No Man's Bride

by Shana Galen

He tensed—her only indication her words displeased him—then he relaxed his hold on her waist so that he would catch her if she lost her balance, but he did not restrain her.

  “If you want to stop,” he said, tilting his head so that he met her gaze, “that is your choice. You are in control. I mean that.”

  She nodded, seeing the truth in his face. “What are you thinking?” she asked, her heart speeding up when the words left her mouth.

  He raised a brow. “Provocative question, Lady Valentine. Are you sure you want to know?” His hands tightened on her waist again, caressing her through the nightgown until they molded to her hips and adjusted her so that she was pressing directly against his erection.

  “Yes,” she said on a breathless sigh. “I want to know.”

  “I am thinking”—he leaned into her and kissed her neck again—“that you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  She shivered as his lips trailed over her skin, warming it as he traced the curve of her jaw. “That’s not true. There are many women—”

  “To me, you are the most beautiful.” His teeth nipped her earlobe and she let out a small moan. “Do you want to know what else I am thinking?”

  “Tell me,” she ordered, wiggling just a bit from the tickle of his breath in her ear.

  “I am thinking how much I love your scent. You smell like peaches. And I wonder if you taste of them, too. If the skin of your breasts and your stomach”—he touched her lightly in the places he spoke of as he talked—“and your thighs taste as sweet and succulent.”

  She swayed as his hands grazed her thighs and then rested on her hips again, holding her up. “What else are you thinking?” she whispered, eager for more of his words, his seduction.

  “I am thinking how much I want you. How I want to lay you down beneath me and drive into you until you are writhing from pleasure.”

  She had a brief flash of her father’s angry face and remembered her mother’s screams. Fear sparked inside her, and she drew back, but Valentine caught her. “What is it?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Something you said reminded me—” Tears pricked her eyes, and he put a finger over her lips.

  “Shh. Don’t think of that tonight. Let me change the look in your haunted eyes. Let me show you that my touch can pleasure you. Will you let me prove to you that I would not harm you for anything?”

  “Show me,” she said. “I’m so tired of being afraid.” He kissed her again, a soothing kiss full of sweetness and care, and then he drew back and buried his face in her hair. With trembling fingers, she lifted her hands and let them find their own way to the knotted strings of her nightgown. As he pulled back, she loosened the strings and let the gown fall down her arms and about her waist.

  He stared at her, then met her gaze.

  “Kiss me here,” she said, letting a finger trail over one erect nipple. “And kiss me here.” Her hand went to the other breast, and then she cupped both and offered herself to him.

  He did not pause, and she felt his hot breath on her flesh as he loved her with her mouth, sucking and licking and laving her until she was arched back and breathing heavily. The more he touched her, the more she wanted his touch. She needed him, the ache in her heart and between her legs growing to almost unbearable heights. She ground against him, ignoring her wanton behavior, only seeking to assuage the twinge between her thighs.

  And then she was beneath him. His weight was more of a comfort than a prison, and he was stripping off her nightgown and kissing her everywhere, loving her flesh with his hands and his mouth and his eyes.

  He sat back and looked at her, then lifted his own shirt over his head, revealing his muscled chest. He was a politician but no stranger to hard work and exercise, and when she ran her hands over his abdomen, she admired the hard ridges of his muscles. He had a light sprinkling of golden brown hair on his chest, which tapered to a line below his belly button and disappeared beneath his trousers. Catherine followed the line of that hair down with one fingertip, but Quint stopped her before she could touch the part of him that made her truly curious.

  “Let’s take this slow,” he said, his voice almost a groan. “Let me love you first. If you’re ready, there’s less chance I’ll give you any pain.”

  She nodded, and he began to slip off the bed. “Where are you going?” she asked, propping herself on her elbows. She was embarrassed by her nakedness at first, but the longer he looked at her, the less self-conscious she felt. There was only desire in his eyes, only pleasure at what he saw, and Catherine reveled in it. She wanted him to look at her, wanted him to desire her.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “But I need you to come closer.” Then grasping her about the hips, he pulled her to the edge of the bed and parted her knees, standing between them.

  She gasped, feeling vulnerable and excited at her new position. He leaned over her, planting his hands at her sides. “Do you remember that night in the village pub?”

  She nodded. The memory was all too clear to her. She wanted Quint to make her feel that way again.

  “Do you remember what that young man was doing to that girl?”

  “Clare? Yes,” she whispered.

  “I want to do that to you. But I have to have your permission.”

  She nodded, her legs feeling numb and tingly at the thought of his mouth between them.

  “So I have your permission to part your legs like this?” He nudged her knees apart until she was open to him. He kept his gaze on her face until she gave her consent, and then he looked down, wetting his lips at the sight of her.

  Catherine’s heart pounded so hard she feared it would burst, and the burst of heat between her legs at the intensity of his stare made her cry out. She emitted a low moan as he reached toward her. “Touch me,” she pleaded, watching his hand move far too slowly. “Touch me there.”

  His fingers brushed against her lightly, and she threw back her head and moaned again. This was what she had wanted. This was the feeling that had given her dreams, that wakened her sweaty and full of need.

  “Catie,” he murmured, fingers still caressing her. “I want more. With your permission, I’m going to get on my knees.”

  She made a sound that was incomprehensible even to her, but she felt him lower himself.

  “And now I’m going to kiss you. Here.” His fingers pressed her sensitive flesh again, and then they withdrew. “May I kiss you here?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Please.”

  At first she felt nothing but the warmth of his body between her legs, the rasp of his stubble on her inner thigh, and the gentle pressure of his mouth against the juncture between her legs. And then she felt his tongue—at least she thought it was his tongue.

  His touch was light and delicious, darting against her sensitive skin. The contrast between the whisper of his mouth and the intense, rapturous sensation overwhelmed her.

  She couldn’t think at all. There was nothing but sensation. Nothing but white heat and pulsing pleasure. Nothing but the zing of blood in her veins and the spiral of pleasure spinning through her body until she rose with it, lifting herself up and screaming her release.

  Chapter 18

  Quint stepped out of his boots, freed his erection from his trousers, and stripped off the last of his clothing. Naked, he stretched out beside Catie and allowed one hand to rest on the curve of her olive-skinned hip. Her back was to him, but he could hear her all but purring with the pleasure of her climax. The sound of her contentment gave him immense satisfaction. He didn’t think he’d ever like anything better than giving Catie fulfillment.

  Gradually, Catie turned toward him. Her eyes were heavy-lidded as she looked at him, and he couldn’t stop what he knew must be a cocky smile. “Feeling better now?”

  “Umm-hmm.” She closed her eyes and stretched. He took the opportunity to allow his gaze to travel the length of her naked body. Her legs were as long as he’d anticipated, her thighs slim and muscled like a good Thoro
ughbred’s. He could picture those legs wrapped around him, her rounded hips rising to meet his every thrust.

  When he looked back into her face, she was watching him. “Thank you,” she said, her hand reaching out to trail a finger lazily over his mouth. He closed his eyes and soaked in the moment of tenderness. He had not had many such moments in the last ten years.

  She ran her finger over his lips and then across his cheek and over his eyes. Her touch was light and exploratory, as though she wanted to memorize every inch of his face. Then her hand strayed to his neck and his shoulder. She pushed lightly, indicating she wanted him on his back, and he obliged her, knowing what she would see when he moved to allow her more access.

  Her hand trailed down his chest and then stopped. He felt her tense beside him and opened his eyes to find her looking down. His erection hardened and throbbed the longer she stared. “I still want you,” he said quietly, and her eyes jerked up to his. “But the decision is yours. We can stop now, if you like.”

  She blinked. “That hardly seems fair.”

  “Fairness is subjective, and the sole property of those who make the rules. Tonight you make the rules. What do you think is fair?”

  She chewed her lip and looked down at him again. “I think it only fair you feel the same pleasure I did.”

  He nodded. “There are many ways to accomplish that, but only one that will truly make you my wife.”

  “Is that what you want?” she said.

  “More than anything.”

  “Then I want that, too. What do I have to do?”

  “I’m afraid I will hurt you this first time.” He leaned over her, pushing her back against his bed gently and stroking a lock of her hair back from her face. “Will you tell me if it hurts too much?”

  She nodded, and he could see the fear creep back into her eyes. He couldn’t resist propping himself up on one elbow and kissing her. And then he could not resist touching her, running his hands over her body in much the same way she had touched him only a few moments before. He learned the texture of her skin, the dips and the rises of her body, the weight of her breasts and the swell of her hip.

  It was not long before her fear subsided, and he heard her breathing catch and then come in shorter bursts once again. She was wonderfully responsive, this bride who was to be his wife. She was a confusing mixture of temerity and confidence, trust and wariness. She was a work in progress—an early draft that was awkward but so genuine that he could not help but feel tenderness for her. And she gave it in return.

  How he needed something tender and genuine in his life. The rhetoric, the political shouldering and selling—he’d mastered and thrived on them. He could be a bully when he need be. He could wheedle and he could demand and he could compromise.

  But here, at home, he just wanted to be Quint. He wanted tenderness and pleasure and his wife’s contented sighs. She moaned beneath him, and he nudged her legs apart, this time settling himself between them. He was gentle and careful not to crush her with his weight. Her eyes fluttered open at this new feeling, but he kissed her again, and after a few minutes she relaxed and began to respond.

  She was soft and pliant under him. She also felt small and vulnerable, and he ached to protect her and to bring her pleasure as well. He worried that between her fear and his complete lack of experience with virgins, this first time would not bring her much pleasure. He tried to think of the many nights to come.

  It was not difficult to think of her on other nights and in other positions. He imagined her on top of him, her breasts jutting out as she arched back and took him inside her. He imagined her looking over her shoulder at him as he entered her from behind. And he thought of her in his arms, both of them lying sated after a night of lovemaking.

  He could imagine her heavy with his child; then smiling at him with a baby in her arms; then coming to greet him, leading their children by tiny, unsteady hands. He wanted all of this from her, and it began tonight.

  He’d been stroking her breasts and her stomach, but now he reached between them and stroked the moist slit between her legs. She was warm and wet, and he knew she was ready for him—her body, if not her mind.

  “Sweetling,” he whispered, and her eyes fluttered. She moaned as his fingers found the hard nub between her folds. “I’m going to enter you now.”

  It was the closest he could come to asking her permission. It was already taking most of his willpower to keep from plunging into her.

  “Yes,” she moaned, pressing against him. “Yes, I want you inside me.”

  He rose up and inserted the tip of his manhood. She moaned again, and he paused, knowing that her pleasure might soon end. “I’ll try to be gentle,” he murmured, entering her more fully and feeling his own pleasure build just as he encountered her barrier.

  She was still moving against him, moaning and asking him for more. Her pleas and the feel of her tightening around him were driving him to madness. He pulsed and throbbed inside her, wanting to thrust hard and deep, but holding himself back. And then he felt the prick of her fingernails dent the flesh of his back, and he could hold off no longer. As slowly and gently as he could, he broke her barrier, opening her up, and entering her fully.

  He bit his lip to stop the cry of ecstasy. She was so hot and tight. God, she felt so good. He moved within her and almost came. The only thing that stopped him was the small prick of pain in his back.

  He opened his eyes and looked into her frightened face.

  “I’m hurting you,” he said, seeing the pain now and the tears escaping onto her cheeks.

  She nodded. “You-you’re too big. You don’t fit.”

  “It’s only this first time,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to kiss her gently. “I’m fitting you to me, sweetling. After this time, I promise our joining will bring you nothing but pleasure.”

  He moved within her again, and her nails dug deeper.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked. God, he prayed she would not ask him to stop, but he mentally girded himself for the possibility. He could still cease, but if he did not pull out soon, he would not be able to control himself. Already, instinct began overriding reason. Unable to resist, he moved within her, sliding against her sleek folds. He bit back a groan.

  “Sweetling,” he said between clenched teeth, “if you want me to stop, you have to say so now. I can’t”—he moved inside her again, thrusting deeper into her warmth—“hold on much longer.”

  And then he felt her legs wrap around him, and her body relax enough so that she seemed to accommodate him. “You are my husband now in truth,” she said, and kissed him with passion. “Don’t stop.”

  He didn’t. He was gentle and cautious, holding back as much as he could until the urge to plunge into her a final time overtook him. He was aware that her fingernails dug into his bunched shoulders, that she smelled like peaches and him, and that he had never known he could feel so much pleasure. And then he could hold back no longer, and he didn’t want to. He went over the edge and plunged into her with body and soul.

  When they finally parted, he pulled her close and fit his body around her, cradling her in his arms. “Next time,” he whispered into her hair, “I promise I’ll give you only pleasure.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, her breath tickling the skin of his shoulder.

  He held her like that, staying awake and vigilant until she slept. And even then he did not doze. He lay beside her, listening to her quiet breathing, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, and losing himself in the heat her woman’s body generated in slumber.

  She was gone when he awoke the next morning. He was disappointed at not finding her beside him, but admittedly he’d overslept. He dressed quickly, hoping to catch her before her morning ride and perhaps join her, but as he strode down the steps of his house his butler announced that Meeps was waiting for him in the study.

  Not the person Quint wanted to see just then, but business would have to win over pleasure today. Meeps was sitting in one of th
e armchairs, reading the Times and sipping tea when Quint strode in. The assistant stood, bowed, then gestured to a lone sheet of paper on Quint’s desk. Quint went to it immediately. As he read, he had to sit down.

  It took a moment for Quint to find his voice, and then he said, “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  “My lord, I told you others were in competition for the Cabinet seat.”

  “Others, yes. You said Fairfax had not been given a nod.”

  Meeps inclined his head. “It was a foregone conclusion, especially once your name was thrown into the ring.”

  Quint swore. Fairfax and he had been contemporaries at Oxford, always in competition with one another. They were not enemies, not even on opposite sides of the political fence. Their careers had been on a parallel course until last spring when Fairfax married Lady Honoria, daughter of the Duke of Astly.

  Quint had watched as Fairfax’s popularity soared. Lady Honoria was polished and beautiful. She was schooled in the social graces by those who made the rules of etiquette, and the political salons and soirees she hosted for Fairfax were immensely popular among the secretaries and Cabinet ministers.

  Lady Honoria had been one reason Quint decided it was time he seek a wife. He could not hope to keep up with men like Fairfax without some ammunition.

  And now he had his ammunition—the niece of an earl—nothing to scoff at. Except he had not married the charming Elizabeth Fullbright, but her shy, socially awkward sister.

  “Fairfax. Goddamn it,” Quint grumbled now.

  “I advised you to stay in London.”

  Quint glared at Meeps, and his assistant shrank back in his chair a bit. “Since you seem so adept at advising me,” Quint said in his most scathing tone, “why don’t you advise me what to do now? Fairfax is the undisputed favorite for the Cabinet seat. How do I change that?”

  “You must return to London. Posthaste.”

  “Damn it, but I knew you were going to say that.”

  “And then you must launch a three-pronged attack.”