The Brazen Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  And his kiss—this kiss, his mouth and hers joined—was the first fascination. The first flare of heat, the first taste of passion. It was more, so much more, than any kiss she’d ever shared with any of her earlier lovers; they’d been boys, mere learners, dilettantes.

  This kiss, his kiss, was one of claiming—of challenge, of blatant promise. Of sensual threat. A statement of intention, certainly—of domination. As with lips and tongue he ravaged and sent her senses spinning, she clung and fought to return the pleasure, to match and meet his educated assault, while inwardly her brazen self rejoiced.

  Titillated, expectant, glorying in the moment.

  His arms had closed around her, his hard hands holding her, then they moved and he sculpted her curves—possessively, predatorially.

  Excitement sparked; her nerves came alive—aware, awake, as they never had been. Tense and waiting, anticipating.

  The next touch, the next flagrantly possessive caress.

  It came, his hard hand closing about one globe of her bottom, the firm curve filling his palm; his fingers kneaded as he held her to him, lifted her to her toes—then he moved, hips suggestively thrusting, the ridge of his erection riding against her mons, the hard length impressing strength, intention, and erotic promise against her taut belly.

  Setting greedy flames flaring low, swelling the hollow emptiness that had opened there.

  The emptiness she needed him to fill.

  Yet . . .

  She felt a tug—realized he’d undone her laces. Felt her bodice sag. In mere seconds he had her out of it, had drawn her arms free, pushed the gown down to her hips, leaving it to slide as it would to the floor, and his hand closed, hard and demanding, about her breast, screened only by her thin shift and even finer chemise.

  On a gasp, she pulled back from the kiss. Eyes closed, stretched up on her toes, her fingertips sinking into the heavy muscles of his shoulders as his wicked fingers found her nipple and tweaked. “ Slowly ,” she gasped.

  And immediately felt his touch ease.

  And what a thrill that was—a shiver of knowledge, of understanding, skated down her spine. She lifted her heavy lids and looked into his eyes.

  They glittered through his dark lashes, his own lids low. “Just as long as slow doesn’t mean stop.”

  The words were deep, almost guttural. They made her smile. “No—just slow. Slow so I can . . .” Feel everything, every little nuance. So I can learn of myself, and even more of you. Her smile deepened. “Savor.”

  His eyes searched hers. “With that,” he murmured, “I’ll be happy to comply.”

  His hand hadn’t stopped caressing her breast, had been toying firmly, definitely, yet without the urgency she’d sensed had been about to sweep them both away.

  He bent his head and kissed her again, took her lips again, engaged with her again, and instantly she sensed, all but felt, the rein he’d imposed on his passions.

  That he maintained as, slowly, he stripped her gown, her shift, then her chemise away, and laid her on the bed, stripped off his own clothes—slowly, so she had the chance to catch her breath and admire the lines of the most magnificent male body she’d ever laid eyes on, bandages and all—then he joined her.

  Unhurriedly propped on one elbow beside her, and ran one hard, callused hand slowly over her body from her throat to her calves.

  She let herself respond instinctively, found herself arching lightly into the caress, her body, already heated and yearning, wanting more—blatantly, uninhibitedly.

  If she wanted this—wanted to know, to learn, to experience—she saw no point in inhibitions. They had no place here, no purpose between her and him.

  Something in his eyes as he looked down at her, for a moment studied her face, gave her the impression he somehow understood that, that he’d seen, taken note, and would use the knowledge, would respond accordingly.

  Then he bent his head and set his lips to her breast.

  First one, then the other, sampling, tasting, then feasting. Slowly.

  Even as she writhed, as she gasped, then softly moaned, as her fingers tangled in his thick hair and she held him to her, helplessly offering her flesh, her body, for his delectation, she knew she’d been inspired in insisting on slow.

  Slow . The word became a heartbeat, a pulse of this loving. This seduction he waged on her flesh, on her mind.

  On her senses, on every inch of her skin.

  She came alive beneath his hands in a way she never had before—and this time she knew it, felt the change to her bones, reveled in the inexpressible pleasure, in the freedom and joy of knowing this could be hers.

  That she could have this, be this, the houri he’d called her.

  He opened her senses, and she rose to the challenge—waited eagerly to experience what next would come as he lazily—slowly—wended his way down her body, placing hot, wet kisses here, there, past her navel, over the swell of her stomach.

  Resting his head on her waist, he looked down, watching as he sent his fingers circling through the tight red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs, then he pushed past, down, and touched her.

  Parted her already slick folds and caressed her.

  Slowly. Blatantly.

  As if he had all the time in the world to feel her, touch her, stroke and caress her.

  Urgency slammed into her. She caught her breath; instinctively her thighs eased, parted—inviting, wanting.

  She felt more than heard his deep chuckle.

  “Slowly, remember?”

  “Yes, but —” She broke off on a strangled gasp as another far-too-knowing caress had her arching beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

  “Ah—perhaps this is what you want?”

  Before she could gather her whirling wits, his hand shifted between her thighs and he sank one long finger—slowly—into her, deeper and deeper into her sheath, until he could reach no further.

  The breath she’d drawn in and held gushed out, halfsigh, halfmoan. “Yes. Oh . . . yes.” Her head was spinning.

  “Good.” He stroked, slowly , deep inside her, then again, and her nerves tightened.

  Tightened.

  He continued his slow stroking until heat beat in swelling waves through her veins, pulsing and spreading beneath her skin.

  Until she was wet, and helpless, and needy.

  Until she was one stroke away from wantonly begging.

  Until she was so taut that with the next stroke she was sure she’d fracture.

  That next stroke never came. He slid lower in the bed; his finger left her. He pushed her thighs wider apart, one trapped by his shoulder, the other held wide with one strong hand.

  She cracked open her lids, looked down her body at him—saw him looking down at her—at her swollen, throbbing flesh.

  Then he ducked his head and set his mouth to her there.

  She came off the bed with a shriek.

  He paused, looked up at her. “Is anyone likely to hear you?”

  “What?” It took a moment to process the question, to think of the answer. “No. Even the attic rooms aren’t directly above us.”

  “Good.” With that, he set his other hand across her belly, holding her down, lowered his head, took her soft, most intimate flesh into his mouth, and suckled.

  She screamed, fought to mute the sound, fought to breathe, hands scrabbling for some purchase that would hold her to reality as he played on her senses for all he was worth.

  In this arena, he was worth quite a lot. Knew a lot—so much more than she. Her skin was dewed, flushed, her heart pounding, long before he eased back from the exquisite torment.

  Panting, mind racing to catch up, she felt his gaze on her, gauging, but couldn’t find the strength to lift her lids—couldn’t cope with what she knew she would feel at the sight of him supping at her there.

  Once he’d thoroughly— slowly —consumed her, reducing her to a mass of excruciatingly alive nerves, tense, knotted, and desperately aware, he shifted, licked, la
ved, then with his tongue probed.

  Plunged her into passion unlike any she’d ever known. Her hands clenched, helplessly gripping, in his hair, all she could do was hang on as he drove her, shuddering, quivering, to the brink of ecstasy.

  Then he drew back.

  He surged over her, and she felt his heat, despite the bandages felt the inexpressible pleasure of his hard body hovering inches above hers as he wedged his hips between her widespread thighs, as he fitted himself to her—then sank home.

  Her body arched. She clung, desperately held on—desperately wanted to feel every fraction of an inch of him as he thrust deep and hard into her heated, helplessly willing, mindlessly needy body.

  As she felt her sheath stretch, greedily taking him in, all the hard length of him as he forged deep, she hungrily clutched, held him to her. With her arms, with her body, she wrapped herself around him and held tight.

  Heard his guttural groan as he came to rest deep within her, then he lowered his head, found her lips—and she tasted her nectar on his lips and tongue as he kissed her ferociously. Then his spine flexed, powerful and sure, and his erection pumped within her, his hips driving in a steady, pounding rhythm. . . .

  She couldn’t hold on. Couldn’t hold back the tide that rose up and crashed over her, surging again before barreling through her.

  Ecstasy smashed into her, a tidal wave of sensation that streaked down every vein, down every nerve, to explode in brilliant glory.

  Shattering her, emptying her, draining her, then filling the void with glory-tinged bliss.

  A bliss that only deepened, only strengthened when he stiffened, then she felt the warm rush deep within, and he groaned and slumped in her arms.

  She held him close and marveled, drifting in the aftermath—one deeper, more profound, than she’d previously known. Hands weakly shifting in his hair in an instinctive caress, she lay relaxed and boneless beneath him, beyond amazed at the depth and intensity, the sheer vibrancy of feeling that with him the act had encompassed, had contained.

  Never, ever, not in any of her three previous attempts, had the act been anything like this. Not even a weak echo of this.

  Logan knew he should shift, that he was pressing her into the bed and she probably couldn’t breathe, but . . . he could feel her hand in his hair, gently stroking, and some part of him didn’t want to let the moment go. Not yet.

  She’d wanted slowly, so he’d gone as slow as he could. Not so easy given that the instant she’d melted into his arms, he’d known he would have her again—that her body was his to take again—and his baser self had been fixated on that, on achieving that as quickly and as blatantly as possible.

  Why that last was so important—why some part of him had been so urgent to reimpose, reenact, reiterate his possession of her—he didn’t know. He liked women, liked indulging with them, yet never before had he wanted to do more than physically enjoy them. Possess them? No. Not him.

  He wasn’t a possessive lover—or at least he never had been . . . for a moment, he wondered how he knew, yet consulting his deeper feelings, he knew he was right. He’d never before felt the need to mark a woman as his.

  Yet he felt that way with Linnet Trevission.

  Perhaps being clouted over the head had changed him?

  Yet . . . why her?

  Admittedly she felt better beneath him—fitted him better, suited him better—than any other woman he’d ever known. Still . . .

  Perhaps when his memory fully returned, he’d lose this primitive urge to tighten his hold on her and never let her go.

  Perhaps.

  Dragging in a breath, he managed to lift his body from hers—reluctantly separating skin from slick skin—then he left himself down gently on his back beside her. He was well aware the gash on his side had not yet mended; he’d felt the stitches pull during his recent exertions, but was fairly certain none had popped.

  Chill air played over his cooling skin. He hadn’t noticed the temperature before. Reaching down, he snagged the covers and flicked them up over them both. She lifted a hand weakly to help.

  Grinning to himself, he lay back and simply rested. Sensed that it was a long time since he’d just lain back afterward like this, and let the warmth of aftermath lap, then gently recede.

  He couldn’t raise his left arm and gather her in, not without stretching his wound. Eventually, even though he sensed she was awake, he turned carefully onto his side and slid his right arm over her waist. Felt insensibly comforted by having her beneath his arm, within his hold.

  She shot him a quick glance, but immediately looked away, confirming she was wide awake. He knew why he was—he was basking, savoring the moment too much to succumb to slumber and miss it—but he knew he’d satisfied her, thoroughly, deeply, and utterly completely, so by rights she should be comatose . . . except she was thinking. Pondering.

  He suspected he knew about what. Weak light from the distant candle played over them, well enough for eyes adjusted to the dimness to see reasonably well. Keeping his lips straight, his expression blank, letting his lids fall so he could only just see through his lashes, he murmured, “Your other lovers—I take they weren’t as . . . inventive as I.”

  The look she shot him was faintly shocked, but even as he watched, that faded. Clearly assuming his eyes were closed, she studied his face, frowned. “I wouldn’t have said inventive. I suspect experienced is closer to the mark.”

  He could smile without giving away that he was watching her. “I see. How many were there?”

  Why he wanted to know was a mystery—he never had with any other lover. But with her . . . he wanted to know.

  She continued to frown. “Three.”

  “Only three?”

  “Three before you.” Folding her arms over the covers, snugging them beneath her breasts, she acerbically added, “Three was enough to convince me that there was little in the activity to recommend it to me.”

  That had him opening his eyes wide to stare at her. Directly into her pale emerald eyes. She couldn’t possibly mean . . . “Three lovers—three times?” That would explain why he’d found her so incredibly, arousingly tight.

  “I wasn’t about to further indulge them if I got nothing from the event.”

  “Nothing?” His mind boggled; she’d been gloriously, uninhibitedly responsive. “They must have been clods.”

  “They weren’t.” She shrugged. “Just . . . not as imaginative as you.”

  He held her gaze, inwardly held his breath. “Am I to take it, inventive, imaginative, and experienced as I am, that you won’t be averse to indulging with me again?”

  She hesitated, but now he was piecing her situation together, he wasn’t all that surprised. He knew well enough not to push, but merely wait; she was, after all, a gently bred female, so that she’d indulged at all with anyone . . .

  He narrowed his eyes. “How old are you?”

  She narrowed her eyes fractionally back. “Twenty-six.”

  When his expression relaxed, she frowned. “Why? What does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t, but it does explain why you’ve indulged at all—twenty-six is getting a trifle long in the tooth.”

  “Indeed. As you can clearly remember, twenty-six is more or less on the shelf.”

  “And they—local society—expect you to marry.”

  “Yes, but that’s not why I decided to take a lover. We weren’t courting—there was never any question of that.”

  He inwardly frowned. Either customs had changed radically, or he was missing some relevant fact.

  Before he could think of what question to ask, she said, “I’d already decided I would never marry.”

  He let his frown materialize. “Why not?”

  She arched her brows, haughty again. Even naked, she could pull it off. “For the same reason Queen Elizabeth didn’t.”

  Oddly, that made perfect sense. “Ah. I see.”

  Linnet was surprised. Indeed, she doubted he truly had, but then he confir
med it.

  “The question of power.”

  “Yes. My position here is essentially that of liege-lord, a hereditary position I’ve been bred to fill, and I have no inclination whatever to give it up.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment—so long she wondered what was passing through his mind. Then he said, “You haven’t answered my question.”

  She frowned. “What question?”

  “Whether, given my expertise, you’re agreeable to indulging with me again.”

  She couldn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t. Could formulate several reasons why she should. “Ask me again later, when you’re able.”

  Something hot—that sense of blue flame—shifted behind his dark eyes. The sight made her breath hitch, made parts of her tingle. Made her seize on a distraction. “Could you really tell from kissing me that it was me with you last night?” Aside from all else, she wanted to know.

  He smiled, slowly. “That, and other things.”

  “What things?”

  The heavy arm across her waist lifted, raising the covers. “Let me show you.”

  Before she’d realized what he was about, he’d lifted over her, spread her thighs with his long legs, and settled his hips between—proving that, contrary to her expectations, he was very much able already.

  He looked down between their bodies, shifted, and she felt the broad head of his erection nudge past her folds—instantly setting her nerves jangling, her body tightening in expectation, in anticipation. Pausing, he raised his head, caught her eyes as he settled on his elbows above her.

  From a distance of mere inches, his gaze burned into hers. “This—how you feel when I’m pushing inside you”—he demonstrated, forging slowly but steadily in—“how you close so tightly around me when I fill you— ” With a powerful thrust he filled her completely, making her gasp, making her arch beneath him, making her already furled nipples brush against the coarse bandages circling his chest—making her cry out.

  Making her sheath contract tightly around him—making him hiss and close his eyes.