by Heidi Rice
Releasing her hand, he dipped his head. ‘Take off your shorts, ma petite,’ he said, the gruff endearment caressing her senses. ‘I cannot wait much longer to be inside you.’
She fumbled, her fingers trembling, and couldn’t seem to get the buttons free.
Brushing her hands away, he knelt in front of her and released the fastenings to draw the rough denim down her legs. She stepped out of her shorts, placing her hand on his shoulder to keep her balance, so shaky now she knew she needed to get to the bed before she collapsed.
But, before she had a chance to move, he stood and lifted her easily into his arms. She knew she wasn’t particularly light but she felt fragile and even precious as he placed her gently on the bed.
He loomed over her, his broad shoulders cutting out the light, his lips finding hers again, the kisses more demanding now, more insistent. The atmosphere changed. Not tender and seeking, but urgent and relentless.
He cupped her sex, his fingers exploring the slick swollen folds. She bucked against his touch, the pleasure becoming raw and jagged as two blunt fingers pressed inside her. The tight needy flesh stretched, making the throbbing ache pound so hard in her veins she thought she might pass out.
And then his thumb found the very centre of her struggle, gliding over the hot, wet nub, circling and flicking until she was riding his hand, holding onto his shoulders for purchase.
‘Yes...yes!’ she sobbed, unable to control the pleasure battering her body.
‘Come for me, Cara,’ he commanded and her body obeyed, the coil at her centre tightening to pain and then releasing in a shattered gush of sensation.
She opened her eyes to find him watching her. She was dazed, disorientated, the waves still ebbing through her as the pleasure rippled throughout her body, startling in its intensity.
She’d pleasured herself before, but it had never felt this good, this right, this devastating.
He looked dazed too, but then the shadows cleared to be replaced with a fierce, desperate need. He grasped her hips, angling her pelvis as the large head of his penis probed, demanding entry.
‘Open for me,’ he said. And again she obeyed instinctively, hooking her legs around his waist, opening herself fully for the onslaught, so desperate now to feel the thick length inside her she was ready to beg.
He surged deep in one hard thrust.
The pleasure turned instantly to rending pain, the heavy weight tearing her fragile tissue.
She stiffened, biting into her lip, her nails scoring his back to contain the shocked cry which would give her away.
But she knew it was already too late when he stilled. His face was rigid with shock, his gaze sharp with accusation as it locked on hers.
‘Es-tu vierge?’ he said, his English deserting him.
Are you a virgin?
She turned away from his probing gaze, wanting to lie but unable to get the words out with his erection still lodged so deep inside her she felt conquered, owned.
He grasped her chin and forced her gaze back to his.
‘Tell me, how is this possible?’
Maxim couldn’t focus, he could hardly talk, her body clasped so tight around him it was like a vice. A hot, sweet, unbearably pleasurable vice, about to tip him over the edge. He wanted to move, to dig deeper, to find the place that would make her moan and beg again. But he resisted the urge to thrust into the tight, wet warmth. And forced his mind to engage.
The guilty shadow in her eyes told a shocking story.
Her innocence, her inexperience, that strange feeling of something not being right that had assailed him as soon as he had brought her upstairs. The blush suffusing her ripe body, the shocked gasp as his lips closed over her nipple and suckled, the jolt of adrenaline as her fingers fumbled with her shorts. He’d assumed it was all an act, a beguiling, artless act that had captivated him even though he knew it couldn’t be real. And now to find it was all true?
He shuddered, still lodged inside her.
She didn’t speak, didn’t answer his accusation, her eyes glassy with shock, but there was only one explanation. The marriage had been a sham. A trick in more ways than one.
He should withdraw. But he could still feel the pulse of her pleasure, the tight clasp of her body milking him, and the relentless need hammered at the base of his spine.
‘Am I hurting you?’ he asked, unable to withdraw, not caring any more about her reasons, her complicity in his father’s scheme.
She shook her head. ‘It’s... You’re so big, but it doesn’t hurt so much now.’ She stumbled over the words. And he found himself cradling her cheek, feeling the heat of her humiliation.
Maybe that was faked too, but he didn’t think so, as he drew his thumb across the full lips, felt her body relax a little.
‘I need to move,’ he said, deciding all that mattered now was feeding this hunger. The questions could wait because he couldn’t focus on anything but the spasming grip of her muscles threatening to drive him insane if he didn’t rock his hips.
She nodded. But a tear leaked from the corner of her eye. He brushed it away with his thumb.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘I... I’ve never felt this way before,’ she said, the honesty in her pure blue eyes pushing at his chest. Surely this couldn’t be faked, this intensity, this desperation, this emotional upheaval. Did she feel it too? And what the hell did it mean?
But even as the panic ricocheted against his ribs, he dismissed it.
This wasn’t an emotional connection, this was just sex. And an insane chemistry that had exploded between them from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.
He eased out of her then pressed back in, slowly, carefully, feeling her tight flesh soften to receive him more easily this time. She moaned, her fingers clinging to his shoulders, as if he were the only stable thing in the middle of the storm consuming them. As he withdrew and pressed into her again, her back arched, bringing her sex up to meet his invasion, welcoming it, revelling in his possession.
He began to rock his hips, in, out...slowly at first, establishing a rhythm that would satisfy them both. But as her moans became pants, her pants became sobs, the frenzy overtook him—and one shocking realisation charged through his brain.
He was the first man to touch her, to taste her, to feast on her fragrant flesh, to hear her sob in his ear as she surrendered to him.
The surge of possessiveness, the need to claim her overwhelmed him as his smooth moves became clumsy, faster and more frantic, the thrusts deeper and more demanding. His fingers dug into her hips as he clung onto his own climax, needing her to shatter first.
Her body bowed back and she cried out, the spasms of her orgasm gripping him as she flew over that final peak.
He let go at last, to tumble over that high ledge behind her, the climax shattering him, as his mind blanked and his body became boneless. And one word reverberated in his head.
Mine.
CHAPTER FIVE
AS THE BLISSFUL wave of afterglow cleared, Cara lay staring at the crack in the ceiling moulding, the crack she’d mapped each night before she fell asleep, for the last eleven months. But tonight everything was different.
The musky scent of sex and sweat surrounded her. The heavy weight of Maxim Durand’s body pressed hers into the old mattress as the thick length of him pulsed inside her tender sex.
She dragged in a shattered breath and sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to control the stinging tears that threatened to spill over the lids.
But there was no controlling the emotion sitting on her chest like a stone and threatening to crush her ribs.
What had she done? And why?
How could she have slept with her husband’s biggest rival on the day of his funeral? The man who was threatening to destroy La Maison de la Lune?
She shifted under Durand’s weight,
gently shoving his shoulder blade, which was digging into her collarbone. She needed to get away from him. He was still firm, still huge, inside her—and all she wanted to do right now was curl up into a tight ball and die.
He groaned and shifted and she gasped, unable to disguise the tenderness in her sex as he eased out of her, ashamed of the renewed prickle of yearning.
‘Pardon,’ he murmured as he rolled off her.
She edged across the bed, every part of her aching now, but most of all her heart.
What Pierre had done to Maxim all those years ago was wrong, terribly wrong. But surely what she had just done was even worse.
As she tried to leave the bed Maxim Durand’s hand shot out and grasped hold of her upper arm.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I need... I need to wash,’ she said, heat climbing into her cheeks as she became all too aware of the sticky residue of their lovemaking between her thighs.
He hadn’t used a condom. And she hadn’t asked him to.
She dismissed the new ripple of panic. She couldn’t think about any consequences now. She’d deal with those later. First, she had to get away from that assessing, intense gaze. And regroup, rethink, re-evaluate her position—her thoughts were so tangled now she could hardly breathe, let alone think.
Could she still stay here? Did she deserve to live in Pierre’s home after sleeping with his enemy? But how could she not when she was the only thing standing between La Maison de la Lune and destruction?
She tugged her arm but Maxim held on, his thumb stroking the inside of her elbow and making the prickle of renewed desire distress her even more.
‘Please, I need to...’ she began.
‘Let me help you clean up.’ He sat up, swung his long legs to the floor and stood in one smooth move, still keeping a firm grip on her arm.
While she was frantic and awash with guilt, he seemed composed and unperturbed by what had just happened. Her panic increased.
‘What?’ she asked, the blush burning her cheeks as she tried to avoid looking at his nakedness and deny the melting sensation in her chest—and her sex—at the abrupt but painfully intimate offer to help her wash herself.
How could her body still want him when everything they’d just done was wrong? On so many levels. She’d never really considered her virginity of particular importance. But if that were the case, why had she held onto it for so long? And how had this man been able to destroy all her fears about intimacy so easily—and so quickly?
He tugged her off the bed until she was standing in front of him, then cradled her cheek in his palm. ‘Did I hurt you, Cara?’
She shook her head, but the gruff question had the tears she couldn’t shed burning the back of her throat. She swallowed hard.
Don’t cry, don’t you dare cry. It doesn’t mean anything. It happened and now it’s over and it was a massive mistake.
Her chest felt as if it were imploding.
Not a mistake, an aberration. Brought about by stress, and chemistry. And incredible stupidity.
He doesn’t care about you. All he cares about are the vines. And his feud with Pierre. And you don’t care about him. Not really. You don’t even know him. Your loyalty is to La Maison now. It has to be.
Just because he was Pierre’s son. And Pierre had neglected him. He was powerful and successful now. And he’d slept with hundreds of women.
Just because he was your first, it doesn’t make this special. First is just a number.
He planned to destroy La Maison, and she couldn’t let that happen. That made them enemies, no matter what had just happened in her bed.
‘Really, I need to...’ She couldn’t seem to find the words, so ashamed now she could hardly talk. She should ask him to leave, but she was so shaky, so confused, she couldn’t seem to say anything.
‘Breathe, Cara,’ he said, taking control, just as he had before.
He threaded his fingers through hers and led her into the bedroom’s small and spartan en suite bathroom. Snagging the robe she kept hooked on the door, he handed it to her. She shrugged it on, pathetically grateful for the layer of protection. And even more grateful when he lifted a towel from the pile she kept by the sink and hooked it around his waist.
He slapped down the toilet seat. ‘Sit.’
She perched on the seat, trying to focus, trying to find her equilibrium again. But all she seemed capable of doing was gazing at him, mesmerised by his assured, efficient movements.
If he’d made La Maison’s reception room look small he made her bathroom look minuscule. Finding soap and a flannel, he ran water into the sink until it was warm, then soaked and lathered the washcloth.
He squatted in front of her and drew apart the robe to expose her tightly closed legs. His gaze met hers as he placed a warm hand on her knee.
‘Open for me, Cara,’ he murmured, the husky words reminding her of a similar demand earlier, which she had obeyed without question.
‘I can... I can do it,’ she said, stuttering, her blush radioactive as she reached for the flannel.
‘I would like to,’ he said. ‘I want to be sure I did not hurt you.’
It wasn’t a demand, she could have refused him, but the yearning in her chest had her dropping her hand. And allowing him to ease her knees apart.
He washed her gently, carefully, wiping away the evidence of her innocence and their lovemaking with a tender efficiency that stole her breath and had the hollow yearning sinking deep into her abdomen. Her thighs trembled, the renewed pulse of desire impossible to disguise. He touched his thumb to the reddened skin on her hip where he had gripped her in the heat of passion.
‘I have bruised you, ma petite,’ he murmured, sounding genuinely contrite.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’
To her surprise, despite her denial, he leant forward and placed a kiss on the spot. ‘You must accept my apologies,’ he murmured, his eyes shadowed.
She nodded.
Dumping the flannel in the sink, he pressed her knees back together and smoothed the robe over her nakedness before meeting her eyes. The rueful smile which twisted his lips made her heart beat in an erratic tattoo.
‘As much as I would enjoy taking you back to bed, I do not wish to hurt you again.’
‘You didn’t hurt...’
He touched his finger to her lips, halting her denial. ‘Don’t lie, Cara, there are enough lies between us already.’
She stared at her hands clasped in her lap, and nodded. ‘I know.’
What was wrong with her? One act of tenderness and she was ready to throw herself at him again, even though she knew it was wrong. Exactly how desperate for affection was she?
Tucking a knuckle under her chin, he raised her gaze back to his. ‘Now you must tell me why you were untouched.’
‘I...’ She let out a tense breath. ‘Pierre and I didn’t have that kind of marriage,’ she managed.
He straightened from his crouched position and let out a harsh laugh, the look in his golden eyes not so much suspicious as unconvinced.
‘There is only one kind of marriage, Cara. One where a husband takes his wife to his bed.’ His gaze roamed over her. ‘If you were mine I would not let you out of my bed for a week after we were wed.’
The blush burned her neck and spread across her collarbone, the hunger in his words so compelling it made the hot spot between her thighs throb.
She scrubbed her hand over her cheeks, hoping to calm the colour as she looked away. The sight of his naked chest and the red score marks on his shoulder—which she must have made with her nails—was not helping with her breathing difficulties.
‘Pierre was an old man,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t capable of...’ Her throat seized. ‘Even if I had been willing,’ she continued. ‘We were just friends. He wanted to marry me so he could
give me some security when he was gone, that was what he said.’ She didn’t tell Durand about the wages Pierre owed her because it would just make her feel more pathetic and expose her marriage to even more of this man’s contempt. ‘It was never a sexual relationship.’
Maxim stared at the riot of blonde curls, fighting against the desire still pulsing in his groin and the strange wave of elation.
Even if I had been willing.
So she hadn’t ever contemplated sleeping with his father. That was good to know.
But then his disgust with the man returned.
He wished Pierre de la Mare wasn’t dead, so he could murder the bastard himself.
De la Mare had used Cara Evans to get his revenge against him. But Maxim very much doubted his father’s decision to marry this girl had just been about the vineyard, as she clearly believed. The bastard had always had an eye for women, claiming this young beautiful woman as his wife had probably given him some kind of sick ego boost—even if he had never been capable of consummating the relationship.
A sick ego boost that left Maxim with a problem.
He had always planned to raze La Maison to the ground as soon as he purchased the property. It was what he had told de la Mare he would do, all part of the promise he had made to the boy he’d been—an important part of his final revenge for the cruel slights that child had endured.
But how could he in all conscience kick this girl out of her home? Wouldn’t that make him as much of a bastard as his father? Especially after he had just taken her innocence?
Not only that, but he hadn’t used protection. Something he’d become brutally aware of as he’d cleaned her up.
He frowned. What the hell had possessed him? He hadn’t even thought about it. He’d never been that impulsive or reckless before in his life, even as a teenager. Not only did he have no desire to become an accidental parent, but he knew precisely what it was like to be that accidental child. Unwanted, unloved, unimportant. Even now a child could be growing inside her because of his thoughtless behaviour.