Bullied Bride

by Hollie Hutchins

  If it turns out to be true, I'm not sure if I can deal with the implications. Though how could it not be true? “He said that you've raped women. That I should ask you about it.”

  Desmond just stares, his eyes bulging in growing indignation. “Are you serious right now?” he says. “He said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I can tell you for a fact that I never did. I usually raided with my father, and he always had a strict policy of no rape. I never knew why, aside from it being an interesting moral when we were, well, you know – raiding. But it turns out he had a very good reason.” He rubs between his eyebrows with his right-hand knuckles. “I never knew he had a cousin. I never even heard about her. He shared nothing of that incident with any of us.”

  “You swear? You never did what Rayse said?”

  “I swear. Rayse on the other hand, we've had to hold him back like a rabid dog on a leash several times. He really is just trying to fuck with you.”

  I swallow, seeing the sincerity in Desmond's eyes. I can trust him. Much more than I can trust Rayse. Sure we might have had a few rocky patches, but I know Desmond is for real. “Thank goodness. I know it's silly, but that really bothered me.”

  Desmond stares at the wall for a moment. “I won't pretend that I'm a saint. I still did my fair share of damage. You wrecking that church though – that was pretty malicious even on your part.”

  “Can't say I was thinking too clearly,” I mutter. “It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Get my revenge without actually killing anyone.” I sigh. “My father locked me away, intending to keep me contained until he'd summoned a suitable husband for me. My freedom and reputation was robbed because of what happened. It never would have been if your men had kept quiet about it. Or well, if I never gave into temptation at all.” I then drop my head in my hands. “I could barely even remember the act. Seemed unfair to me for all this to happen out of a drunken fling.”

  “My reputation wouldn't be ruined because of it,” Desmond says, and I feel a pat on my back. “I'd be frowned at, sure, but there's a boys-will-be-boys attitude that gets me out of it.”

  “Lucky for the boys.” I feel his hand rest directly on my gunshot injury. It no longer hurts or throbs, but there is a stiffness in my muscle there that wasn't present before.

  “I'm so sorry about what happened.”

  “Don't be. It turned out for the best. I suppose,” I add, because I don't really like the implications of being shot being a good thing. “My father's here, and no one's killed each other yet.”

  “That might be a matter of time,” Desmond says. “The tensions are running high. My father's ordered his men, women and servants to contain themselves and treat them as honored guests, but no one's sure if this will actually happen or not. He's also deciding to make it a sober evening. No alcohol. No chance for emotions to flare out of control.”

  “Wise,” I say.

  “He learned from me.” Desmond's hands rub my back, soothing me into a massage. I sigh in relief, happy to be here and not fretting about anything else. Happy to no longer be in that accursed room with the overly peppy doctor prancing around and writing down notes while muttering to herself. When I was taught by the Rosewind healers to conduct basic medical care, they always stressed the point of being respectful, that healing wasn't a fun craft, but a responsible one. I have a feeling their attitudes might clash when talking to that doctor.

  I soon begin to notice the way Desmond is handling me – as if I'm a fragile object made out of glass that might shatter upon the floor. It's endearing at first, but quickly becomes irritating because he's insisting on this the entire time.

  “I'm not going to break,” I tell him, when he fusses over whether or not I'm comfortable enough in the bed, and thinks of ordering more pillows and blankets in I'm room until I'm swaddled in them, presumably. “You don't need to be so soft with me.”

  “Excuse me if I'm still a little nervous from the fact that you fell a hundred feet or so down a ravine, got shot in the back, and almost died. You weren't the one who got to see yourself in that state, being unconscious and all.”

  “I'm not in that state anymore,” I assure him. I want him to see that I'm okay. I want him to know that he doesn't have to worry about me at all. Which is just a part of the flimsy reasoning I give myself so I can lift myself up, and touch his lips with my own. “I promise. I'm alright.” I kiss his lips again, feeling hopeful that I might just be kissing away his worries.

  He grips me hard, and his whole body shudders. The hot breath he exhales on me is unbelievably sexy, and my calm mood erupts into arousal, instead.

  I almost forgot what he can do to me. His hands slide along my bad, gripping my shoulder blades as he kisses back, mouth moving in rhythm with mine. Heat blazes through my skin and surfaces above it, so that I feel it radiating out of my cheeks, my bones, my soul.

  More than ever, I want to give myself to this man. I've waited long enough. No more interruptions. No more irritating people knocking on the door at the last moment, or some super important meeting or another pulling Desmond away from me. No more bursts of despair and running off into the night with shadows and gunshots for company.

  Just us. Only us.

  “Are you sure?” he whispers hoarsely against the side of my mouth, stopping his frantic kissing for a moment. “You'll tell me if it hurts?”

  “I'm sure. I will,” I assure him, gently patting his cheek. He seems satisfied with my response, because a new fervor enters his eyes when he opens them again.

  “Then I mean to make good on my promise to you,” he breathes, and those words go straight down my spine and turn my legs to jello. “I mean to make you forget your own name.”

  “I'd like to see you try,” I say with a grin. Challenging him. Urging him to do his worst. Strength surges into his limbs at those words, and before I know it, we're together in the bed, clinging to one another, taking our time to take off clothes. The kissing and close contact makes me wish somehow I could just merge with him and become one being, that our skins were no barriers at all, that nothing separated us from each other.

  The clothes come off one at a time, and he trails kisses over every bare surface of my skin, finding spots of pleasure I never knew existed. There's one in the crook of my elbow that makes me gasp, and another just on the side of my breast when his hand snakes under my top to fumble along my bra.

  Oh, this is maddening. But we're finally together, and making good on our wedding vows. That knowledge brings a sense of calm to his actions, when I wish he'd speed up, because he wants to savor every second. He wants to tease me until I'm whimpering for more, because when the tension becomes too much, and I reach down to start stroking myself, he tuts and pulls my hand away.

  “Not yet,” he says. “No getting ahead of yourself.”

  I whine in frustration at him. “I need – it's so tense –”

  “I know,” he says, and something like mischief twinkles in his dark eyes. I bet he knows. This devil will be the death of me at this rate. I groan as he continues to tease me, divesting me of all my clothes, and touching every spot except the most obvious ones – breasts and between my legs. Whenever his hand circles near my breasts, I hold my breath, hoping this time, this is it – only to be thwarted once again, as he smoothly glides away. To be so keenly aware of what he's avoiding only serves to ignite me further, to long for the moment when he stops his torment, and floods me with bliss.

  Another circle. I buck up into him, managing to get his pants tugged off, witnessing his erection once more. Again, he stops me from touching myself, or touching him, tapping me lightly on the cheek. “Do as I say and resist, and I promise you, you won't regret this.”

  I whine once more, and surrender to his teasing. It's almost painful, the way he works me up, all without touching me where I need it most. My anticipation rises to fever pitch as his hands circle nearer and nearer, and when he suddenly latches his lips to my nipple, I cry out in relief. A
t last!

  The pace changes from slow to fast, as he pushes against me, his lips working, and his tongue flicking against the sensitive buds. I arch up into him, my body shaking, and feel his dick brushing against my stomach, and burn from the idea that will soon be in me, driving me wild, taking me away from everything else so that only he matters. When his fingers dance along my clit, sliding along the wetness down there, I cry out, even as he whispers, “Look how ready you are for me. Look how much you want this.”

  “Please,” I choke. “Please fuck me. Please.”

  I beg some more, as well, but he swirls his fingers down there, invoking such a sense of extreme tingling down there that I attempt to squirm away from his touch, only to be held in place. I ride out this torment as well, until all my muscles are tense and shaking, and my body vibrates hard from his ministrations. I inhale the scent of him, heavy with sweat and desire, and a lingering essence of mint. His breaths galvanize me, because I realize that I'm turning him on just as much as he's turning me on. Even though I'm not touching him, he's shaking with excitement.

  He speeds up his fingering until I break apart with a breathless cry, bliss assaulting my body. But he's not done. He positions and works his way inside me, and just when I thought I couldn't possibly experience more pleasure, he's there and he's moving and it's all building up again and it's so much, too much, and I'm being swept away, drowning and drowning until his motions stop.

  The motions inside me don't stop, though, as a second orgasm joins the first. My head hits the pillow, heavy with bliss. My bones are stuck to the sheets, unwilling to move, and he rests against me as well, feeling like lead.

  I feel vaguely sorry for whoever might have been close enough to hear our activities, but not sorry enough to decide to keep my voice down in the near future.

  “Why did we have to wait so long for this,” I manage, after what feels like an eternity of lying there, floating in bliss.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Desmond gasps, rolling off me, arranging himself with some difficulty around me as I flop bonelessly from his touch. “Wow, I hit you real hard, didn't I?”

  “Can't. Move.” I close my eyes. “I've lost all control of my limbs. Maybe I've lost my muscles, because I can't feel them.”

  He lifts up one of my arms dubiously. “Nope. Still there.”

  “Ha, ha.” I accept him moving me until my head's resting on his shoulder and chest, instead. After a short pause, I say, “I think I did forget my own name there for a while.”

  He chuckles, and the vibration goes through my cheek and into my chest. “Told you so. And I plan to give you many more moments like this, my love.”

  My love. Somehow, those words thrill me even more than the thought of more mind-breaking sex. “Say that again,” I ask, and he nuzzles against my head.

  “My love.”

  “I love you, too,” I say. And they're the scariest words I've ever managed.

  13

  Desmond

  I sit up with Pearl, doing little else but lazy motions with our arms, still trying to work through the high. The fourth high within whatever timeframe we'd managed all that in. As much as I wanted to keep pleasuring her, we did have people to sort out, and it might not look great if we both turned up to the banquet completely exhausted and babbling nonsense.

  My wife. I stare at the absolute vision that is Pearl with deep pride. A lot of men would be ecstatic to have someone like her by their side. I'm included in that group. Her being a Hartson really doesn't matter anymore. She shouldn't be punished for the sins of her ancestors, or for what others have done. She shouldn't be punished for truly believing that we were monsters. But it does mean we have a lot to work through, because although we're getting on just great now, I know there will be more trials in the future. More challenges for us to deal with.

  Rayse will be a threat, too. Though he claims to be following our father's line, he's not happy. He'd rather there be a war between our clans, because he's mostly convinced we can win it. Especially if he was leading, of course. I do think he cares enough about his own family not to murder us in the process of doing so, but it's always going to be a somewhat tricky subject to breach.

  “I'm glad I met you,” Pearl whispers in my ear, and that's enough to send a tidal wave of desire though my system. I should really, really be getting away from her about now, but I can't resist sliding my hands along her perfect alabaster skin, finding all sorts of things to latch onto. My fingers must be so rough in comparison for her, raised with callouses, but she seems to like the tactile contact, as her body arches, and she exposes her throat in a gesture that very much encourages me to keep going.

  I'm glad to be able to savor all of this. Glad to remember every second as we bring each other to bliss, because we're going to have many of those moments together. Whole days, I'm sure, where we won't want to get up from bed and spend it instead with one another, learning and relearning our bodies. Once Jensen told me he thought women didn't care so much for sex, that they went into it with a sense of obligation, but could never enjoy it as much as a man did.

  That's not true at all. Which tells me maybe Jensen doesn't know how to handle his own wife at all, or maybe she's just interested in someone else. Pearl gasps, her breathing turning louder and faster, and that triggers a fresh spike of desire. How much faster can I get those breaths, how long before they mix with strangled cries and squeaks of pleasure, until all tension in her body collapses, and she dissolves into her orgasm.

  Her body shivers under my touch. “Go on,” she whispers. “One more can't hurt.”

  “Greedy, aren't we?” I murmur to her, now pressing my lips along her jawline, tasting the salt and sweat upon her skin. “We should really get going...”

  “Not before you fuck me one more time,” she growls, and I shiver from the aggression in her words, already going hard. What she does to me. Oh, what she does to me.

  “You asked for it,” I growl back, and pin her hard against the bed, arms above her head, pressing my body into hers. She wriggles, legs instantly spreading open, and I sink my cock into her without resistance, groaning at how wet she is, how eager she is. We don't take our time with this one. We go at it hard and fast, with her clawing at my back, her throat letting out all sorts of interesting sounds, her breathing fast, shallow and ragged as I pound into her. I love the way her hair splays out beneath her, or sticks to her forehead from exertion. I love the way she tilts her head back, squeezing out those delicious sounds that urge me on, straining my muscles until that sweet burn resonates through my arms and thighs, until heat builds up in my groin, and a pressure begging to be released. It's hard, dirty, raucous, and I quickly reach one hand down to play with her, knowing I'm seconds away from coming, knowing she's not quite there yet.

  Watching her shudder and cry and become undone beneath me is like a kick to my heart and stomach – the kind that shocks me into an orgasm right after her, emptying myself once more.

  “We keep this up,” I pant, “and we're going to have a child in no time.”

  She grins, bobbing her head in a lethargic way. “I hope so.”

  I pause in the middle of my triumph and pleasure. “You do?”

  “Of course I do. I mean, I always expected this of me some day, but you'd make a great father. I really think so.”

  Oh man. I rest my head against her shoulder. “I'm glad,” I whisper into her skin. “I'm glad you want them.”

  “Let's get an entire battalion,” she says, and I feel her shake with laughter. “Pave the way in good examples of how a Hartson and Claymore can get on.”

  “Don't be greedy,” I say, though I'm grinning as well, and my body feels ridiculously light inside. “An adult one of you is bad enough. Imagine multiple little ones. Going to be a nightmare.”

  She snorts, but we peel apart from another, and finally get out of bed to make ourselves presentable. We almost slip again while washing, because it's just so tempting to touch one another, but somehow we man
age.

  When she emerges wearing a new, freshly bought dress, one with fake roses blooming over her shoulders, each with a glinting red gem, I have to say, the effect suits her well. Not that I know a lot about woman's wear other than the fact their clothes seem to be far more complicated than ours. And really, what's the point in covering up so much – but that's how it is. My own three piece pales in comparison, but that's okay. We walk out of our rooms, elbow in elbow once we head down the corridor, and I'm glad to see some of the servants stare in silent approval, or keep their hostilities to themselves. Since if they do direct a filthy look her way, I'm going to be rather free with my response.

  We bump into Rayse, unfortunately, on the second floor. It's intentional on his part, for he stops and bows to Pearl. My wife's so amazed that her mouth slips open.

  “Did you just bow to me?”

  “Don't get used to it,” Rayse says, his eyes still hardened chips of darkness. “I still don't like you. In fact, I hate you,” he says, but the way he pats at his chest is a strange enough gesture for us not to comment, and instead wait for him to go on. “But I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I'm too hateful. If maybe I wouldn't be as good a leader as I think I could be.”

  Pearl examines my brother for a long moment. Then she bows to my brother, whose eyelid twitches from the gesture. “I understand your hate,” she says quietly. “And I think it's the hardest thing to admit to, and to let go of.”

  “I feel so justified in it,” he whispers. “I really do.”

  “So do we,” she says.

  Rayse works at his words for a moment, before he says, “I hope our children will do better than us. Because we can't.” He reaches into his pocket, and this time, it doesn't look as if he's reaching for a knife. “When I tried to visit you in the ward, and was barred, I did want to bring you something.” He takes out a small silver brooch, with what looks like a splash of blood trapped in the stone that sets it. “This is blood,” he says, confirming my suspicion. “My own blood. I want to give it to you as a sign of my... accepting. That you are here. That you are a part of our family. That I will not hurt my own flesh and blood.”