by Jane Porter
“You might have fallen asleep before I arrived, but I did come to you last night. I slept with you last night. I promised you I’d be here, and I am.” He drew back the covers and slid in next to her. “You don’t remember last night?”
“No.” She frowned. “Did we...do...things?”
He reached across the bed for her, dragged her toward him, tangling her bare legs in the covers. “No. Regretfully not. I just held you. And spent the night with an endless hard-on.”
She laughed as he pulled her under him but her laughter died as he lowered his powerful body onto hers. He was hard now. His length pressed against her belly.
“It’s back,” she whispered breathlessly.
“That’s because it never went away.” He dipped his head and kissed the side of her neck.
She sighed and arched against him. His hips ground against hers. She pressed her hips up, rubbing against the tip of his thick shaft, wanting it, wanting him.
“You want me,” he said, his voice a rasp in her ear.
She nodded as his mouth covered hers, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. She did want him. All of him. And not just the things he did to her, but the things he made her feel. “Yes,” she said, because she needed this, needed to feel. It had been a year of so much sadness and confusion that she needed to feel something warm and good again.
Mikael was making her feel very warm and good.
“What shall I do to you?” he murmured, kissing her jaw, and then her chin, before brushing her mouth with his.
She reached up, and wound her arms around his neck, drawing his head down. “Everything.”
They kissed for hours, kissing until they were both panting and damp and tangled in sheets. Jemma wanted more, but she also loved this, the intense need, the desire, the fierce pleasure of just wanting and being wanted.
Her body ached and throbbed, even as her heart ached and throbbed. And as Mikael kissed her, touched her, his hands lighting her on fire and keeping the flames burning, glowing, she began to think that this might not just be lust anymore.
This wasn’t about sex, either. It was more than sex. More than desire. Something else was stirring to life but what it was, she didn’t know, and wasn’t ready to face. Wasn’t sure she could.
“I have news for you,” he murmured against her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair. He kissed her once more. “We should talk.”
Jemma went still. “What is it?”
“Your mother.” He shifted his weight and moved away from her, rolling onto his back. He grabbed a pillow and placed it under his head. “And she’s not sick, so you don’t need to look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Jemma demanded, sitting up, and tugging her sheer nightgown down, hoping she was adequately covered.
“Like something terrible has happened to her. Nothing terrible has happened. What’s happened is good.”
“What’s happened?”
“It isn’t good for your mother to have so much stress. A woman of her age needs to have her own home. I think she will do better if she has her own place again.”
“Of course she would. We would all like that for her. But it’s a dream at this point.”
“There’s a turn of the century shore colonial in Keofferam in Old Greenwich that I think would suit her. It has a big wraparound porch, and a small caretaker’s apartment over a detached garage for a housekeeper or nurse, should your mother one day require one. It’s recently been renovated so your mother wouldn’t have to do anything.”
“Yes, that all sounds very lovely, but you can’t buy property in that area for less than two million, and a home such as the one you describe would easily be upward of three million—”
“Almost four,” he agreed, “but it’s in pristine condition and has the high ceilings and elegant formal rooms she would enjoy.”
Jemma reached for a pillow and drew it to her chest. “You sound as if you know her.”
“I did meet her at your sister’s wedding, but you forget, your mother and mine were very similar in background. It’s not difficult to imagine the kind of home she would be comfortable in, so I can tell you now that the house is in escrow, and I’ve been assured it will close at the end of today, as the wired funds have already reached the bank. I had my Realtor purchase the house in your mother’s maiden name, which apparently is her legal name again. No one can take it from her.”
Jemma stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
“I think she’s suffered enough, don’t you?”
Jemma struggled to speak around the lump filling her throat. “But you hate the Copelands.”
“I hate your father, but your mother shouldn’t be punished for his crimes.” He hesitated. “Nor should you. So I did what I thought was best. It is my gift to you—”
“It’s too much. I can’t accept—”
“You don’t have to. The gift is in your mother’s name. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
“She won’t accept it.”
“She has.”
“What?”
“I have been communicating with your brother, Branson. He has assisted me with a few financial details.”
“He would never do that!”
Mikael sat up, muscles tightening across his chest, rippling down the length of his bare, lean torso. “You don’t think a son wants his mother safe? Protected?”
“I know Branson. He wouldn’t allow you to do such a thing.”
“He would, if he understood we had done it together.”
Jemma grew still. “You told him about...us?”
“I told him you were here with me, and that I intended to make you my queen.”
“And he was okay with that?”
Mikael nodded and lay back down, arms folding behind his head. “Better than okay. He was very pleased for both of us and offered to throw us a party in London, as soon as we could visit. I told him we’d be there soon, probably before the end of the month.”
She squeezed the pillow tighter. “You sound so smug.”
“You should be happy I helped her, not angry.”
“You can’t do these things, though.”
“Why not? I am your husband. It’s my duty to provide for you and your family.”
“A family you hate.”
“Things have changed. You are my wife, and my family now, and I seek to honor you, and your family—”
“But what happens when I leave here in four days? What happens when you send me back? You promised you would, if I wasn’t happy—”
“Are you unhappy?”
Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Was she unhappy?
It was strange to be asked that question now, so bluntly, because no, she wasn’t unhappy. She was actually happier than she’d been in months, maybe even years.
“That’s not the point,” she said, sliding off the bed to pace the room.
“It’s not?”
“No.” She paced back toward him, confused, frustrated, no longer sure of anything.
“Then what is the point? Because I thought I had eight days to prove to you that I could make you happy, and I am making you happy, so what is the problem?”
She threw out her hands. “This!” she cried, gesturing at the purple walls with gold stencil. “This,” she added, plucking at the silk nightgown. “This,” she said, pointing to the bed, where he lay so supremely confident and comfortable, looking every bit a king. “None of this is real. None of this is my real life. It’s just a dream. It’s surreal. It’s not going to last!”
“Says who?” he asked tersely, revealing the first hint of impatience.
“Me!”
“And you are an expert on reality? You, with the model for a boyfriend and the plan to enter Saidia o
n a stolen passport?”
“It wasn’t stolen, it was my sister’s, and you’re hateful to throw Damien in my face. You know I loved him, and you know he hurt me. And you’re just jealous because you can bombard me with expensive gifts but you know deep down, you’ll never be able to buy my love.”
Jemma walked out, pushing through the doors to the central courtyard, and then on to the other side, through a door to the Chamber of Innocence. She grabbed an ivory robe from the bathroom, wrapped it around her, and then walked out, leaving the Bridal Palace in search of her own wing. Her rooms, the ones she’d been brought to on arriving at the Kasbah.
She was done with this stupid honeymoon game. Done being kept locked up like a kidnapped bride. She wanted out. She wanted to go home.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Mikael’s deep voice rang out behind her. “We’re not done, laeela.”
“I am.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Maybe not for you!”
“Or you,” he retorted, scooping her up into his arms and dropping her over his shoulder. “You owe me eight days and nights, and we’re only halfway through. I get four more, and I will take all four.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore!”
“Too bad.” He was carrying her back the way she’d just come, walking swiftly, his arm anchored across the back of her legs, holding her in place. “This isn’t a game. You don’t get to run away when you’re tired or your feelings are hurt. This is real, you and me. This is reality.”
He’d kicked open a door down the hall and then kicked it closed behind him. The room was dark and yet he knew where he was going, crossing the floor with long sure strides to drop her unceremoniously on the bed.
She scrambled into a sitting position. “Get out.”
“That’s not happening.”
“I want to be alone.”
“That’s not happening, either.” He untied the sash at her waist, peeled the robe off her shoulders and reached for the hem of her nightgown.
She slapped at his hands. “Don’t touch me!”
“That, my dear wife, is happening.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MIKAEL REACHED PAST Jemma and turned on the small glass lamp on the bedside table, flooding the room with soft ruby light. The bed beneath Jemma gleamed with luxurious red satin, while the large jeweled mirror on the ceiling reflected the silk-covered walls and the decadent satin sheets.
With an irritated flick, he yanked the hem of Jemma’s violet nightgown up, pulling it over her head and then tossing the scrap of violet silk onto the floor, before kicking off his own pajama bottoms. “We don’t need these anymore,” he said flatly, “now that we’re in the Crimson Chamber.”
Jemma scrambled back on the bed. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve lost all patience. I’m not sure which right now,” he said, grabbing her ankle and pulling her back toward him.
Jemma sprawled back on the bed, her long dark hair spilling across the crimson satin, her green eyes flashing. She’d never looked more beautiful. He would have her now. No more games. She was his. He’d chosen her. Married her. She was his queen.
He stretched out over her, and settled his weight between her thighs, his arousal pressing against her core.
She was hot, wet and his length rubbed against her slick heat. It would be so easy to thrust into her, and take her.
So easy to prove to her how much she wanted him.
He knew she craved him physically.
He knew he could make her scream and climax. He could draw out the orgasm and make it last for hours, too.
But that wasn’t the point. His expertise as a lover wasn’t in question. His future as a husband was. His father might have failed as a husband, but Mikael wouldn’t.
Mikael dropped his head, and kissed her neck just above her collarbone, and then kissed higher on her neck, at the spot beneath her ear. He kissed the hollow and then the earlobe. He caught her earlobe in his teeth, his teeth lightly scraping, his breath lightly blowing in her ear.
He felt her nipples pucker and harden against his chest. He released her wrists and stroked her arms, moving in toward her ribs to cup the sides of her breasts, her skin soft and warm and then he stroked out again until his hands covered hers, his fingers linking with hers.
He kissed the side of her jaw, kissed the pulse beating frantically in the hollow beneath her ear and then he covered her mouth with his and kissed her, deeply, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, probing, possessing.
Her thighs parted wider for him. Her hips arched, her body rocking up against him.
“You aren’t really angry because I helped your mother,” he said, lifting his head to look down into her face. The paleness in her face was gone. Her cheeks flushed pink. She wanted him. “You’re angry because you’re afraid. You’re angry because you’re afraid these gifts—particularly this gift to your mother—will trap you in Saidia, with me.”
Her eyes widened and she bit down into her lower lip.
He was right. That was her fear.
His chest grew tight. He felt an unaccountable pang, the pang eerily reminiscent of the ache and loss he’d felt after his mother left Saidia all those years ago. “Laeela, I made you a promise. You give me eight days and nights, and I will not keep you here against your will—”
“It’s not you I’m afraid of,” she interrupted. “It’s me. I believe you will let me go. I believe you will put me on a plane should I request it. But I’m afraid that I might not request it, might not insist on it, and then everything that is uniquely me and mine, everything that I have worked so hard for all these years, will be gone.”
“But if you remain here, you gain a new identity and a new life.”
“As your wife. But I won’t be anyone without you, and I vowed years ago to never be dependent on a man, much less a powerful man, and here in Saidia, I will be completely dependent on you.”
“Is that such a bad thing if the powerful man is a just man?”
Her eyes turned liquid and she swallowed hard. “You already make my heart ache.”
“I think we would make a good team, laeela.”
She struggled to smile. “Maybe you should just make love to me.”
He dipped his head, kissed her lips. “Good idea. So what do you want, my beautiful bride? How can I please you today?”
“You,” she said. “I just want you.”
* * *
Jemma saw heat flare in Mikael’s eyes and felt him harden against her.
She rocked her hips up, savoring the sensation of him against her. He was hard and warm, so warm, and she couldn’t remember ever wanting anyone like this. “Make love to me, Mikael,” she added, wrapping her arms around his neck and sinking her fingers into his crisp hair. “I need you.”
His mouth covered hers, his tongue parting her lips to take her mouth even as he thrust smoothly, deeply into her body, filling her, stretching her.
He felt unbelievable.
She felt unbelievable.
Jemma’s eyes burned and her chest ached, emotion bubbling up inside of her. Her arms slid down around his shoulders to hold him tighter. He was big and powerful and yet he fit her, and felt perfect to her.
Mikael kissed her, drawing her tongue into his mouth, sucking the tip even as he buried himself deeper into her body. She welcomed his weight and the fullness that stole her breath, and then he began to move. His lean sculpted hips dipped and he pressed deeper, then withdrew, only to stroke deep into her again.
She sighed and arched as he hit a spot inside her that tingled with pleasure. “More,” she said, pressing up against him as he drove into her.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It doesn’
t hurt. It feels so good.” And it was true. It felt delicious everywhere. She felt delicious. Everything inside her was warm and sweet and bright. She felt like sunshine and honey, orange and spice and each stroke made her sigh a little deeper, and press against him a little harder.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, meeting each of his thrusts, needing the friction, feeling the tension build. Each stroke of his body made her nerve endings tense, tighten, tingle.
He drove into her faster, increasing the rhythm. She loved the rhythm, the deep hard thrusts, the slickness of their bodies together, the warmth of his chest against hers. She could smell the scent of him, and them together, and it smelled right, felt right, more right than anything she’d ever felt before.
It didn’t make sense, but then, none of this made sense and maybe passion never did.
The teasing tension within her quickened, sharpened, becoming bigger, and more powerful.
She panted and strained against him, wanting to come, not sure she could come and then he slipped his hand between them, stroking her even as he thrust hard into her wet tight body.
She wasn’t prepared for the intensity of the orgasm and she screamed his name as he continued to stroke her, pushing her over the edge, her control shattering, her body climaxing, convulsively tightening around him.
He tensed, strained, his big powerful body arching as he buried himself deep inside her. She was still convulsing around him, her body squeezing him. With a guttural cry, he pulled out, making sure he spilled his seed into the sheets and not her.
She rolled over on the bed, on to her back, eyes closed, still struggling to catch her breath. He followed, lying on his side, next to her, his hand settling low on her hip.
She floated, feeling blissfully relaxed, and yet also very aware of Mikael at her side. She could feel the pressure of his hand, the warmth of his skin, smell his masculine spicy scent, practically hear his steady heartbeat. He was more real to her right now than she was.
He’d become her world in four days. It was exactly as she’d feared.
Jemma opened her eyes to find Mikael looking at her, his dark eyes so beautiful but so impossible to read. “Yes?” she whispered, dazzled, dazed.