the diffused light of the hall lamp, he could see the jewel-like sparkle of tears on Devon’s lashes. He thought of that moment he’d penetrated her, of the delicate tracery of blood on her thighs, and he groaned with remorse.

  “I hurt you,” he said, his voice edged with guilt as he drew her closer. “Devon, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No,” she said. “Oh, no, Ryan. You didn’t hurt me.” The warmth of his embrace, the joy of having him hold her close, brought a smile to her lips. “What happened was—it was wonderful.”


  He smiled back at her. “I’d have gone more slowly if I’d known. But I had no idea—I didn’t expect—”

  “That I’d be a virgin?” she said shyly, tracing the outline of his mouth with the tip of her finger. “Was I—Was it—Were you disappointed?”

  “Disappointed?”

  He thought of that moment when he’d realized that he was the first man to make love to her, the first she’d given herself to. Even thinking about it sent the blood pounding through his veins. He wanted her again, just as badly as he’d wanted her the first time, but it was too soon. Despite what she’d said, he’d seen the hint of pain in her eyes. So he contented himself with kissing her gently.

  “How could a man be disappointed with such an incredible gift?” he said softly.

  She blushed, and he could tell that his words had pleased her.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “People say—I mean, there’s something to be said for...for experience, isn’t there?”

  Ryan’s gut tightened. People, hell, he thought. Only Bettina would offer such advice.

  Dammit. Why would he think of Bettina now? She had been the reason Devon had gone into this marriage but she sure as hell hadn’t had anything to do with Devon being in his arms.

  What had just happened was their own private miracle.

  “I don’t see anybody in this bed but you and me,” he said softly. “You were wonderful.” He smiled. “As for experience—I’ll be happy to give you all you want, I promise.”

  Devon smiled back at him, but her eyes were still solemn. “I suppose you thought—that you assumed—I mean, all things considered...”

  “Forget what I assumed,” he said gruffly, stroking her hair back from her still-flushed cheeks. “I can be a pigheaded jerk sometimes.”

  It pleased him to see the darkness in her eyes begin to fade.

  “On the other hand,” he said with a little smile, “I won’t object if you try and persuade me that my self-analysis is faulty.”

  Devon laughed softly. “Well, I wouldn’t call you pigheaded.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No.” She buried her hands in his dark hair, brought his face down to hers, and kissed him. “You’re much too handsome to be compared to a pig.”

  Ryan grinned. “Thank you—I think.”

  He rolled onto his back, still holding her close. After a couple of minutes, he chuckled.

  “What?” Devon said, lifting her head from his shoulder.

  “I was just thinking about Frank.”

  “About Frank? How did he get into this conversation?”

  “It’s a long story, sweetheart. Let’s just say I’ve been walking around like a powder keg with a short fuse for days and days. Frank happened to be the poor bastard that unknowingly lit it. He never knew what hit him when I finally exploded tonight.”

  Devon rolled onto her belly, folded her arms on Ryan’s chest, and propped her chin on her linked hands.

  “You quarreled with Frank? Is that why you came home early?”

  “Yes. No.” Ryan sighed as he looped his finger through a strand of her hair. “I was ticked off at Frank, yeah, but that’s not why I came home early.” He smiled at her as a tightness formed in his chest. “I came home because of you,” he said, “because it was time to admit the truth to myself.”

  Devon’s heart beat faster. “What truth?”

  Ryan reached for her and drew her down into the curve of his arm.

  “That I wanted to make love to you so badly I couldn’t think straight anymore,” he whispered. Her breath hitched as he stroked his hand over her hip. “All these months, telling myself I didn’t want you, then lying in my bed each night, driving myself crazy imagining what would happen if I went up the steps to your room and took you in my arms...”

  Color streaked into Devon’s cheeks. “I—I imagined the same thing.”

  Bright green flame burned in the depths of Ryan’s eyes. “Did you?” he said huskily.

  “Night after night,” she whispered.

  He drew her close and kissed her until her lips were soft and clinging under his.

  “No more separate rooms, sweetheart. No more separate beds. We’ve wasted too much time.”

  Yes, she thought, yes, they had, and now there was only one week left.

  “You’re mine,” Ryan said fiercely. “Do you understand? You belong to me and no one else.”

  Forever, Ryan. Forever. Please, she thought, please, say the three little words that will make it so.

  But he didn’t say them. He moved instead, sliding down her body, until his mouth was hot against her belly. “Open to me,” he whispered as he stroked her thighs apart.

  “Ryan,” Devon said in a broken whisper. “Ryan...”

  And then his mouth was on her and she was lost.

  They awoke early the next morning, still wrapped in each other’s arms.

  “Mmm,” Ryan murmured, pressing his lips to her throat.

  “Mmm,” Devon sighed, tangling her fingers in his hair.

  After long, sweet moments, Ryan sat up and slapped her lightly on the backside.

  “Hey,” Devon said indignantly.

  “Hey, yourself,” Ryan answered. He rolled from the bed, padded to the windows, and flung open the drapes. “It’s morning, woman. Do you know what that means?”

  Devon smiled and scrunched down under the blankets.

  “Another twenty minutes of sleep?”

  “Breakfast,” Ryan said, striding back to the bed. He swept back the blankets, ignoring her shrieks, and scooped her into his arms. “Bacon. Eggs. Toast.”

  “Ryan! You put me down!” Laughing, Devon beat her fists against his shoulders as he hauled her into the bathroom.

  “And buckets of coffee,” he said as he stepped into the shower. Holding her firmly in the curve of one arm, he turned on the overhead and side sprays. “You’ve drained all my energy. I need food to restore my strength.”

  Devon turned in his arms, lifting her laughing face to his as the shower beat warmly down over their bodies.

  “Is that all you need?” she said.

  Her breath caught as Ryan’s smile faded. “No,” he whispered, his hands cupping her bottom. “No, my darling, I need much more than that. I need...”

  He lifted her, his mouth finding hers as her legs locked around his waist, and then there was only the patter of the water and the sighs and murmurs of two people making love.

  “So,” Ryan said, “this is what New York is like on a holiday weekend, hmm?”

  Devon looked up at him and smiled. They were in Central Park, strolling hand in hand through the Sheep Meadow. It was a hot, sunny day and the grassy field was alive with New Yorkers taking full advantage of the first long holiday weekend of the summer.

  “What kind of question is that, coming from a native New Yorker?”

  “Well, for openers, I’m not really a native New Yorker. I was born here but I went to live on Long Island, with James, when I was just a kid.”

  Devon nodded. “I know. I wondered about that. Did your parents die?”

  “No, it was nothing as dramatic as that,” Ryan said with a tight smile. “My mother decided it would be more exciting to traipse through jungles than to raise sons. And my father figured that with her gone, he might as well say to hell with responsibility and start enjoying la dolce vita.”

  Devon’s smile faded. “You mean, they abandoned you?”

  “It sounds a lot worse than it was, sweetheart. By then, I’d already lived more of my life with my grandfather than with my parents. They were forever going off somewhere—somewhere that didn’t involve me.”

  “So you and Gordon both went to live with James?”

  “Gordon was already away at college. He was twelve years older than I was.”

  “Mmm,” Devon said. “You know, I wonder...”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, really. It’s just that—well, one time, when I was home on vacation, Gordon as
ked me if I was happy being away from... from home. He said he knew another kid who’d been shunted off.”

  “You think he meant me?” Ryan asked in surprise.

  Devon shrugged. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  It was more than possible, Ryan thought slowly. It was absolutely logical; it would explain why Gordon had been so determined to provide for Devon, why he’d said he felt guilty about having neglected her.

  I would never neglect her, Ryan thought suddenly. He watched as a soft breeze blew Devon’s hair back from her face. She put up her hand and pushed it away from her eyes; it was the simplest of actions yet it somehow made his heart turn over.

  Ryan laced his fingers through hers.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “What about me?”

  “What was your childhood like?” He smiled. “I’ll bet you were a solemn little girl with a sweet, shy smile.”

  “Well, the shy part is right.” Her smile seemed tinged with sadness. “The only thing I really remember about my childhood is moving a lot, from San Francisco to Los Angeles, from Los Angeles to Reno and then to Las Vegas.”

  “Why?”

  Devon shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose because my mother—because Bettina was always chasing after a... a better future. She was a waitress.”

  “A cocktail waitress,” Ryan said.

  “Yes.” She looked up, caught by a certain flatness in his voice, and her expression grew defiant. “She did the best she could,” she said. “Her choices may not have always been perfect, but it wasn’t easy, raising a child by herself.”

  “And I’m sure she told you that, every chance she got.”

  “No! Well, yes. She did, but she was right. I mean...”

  “Sweetheart.” Ryan let go of Devon’s hand and put his arm around her shoulders. “Forgive me. I wasn’t trying to put you on the defensive. I just—I’m trying to imagine what it must have been like for you, shuttling from town to town, then being hustled off to a boarding school when Bettina married my brother.”