Devil's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Half-trapped beneath him, Honoria arched, responding to the intimacy, the steadily growing heat. Desire, a palpable entity, welled and swelled; she squirmed, silk sliding sensuously between them, then moaned and tugged against his hold. He broke their kiss only long enough to say: “No.”

  Twisting her head, she avoided his lips. “I only want to touch you.”

  “Forget it,” he grated. He was dangerously overheated, driven by a desire he’d seriously underestimated; her wandering hands would be the last straw.

  “Why?” Honoria tested his grip, then twisted, trying to gain greater purchase; one soft thigh pressed close, then slid downward, provocatively stroking that part of his anatomy he was desperately trying to ignore.

  His breath hissed in; she pressed closer—Devil forgot why—forgot everything bar the need to assuage the driving force that filled him. Desire crystallized, hardening every muscle. Tightening every nerve. Obliterating the last remnants of caution. He caught her chin and captured her mouth in a searing kiss. He shifted, one leg trapping hers, using his weight to subdue her.

  Not that she was struggling. Her lips clung to his, passionately enticing. She moaned again, this time in abandoned entreaty; her body arched, caressing his, inviting, inciting.

  His hand dropped from her jaw to possessively cup one breast; he kneaded the firm mound, then rolled its tip to a tight bud.

  Honoria gasped; her breast throbbed, then ached as his fingers played. She writhed, savoring his tensed muscles, shifting in response. His body was close—she ached to have him closer. Much closer. Heat flared wherever he touched her; she needed his hardness to quench the flame, to satisfy the fever that sang in her veins.

  She wanted him, needed him—there was no longer any reason she couldn’t have him. Desperately, she tugged at his grip—it firmed. His hand left her breast—before she could protest, she heard a muffled click. She stilled—the bodice of her gown peeled away. Her heart thudded, then raced. The drawstring of her chemise pulled tight, then released—the gossamer-fine fabric floated down, leaving her breasts bare.

  Devil lifted his head; Honoria drew in a shuddering breath. She felt the cool touch of the moonlit air, felt the heat of his gaze. Her nipples crinkled tight. Lifting lids suddenly heavy, she looked up. His face was graven, harsh planes sharp-edged. Her breasts throbbed painfully; as if he could sense it, he bent his head.

  And touched his lips to her heated skin. Honoria stiffened; her senses leapt. Devil dropped hot kisses around one aureole, then drew the soft flesh into his mouth. She tensed. He suckled—and she thought she would die. Sensation streaked through her; her toes curled. She gasped, her body tightening, lifting against him. Her fingers, still locked above her head, clenched tight.

  He tortured her soft flesh until she cried out, then turned to her other breast. Only when that, too, was aching fiercely, when her body felt molten, pulsing with need, did he raise his head. From beneath her lashes, Honoria watched as he skimmed his hand down, possessively caressing the smooth curve of her hip, then tracing the long sweep of her thigh. Her lungs seized when his fingers slid beneath her hem; her heart stopped when, in one, smooth motion, he swept her skirts up to her waist.

  Honoria trembled. Cool air caressed her fevered flesh; his gaze, hot as the sun, dispelled the chill, roaming comprehensively, surveying what he intended to possess. Then he turned his head and met her gaze. His hand tightened about her bare hip, then slid lower in a tantalizing caress, hard palm and long fingers stroking knowingly down, then up.

  Her gaze trapped in his, Honoria shuddered. He leaned closer; she shut her eyes as his lips found hers. She gave herself up to him, up to their kiss, surrendered to the sweet wildfire that rose between them.

  Devil’s conqueror’s soul relished the victory—he pressed on, eager for the final conquest. The long sweep of her ivory thighs was a potent attraction, her skin warm satin to his touch. Her softly rounded belly tensed beneath his hand; he slid his palm over her hip, his fingers curving about one firm buttock.

  Knowingly, he traced, caressed; tangling his fingers in the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, he gently teased. Beneath him, Honoria shifted restlessly, her lips clinging to his. He drew back, fleetingly studying her face, passion-blank. At his whispered command, she parted her thighs—then gasped as he touched her, then cupped her. Only when that first flaring shock of awareness had died did he caress her, intimately stroking the delicate swollen folds, parting them to find the bud of her desire, already hard and throbbing. He circled it, and felt her passion rise—he found her slickness and gently probed, deliberately inciting the wave of desire building between them.

  The higher the wave, the headier the ride, the more profound the final crash. Bringing years of experience to bear, he fed her passion until it became a raging tide.

  Caught on the crest, Honoria knew nothing beyond her violent need, centered in the swollen, throbbing flesh he so knowingly stroked, so tantalizingly caressed. Then one long finger slid deeper, circled, then pressed deeper still. She caught her breath on a moan; her body lifted, helplessly seeking. He stroked—the heat within her ignited.

  Again and again came that intimate invasion; eyes closed, senses raging, she wanted more. He knew her need; his lips returned to hers, his tongue claiming her mouth in the same, mesmerizingly languid rhythm with which he probed her heated body.

  Her breasts swollen and heavy, Honoria arched against him, trying to ease their ache. Abruptly, he released her lips; a second later, his mouth fastened about one nipple.

  A strangled shriek escaped her—lightning streaked through her; the conflagration within her roared. The hand locked about hers disappeared. Devil shifted; using one hand to ease the ache of one breast, he caressed the other with lips and tongue. Between her thighs, his fingers slid deep, and still deeper.

  Her hands free, Honoria reached for him.

  Immediately, events became more heated, more urgent. She wrestled his cravat from him, then set about undoing the buttons of his shirt. Frantic, she stopped halfway and, shifting, squirming and panting, struggled with his coat. Devil struggled to hold her still. With a muttered curse, he suddenly pulled back and shrugged, then flung his coat and waistcoat aside. Honoria welcomed him back with open arms, thrilled to her toes when she finally made contact with his naked chest. His muscles tensed, shifted—greedily, she explored. Crisp hair tangled about her fingers; beneath her palms, he burned.

  Devil felt her yank his shirt free of his waistband, felt her small hands slide about him, reaching to caress the broad muscles of his back. He raised his head. She tightened her hold—the twin peaks of her breasts pressed against his bare chest; the heat between her thighs scalded him. That naked embrace left him shaking, gasping, struggling to regain any glimmer of control. Every instinct he possessed urged him on, urged him to take all she offered, to sink into her slick heat and take her, claim her beyond recall. The pressure of that instinct was overwhelming; his fingers were on the buttons of his trousers, his rake’s instincts running a final cursory check—when he remembered her fear.

  Her reason for not marrying.

  He stilled. Then blinked. He heard his ragged breathing, felt his chest swell. Raging desire pounded at his senses; passion, unleashed, fought for release. But . . . In that crazed instant, lust and will collided. The shock was almost physical. The wrenching effort required to draw his hands from Honoria, to roll away and sit up, left him giddy.

  With a whimper, Honoria pulled him back. Or tried to. She couldn’t get a grip on his body—clenching her hands in his loose shirt, she tugged desperately. All she did was rock herself.

  Devil didn’t shift. Gently, he caught her hands and disengaged her fingers. “No.”

  “No?” The question came out as a muted wail; in utter disbelief, Honoria stared at him. “You’re a rake—rakes don’t say ‘No’!”

  He had the grace to grimace. “This isn’t right.”

  Honoria drew a deep breath; her senses were whirli
ng, clamoring with need. “You’ve been bedding women for God knows how long—you must by now know what to do!”

  The look Devil cast her was exceedingly sharp. “What I meant was, this isn’t how I intend bedding you.”

  Honoria opened her eyes wide. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes!” His expression grim, he shook his head. “This wasn’t supposed to happen yet!”

  Her hands still trapped in his, Honoria stared at him. “Why did you bring me down here, then?”

  “Believe it or not, I had merely envisaged an illicit waltz—not a full-scale seduction.”

  “Then what are we doing on this daybed?”

  Devil clenched his jaw. “I got carried away—by you!”

  “I see.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re allowed to seduce me, but I’m not allowed the reciprocal privilege?”

  The eyes that met hers were mere green shards. “Precisely. Seduction is an art best left to the experts.”

  “I’m obviously a quick learner—I’ve had an excellent teacher.” Her hands immobilized in his, she tugged, trying to topple him back down; if she could just get him back on the bed alongside her . . .

  “No!” Abruptly, Devil let go of her hands and stood; grimly, he looked down at her. She hadn’t seduced him—something in him had accomplished that. Whatever it was, he didn’t trust it—that force that whispered within him, urging him to capitulate, to toss aside his careful plans and fall in, lustily, with hers. “When you come to me as my wife, I want you to come of your own free will. Because you’ve made the decision to become my duchess. That’s not a decision you’ve yet made.”

  Staggered, Honoria stared at him. “What do you imagine this is all about?” Her gesture encompassed her seminaked sprawl.

  Devil narrowed his eyes. “Curiosity.”

  “Curi . . . ?” Honoria’s mouth fell open, then shut; lips setting ominously, she came up on one elbow.

  Devil spoke before she could. “Even if it wasn’t—even if you’d made up your mind in cold blood—how the hell could I tell now, when you’re so heated you’re almost simmering?”

  Honoria met his eyes—and wished she had an answer.

  “You’re all but drunk with passion—don’t try to deny it.”

  She didn’t—couldn’t; just sitting up had nearly made her swoon. Her pulse thundered in her ears; she felt flushed one instant, then desperate for heat—his heat—the next. There was a curious, molten void pulsing within her; her breathing was so shallow it was difficult to think.

  Devil’s gaze, on her face, became more intent, then flicked down, swiftly scanning. The folds of her gown had slipped down, the hem floating on her thighs. Instantly, his eyes switched back to her face; she saw his jaw set, saw the iron shackles of his control lock.

  He spoke through clenched teeth, frustration in his voice. “It’s important to me to know that you’ve made a conscious decision—that you’ve decided to become my wife, the mother of my children, for your own reasons, not because I’ve seduced, coerced, or manipulated you into it.”

  “I’ve made my decision.” Honoria struggled to her knees. “How can I convince you?”

  “I need to hear you say it—state it—when you’re fully compos mentis.” Devil held her gaze. “I want to hear you declare that you’ll be my duchess, that you want to bear my children.”

  Through the haze of her passion, Honoria glimpsed an unexpected light. She narrowed her eyes. “Just why do you need this declaration?”

  Devil looked down at her—and narrowed his eyes back. “Can you deny you’ve avoided marrying because of your decision not to risk losing children—like you lost your brother and sister?”

  Stunned, she stared at him. “How did you know?”

  Devil’s jaw firmed. “Michael told me about your brother and sister. The rest’s obvious. You must have had a reason for not marrying—you avoid young children.”

  His presumption in guessing her most private fear—correctly—was infuriating; Honoria knew she should react—do something to put him in his place. Instead, their talk of children had evoked a far stronger response, a surging, primitive urge to put him in his place, in quite a different way.

  Their discussion had done nothing to quench the desire beating steady in her veins. They were both half-naked, both breathing rapidly; passion still throbbed between them. His every muscle was sharply defined, locked against that driving need. She had no such defense.

  Realization swept her—and left her quivering. “I . . .” She searched his eyes, her own widening. She spread her arms helplessly. “You can’t leave me like this.”

  Devil looked into her eyes—and mentally cursed—himself, her—and Celestine’s damned gown, gathered in sheening folds about her waist, draping her thighs in silken splendor. As he watched, a telltale shiver racked her, an almost-imperceptible quiver rippling beneath her skin.

  Reaching out, she locked her fingers in his shirt and pulled. Reluctantly, he shifted closer. He’d purposely aroused her, deliberately pushed her to a state bordering on the frantic.

  “Please?” The soft plea lay on her bruised lips; it glowed in her eyes.

  What could a gentleman do? With one last mental curse, Devil gathered her into his arms and set his lips to hers.

  She opened to him instantly, sinking against him. He gave her what she wanted, steadily fanning her flames, holding himself rigidly aloof. His demons were once more under his control—he wasn’t about to let the reins slip again.

  Honoria sensed his decision; the muscles that surrounded her remained locked and unyielding. She would not be his wife tonight. But she had no will left to rail against fate—her entire being was focused on the fire that raged within her. Wave upon flaming wave it seared through her, leaving her empty and yearning, weak with need. How he was going to sate her hunger she did not know; adrift, she gave herself up to his kisses, surrendered to the inferno and put herself in his hands.

  When he lifted his head she was reeling, and hotter than she’d been in her life. Her whole being was one heated, aching void. Gasping, she clung to his shoulders.

  “Trust me.”

  He whispered the words against her throat, then trailed wicked kisses down one blue vein. Honoria let her head fall back, then shuddered. The next instant, he swung her into his arms. She waited to be laid on the daybed—instead, he carried her around it; his back to it, he set her on her feet before him, facing the long mirror on the wall.

  Honoria blinked. The moonlight found her skin and set it shimmering; behind her, Devil appeared a dense shadow, his hands dark against her body. Honoria licked her lips. “What are you going to do?”

  He bent his head and traced one earlobe with his tongue.

  “Satisfy you. Release you.” His eyes met hers in the mirror.

  “Pleasure you.”

  The deep purring murmur sent a sharp thrill racing through her; his hands slid around to cup both breasts—his fingers tightened and she shuddered. “All you have to do is do exactly as I say.” Again he met her gaze. “Keep your eyes open and watch my hands—and concentrate on what you feel, on the sensations . . .”

  His words were low, hypnotic; Honoria couldn’t drag her eyes from his hands, rhythmically kneading her breasts. She watched his long fingers reach for her nipples; they swirled, then squeezed—sharp shivers lanced through her. She sucked in a short breath and leaned back—and felt his bare chest behind her, crisp hair rasping against her bare shoulders.

  His hands left her breasts—she refocused on the mirror. One dark hand splayed across her midriff, holding her against him; the other gripped her gown, gathered in folds about her hips. She realized his intention and stiffened—protest welled, but never made it past her lips. He drew both gown and chemise down, over her hips, baring her, then let them slither to the floor. The costly fabrics pooled about their feet—Honoria ignored them, shocked, entranced, mesmerized by the sight of dark hands freely roaming her body.

  She heard a low moan, and kn
ew it was hers. Her head fell back against his shoulder; her spine arched. Her senses, fully alive, registered every touch, every knowing caress; from under weighted lids, she watched every erotic move. Then he shifted, his arms coming around her, surrounding her, his left hand cupping her right breast, his right hand splaying over her stomach. From behind, his knee pressed hers apart; head bent, his lips grazed the soft skin beneath her ear. “Keep watching.”

  Honoria did—she watched as his hand slid lower, long fingers tangling in her curls, then sliding further, pressing inward. He touched her softness, found her molten heat and stroked. Breathless, aching, she felt the muscles in his arm shift as he reached further, felt the pressure of his hand between her thighs, felt the slow inexorable invasion as one long finger entered her.

  Sensation upon sensation crashed through her; the hand at her breast fondled, fingers finding, then tightening about her budded nipple. Of their own volition, her hands found his, fastening over his broad wrists. The crisp hair of his forearms rasped the soft skin of her inner arms; beneath her fingers, hard muscle and steely sinew played.

  Between her thighs, his hand shifted; as one finger slid deep, his thumb pressed, caressed.

  Lightning, wildfire—pure streaks of elemental sensation lanced through her; her body tightened, arched; Honoria gasped. His caresses continued, increasingly forceful; within her, sensations swirled, then rose—a vortex of feeling.

  “Keep watching.”

  Naked, on fire, she dragged her lids open—and saw his hand push deep between her thighs.

  A starburst took her—exploded within her. Sensation crystallized, soared, then fractured, a million silver shards raining down, shooting through her, flying down overstretched nerves to melt, tingling, beneath her skin.

  Release.

  It swept her, washing away her tension, replacing it with a pleasure so deep she thought she’d died. She felt his lips at her temple, felt his hands soften in soothing, intimate caresses. Sweet oblivion claimed her.