She giggled.
His chest seized. Her giggle was adorable. There was no other way to describe it. Her smile was infectious. And she was lovely. So lovely, she made him ache.
Longing struck him. For the first time since Maria’s death, he did not just want another woman physically. The desire he felt for Catriona, it was something more. It was something different. He felt…connected to her somehow. He wanted her smile. He wanted her joy.
Her lips were pink and lush and full, and the temptation to cover them with his own was as strong as it was undeniable. He yearned to claim her laughter, to swallow it, to inhale it, to take it inside himself.
“Catriona,” he said again, this time thickly.
Instead of helping her up, his fingers—cursed fingers, with minds of their own—sank into her hair. He cradled her head.
“Oh, Alessandro,” she said on a sigh. “Only my pride is injured. What must you think of me?”
He thought rather a lot of her. But his emotions were too complex, too confusing.
“Are you certain you did not injure something?” he asked.
She seemed fine, but he had spent the last few years of his life with a band of guerrilla soldiers. He had seen inebriation before. Many times. And he knew from experience she may not even notice if she had been hurt.
“I am fine,” she assured him, still smiling. Another giggle escaped her lips. “I am sorry. I cannot seem to stop laughing.”
He did not mind. He liked the way she laughed. Indeed, he liked the way Catriona did a lot of things. He also liked the silken strands of her hair in his hands. He had not noticed before the sheen of copper glinting in the warm depths of brown. The urge to pluck the pins from her luxurious tresses, to let them fall down around her shoulders, was strong.
“I fear I allowed you too much brandy,” he told her.
As for his excuse? He had none, other than he had been too long without a woman. Perhaps the combination of once more having a wife and his self-imposed celibacy in England had taken their toll upon him. Perhaps it was merely the reaction he had to Catriona.
“I should not have drank so much.” She giggled up at him, then startled him by catching his face in her hands, pressing her palms to his cheeks as if she were admiring him. “You are beautiful, even when you frown at me.”
“I do not frown at you,” he denied. “I frown at the world.”
“Then perhaps you will smile with me,” she murmured, her thumbs tracing over his cheekbones. “Whilst you are here. Whilst I have you.”
She was not laughing now.
And he was not frowning either. Perhaps you will smile with me. Cristo, such innocence. Such goodness. He was staring at her, bemused. She was his wife.
He wanted to say it.
So he did, but in the language he preferred. “Mi bella esposa.” But he could not find it within him to smile. “Come. We must get you to bed so you may rest. A long day of travel awaits us tomorrow.”
Her fingers traveled to his lips then, stilling over them. Her touch was a brand. An uncontrollable bolt of desire licked down his spine, settling in his groin. The effect she had on him was almost damning.
“Will you smile for me first?” she asked, her voice little more than a hushed whisper. “Please, Alessandro.”
Inside him roiled a foreign concoction of want, of desire, of frenzied need, of unwise affection. But of guilt, too. Of pain. He could not separate the anguish from the joy, the grief from the hope. All he knew was this fierce woman was making him feel things he had no longer believed he was capable of feeling.
“Please,” she said again. “I know it is foolish. I know you do not like me.”
And then she issued a half-laugh, half-snort that was somehow even more endearing than all the others preceding it.
The strange urge built to a crescendo within him. He smiled.
And then he kissed the fingers lingering over his lips. Kissed them because this was all he dared. “I like you too much, querida,” he confessed against her gentle touch.
One more kiss was all he dared, lest he start making love to her here on the library floor. For there would be no lovemaking tonight, and he understood that. She had over-imbibed and was not herself. And he… He was not himself either. Their nuptials had left him shaken.
But not just their marriage.
Something had shifted this evening. They had crossed boundaries he had not believed could be trespassed against. He understood that as he gazed down upon her, her fingertips still pressed over his lips in a parody of the kiss he was determined to deny them both.
“I have been dear for some time,” she observed.
He noticed how long her lashes were.
“Yes, you have.” Only he had not realized it himself until now. Until she had pointed it out to him.
Dios.
“I need something to call you,” Catriona murmured, her gaze searching his.
“Alessandro,” he supplied, grim.
She shook her head. “If I am your dear, you shall be my darling.”
She said it with such conviction, he could not deny her. He kissed her fingers again, and then reluctantly withdrew his fingers from her hair, leaving her coiffure largely intact.
Instead, he took her hands in his, removing her touch from his mouth at last. “As it suits you, querida. Now come, if you please. Let us get some slumber. The morning will come all too soon.”
*
The morning always seemed to come far too soon.
On a yawn, Catriona stretched her arms high above her head, her toes pointed. Dawn was beginning to lighten London, seeping through the heavy window dressings of her new chamber. Her bed was comfortable, the linens soft and expensive and scented delightfully of lavender.
And that was when the full realization hit her.
She was no longer at Hamilton House.
She was in the countess’s chamber at Riverford House. Because she was now the Countess of Rayne. Yesterday, her life had been forever altered. She had married Alessandro, and he had brought her here. Still stretching, she blinked as fuzzy remembrance returned to her.
He had brought her here. Introduced her to the domestics. Dined with her. He had taken her to the library, and…oh dear heavens.
The brandy.
Her entire body tensed at the same moment she realized she was not alone in her bed. A deep sound of contentment cut through the stillness of the air, and then a strong arm snaked about her waist, pulling her into a hard, hot, undeniably male body.
Her bottom was lodged soundly against something thick and long. Lips nuzzled her ear. A scorching wall of masculine chest pressed into her shoulders, searing her through the fine fabric of her night rail.
“Mmm,” he murmured contentedly.
Was he asleep?
What had happened last night?
She could recall nothing beyond brandy in the library, followed by pitching to the floor. Yes, she remembered that much. She had fallen, and he had rushed to her aid, dropping to his knees at her side. Had she dreamt his concern? Had she made a complete ninny of herself? Had she truly touched his mouth? And called him darling?
A low groan of misery emerged from her.
Her husband had married her for the express purpose of securing an heir. And she had unburdened her foolish heart to him, just before falling face first into his Aubusson. She was never drinking brandy again.
What else had happened? Alessandro had dismissed her lady’s maid. Had he helped her to disrobe? Had he seen her naked? Good heavens, had she slept through the consummation? Had she lain still? Thought of the weather?
His hand moved, staying further thoughts, and suddenly, he was cupping her breast.
The mortification inside her dissipated. In its place was warmth. And sensation. A glorious, delicious sensation. His thumb grazed over her nipple, making it tighten and sending an answering pulse of something wicked between her thighs. His lips grazed her ear.
More of that, please.
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He worked his thumb over her nipple again. The pulse turned into an ache. She forgot about her embarrassment, forgot to wonder what had happened the last night, forgot everything but him. He had touched her before, of course, but never so intimately. Her entire body felt as if it were aflame.
“Querida,” he murmured, his voice gruff and low from sleep. “You are awake?”
Would he stop touching her if she answered in the affirmative?
“I know you are not sleeping,” he pressed, then answered her silent question by giving her breast a gentle squeeze.
She liked his hands on her. “How did you know I was awake?” she forced herself to ask.
“You snore.” He kissed behind her ear.
Her breath caught. “I do not.”
“Yes, you do.” He caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then tugged. “Though perhaps it was the brandy.”
“I ought not to have imbibed.” Shame wanted to return to her, but then he plucked at her nipple again and fresh sensation blossomed. “It was dreadfully…oh.”
She closed her eyes and arched her back, wanting more of that delicious contact. Never before had she realized how sensitive her breasts were, how eager for touch. His teasing caresses were a revelation. Her bottom was pressed more snugly to him, his rigid length more pronounced.
His manhood, she realized, her mouth going dry. Instinctively, she wiggled her rump, trying to get closer, aching for him in places she had not realized could ache.
He made a low sound, half-growl, half-groan. “Stop moving like that querida, or I will not rest until I am inside you.”
She wanted him inside her. She wanted him near to her, a part of her. She wanted more than just his hand on her breast and his body pressed to her back.
She wanted everything.
Surely Mama was wrong about the wedding night. What woman could think of rain or wind when Alessandro Forsythe touched her thus?
She moved against him slowly. “Stop moving how?”
“Like that.” His hand left her breast, gliding down her belly to grip her waist. He undulated against her. “I do not want to take you now. The day will be a long one, and I have no wish to be the source of discomfort for you.”
She moved again, allowing her instinct to guide her rather than his warning words. There again was the suggestion she would not like the marriage bed. That it would cause her pain. But thus far, it was difficult indeed to believe Alessandro could bring her anything more than pleasure.
“Did we… last night,” she began softly, “I do not recall…”
“If I made love to you, querida, you would remember,” he said, the promise in his words heating her blood even more.
“Oh.”
His lips settled upon her neck, and this kiss was slow and hot, followed by another, then another. “Dios, I want you.” His hand traveled from her waist, gliding over her hip. “I want you too much.”
That hardly sounded like a problem to Catriona.
“I want you, too,” she confessed on a sigh of bliss as his hand fisted in the skirt of her night rail, dragging the hem over her knees.
Desperately, she could have added, but refrained.
Higher still, he pulled the hem, all the way to her waist. He explored her thigh in slow, tender caresses. And then he kissed the place where her shoulder and neck met before sinking his teeth into her flesh and delivering a light nip.
Dear heavens. That was… He was…
His touch drifted over her inner thigh before settling between her legs. His fingers delved into the sensitive flesh there, parting her folds, nimbly working over a part of her that made her jolt and cry out. The pleasure was intense. Unlike anything she had ever felt.
Terrifying and thrilling all at once.
“Has anyone ever touched you here, querida?” he asked against her skin.
His wicked fingers continued to tease her, stroking, stoking the fire within her. “No,” she said on a gasp.
“You are so wet.” He groaned into her shoulder, kissing her over the fabric of her night rail. “All for me.”
The raw desire in his voice heightened her awareness. She was more than desperate now. She was voracious. Mindless and greedy. Beneath the bedclothes, her hand found his arm. She clutched him, urging him on.
He bit her shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, but with more pressure than the last little nip. It was a sign, she knew, he too was losing control. He was just as helpless to resist the undeniable connection between them as she was.
With his other hand, he urged her onto her back. Though she instantly missed the heat and strength of him behind her, she recognized the benefit of her new position instantly when he nudged her thighs apart. Their gazes connected in the early morning light as his fingers worked over her faster, rubbing her into a frenzy.
Watching him as he touched her so intimately heightened the sensations already threatening to overwhelm her. She felt as if she were going to come apart. As if something inside her was about to break open.
“Sí,” he rumbled with approval, his free hand tunneling into her hair. “Take your pleasure, querida.”
Nothing mattered but his touch. Her hips were moving, thrusting. He increased the pressure, knowing what she needed before she did.
Suddenly, everything changed. The desire inside her peaked. Her body bowed from the bed, surrendering to a burst of bliss so powerful, she could do nothing but cry out. He lowered his face to her throat, kissing her there, his fingers continuing to play over her as quivers of pleasure licked down her spine.
And then his touch moved lower, slipping through her slick folds to teasingly rub over her. When the tip of one finger dipped inside her, she gasped at the intrusion. His mouth opened over her neck, his tongue tasting her skin.
“Are you still a virgin?” he asked softly.
Her ruination had been nothing more than a series of foolish kisses. “Yes.”
He muttered a Spanish curse into her neck. “I cannot take you now.”
Most gentlemen would have been relieved, she thought. And well-pleased. Her husband seemed disappointed.
“You can,” she argued, for she was chasing more of the pleasure he had introduced her to. “Please, Alessandro. I want you to.”
His finger worked in and out of her in shallow thrusts. The desire that had never fled increased. Her heart was pounding, her body filled with the same languor the brandy had imbued the night before, only better.
He lifted his head, staring down at her with an expression she could not decipher. Her gaze caught on his mouth. How she wished he would kiss her in truth. She wanted to feel his lips against hers. But he did not.
“No, querida,” he denied. “There will be a time for lovemaking later.”
But he had not removed his touch. And her body was still singing with bliss.
“Now,” she said. “The time is now.”
She pushed back the sleeve of his nightshirt to access bare skin. She relished the strength, the way he felt, so strong and masculine. Even the hairs on his skin intrigued her. But she supposed that was hardly surprising. Everything about him did.
“Catriona,” he protested. “We must travel.”
“Not yet.” She lifted her left hand to his jaw, tracing it with her fingertips. The prickle of his whiskers was a delightful surprise. “I want to touch you.”
He inhaled sharply at her confession. “Maldición.”
“Show me how,” she said.
He was not as impenetrable as he liked to pretend.
She affected him every bit as much as he affected her, and the realization filled her with a newfound sense of power.
“This is foolish,” he said, withdrawing his hand at last.
She ached where he had touched her, the stirrings of a fresh rush of pleasure already kindling into more unquenchable flames. “It does not feel foolish to me.”
Indeed, it felt incredible.
He had spent the night in her bed. He had brought
her to the pinnacle of pleasure. And he wanted her. The walls he had erected around himself were beginning to lower, but she wanted to tear every last one of them down. She wanted him.
“It is unwise,” he repeated, staring down at her.
She decided to be bold. She reached for him, and her fingers skimmed over his taut belly. Though he wore a nightshirt, his heat tantalized her through the unwanted barrier.
He hissed out a breath. “Catriona.”
“Alessandro.” She moved lower, seeking the prominent thickness she had felt against her rump earlier.
She was curious, but she also wanted to bring him pleasure as he had done for her. She wanted to make him lose the tight rein he kept upon his control. To undo him. She wanted to consume him.
She found his length and skimmed over it hesitantly.
His hips jerked. She hummed her approval, a bolt of desire piercing her all over again.
“Fine. You want to touch me?” His jaw was clenched. He reached between them, jerking up the hem of his nightshirt. He gripped her wrist and guided her hand to his flesh. “Like this, querida. Stroke me.”
Her fingers closed around him, with his atop. Nothing could have prepared her for the feeling of him, firm and smooth, velvety soft, thick and long. He moved her hand up and down, showing her what he liked.
She wished for the bedclothes to be gone so she could see all of him. But she would settle for this, his hardness filling her hand, the groan he could not suppress falling from his beautiful lips.
Yes.
This.
More.
“Catriona.” Her name was low and guttural.
He was losing himself. She was making him.
She wanted to kiss him, but she would not push him that far. Before he left her, his lips would be hers to claim, she vowed it to herself. For now, she closed the distance between them instead and pressed her lips to his neck. She found his pulse. It was fast, as fast as her own.
And then she licked him. Tasted his flesh as he had tasted hers.
Delicious.
“Mierda,” he bit out before grasping her wrist and pulling her away from him. “I warned you, but you would not listen.”
As she watched, he hauled back the bedclothes in one swift motion, and then, in the next, his big body was atop hers, her legs naturally spread to accommodate him. Her night rail was still bunched around her waist, and his shirt had flipped up in his movement. His manhood rested against her center without any separation between them.
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