Devil's Bride with Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  Three minutes later, he still couldn’t marshal a single unlustful thought. Muttering one last, disgusted expletive, he swung back to the bed. Sitting on it was too dangerous, given her hands and her propensity to get them on him. Standing beside the carved post at one end, he reached across and, through the covers, grasped her ankle. He shook it.

  She muttered and tried to wriggle free. Devil closed his hand, locked his fingers about her slim bones and shook her again.

  She opened her eyes—blinking sleepily. “You’re back.”

  “As you see.” Releasing her, Devil straightened. Folding his arms, he leaned against the bedpost. “Would you care to explain why, of all the beds in this house, you chose mine to fall asleep in?”

  Honoria raised a brow. “I would have thought that was obvious—I was waiting for you.”

  Devil hesitated; his faculties remained fogged by seething lust. “To what purpose?”

  “I have a few questions.”

  His jaw firmed. “One o’clock in the morning, in my bed, is neither a suitable nor wise choice of time and venue to ask questions.”

  “On the contrary”—Honoria started to sit up—“it’s the perfect place.”

  Devil watched the covers fall, revealing her shoulders, clearly visible through translucent silk, revealing the ripe swell of her breasts—“Stop!” His jaw clenched hard. “Honoria, just—sit—still.”

  Tartly, she hauled the covers up as she sat, then folded her arms beneath her breasts. She frowned at him. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

  Devil returned the frown. “I would have thought that was obvious. You’ve a decision to make—I cannot conceive that private meetings between us, at present, would help. They certainly wouldn’t help me.” He’d intended giving her time—a week at least. The three days so far had been hell.

  Honoria held his gaze. “About that decision—you’ve told me it’s important to you—you haven’t told me why.”

  For a long moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, then his folded arms lifted as he drew a deep breath. “I’m a Cynster—I’ve been raised to acquire, defend, and protect. My family is the core of my existence—without a family, without children, I’d have nothing to protect or defend, no reason to acquire. Given your past, I want to hear your decision declared. You’re an Anstruther-Wetherby—given all I know of you, if you make a declaration, you’ll stick by it. Whatever the challenge, you won’t back down.”

  Honoria held his gaze steadily. “Given what you know of me, are you sure I’m the right wife for you?”

  The answer came back, deep and sure. “You’re mine.”

  Between them, the atmosphere rippled; ignoring the breathlessness only he could evoke, Honoria raised her brows. “Would you agree that, at present, I’m free of your seductive influence? Free of coercion or manipulation?”

  He was watching her closely; he hesitated, then nodded.

  “In that case—” She flung back the covers and scrambled across the bed. Devil straightened—before he could move away, Honoria grabbed the front of his shirt, and hauled herself up on her knees. “I have a declaration to make!”

  Locking her eyes on his, locking both hands in his shirt, she drew a deep breath. “I want to marry you. I want to be your wife, your duchess, to face the world at your side. I want to bear your children.” She invested the last with all the conviction in her soul.

  He’d stilled. She tugged and he moved closer, until his legs hit the bed. He stood directly before her as she knelt, knees wide, on the bed’s edge.

  “Most importantly of all.” She paused to draw another breath; her eyes on his, she spread her hands across his chest. “I want you. Now.” In case he hadn’t yet got her message, she added: “Tonight.”

  Devil felt desire soar, triumphant, compelling. Excruciatingly aware of her hands sliding as his chest swelled, he forced himself to ask: “Are you sure?” Exasperation flared in her eyes; he shook his head. “I mean about tonight.” Of the rest, he had not a doubt.

  Her exasperation didn’t die. “Yes!” she said—and kissed him.

  He managed not to wrap his arms about her and crush her, managed to cling grimly to his reins as she wound her arms about his neck, pressed herself to him in utter abandon and flagrantly incited his possession. He locked his hands about her waist, steadying her—then responded to her invitation. She opened to him instantly, her mouth softening, a sweet cavern to fill, to explore, to claim.

  She took him in and held him, took his breath, then gave it back. Devil set his hands skimming, fingers firming, thumbs pressing inward at the tops of her thighs. Her nightgown was a mere cobweb of gossamer silk; he let his hands fall, tracing her sleek thighs before closing one hand above each knee. Slowly, he slid his fingers upward, feeling the silk slide over satiny skin, his thumbs drawing lazy circles along her inner thighs. Higher and higher, inch by inch, he raised his hands—the long muscles of her thighs tensed, then locked, then quivered.

  He stopped with his thumbs just below her soft curls. Drawing back from their kiss, he watched her—and waited for her lids to rise. When they did, he trapped her gaze with his—and drew two more circles. She shivered.

  “Once I take you, there’ll be no turning back.”

  Determination flared, steely blue in her eyes. “Hallelujah.”

  Their lips met again; Devil loosened his reins. Desire, hot and urgent, rose between them; passion rode in its wake.

  Honoria sensed the change in him, felt his muscles harden, felt his hands, still gripping her thighs, tighten. An expectant quiver ran through her tensed muscles. He released them. One hand slid around to spread across her bottom; her skin turned feverish at his touch. He caressed her in slow, sensuous circles—her senses followed, distracted by the silk shifting between hand and naked skin.

  Then his hand firmed, cupping her bottom—in the same instant, she felt his other hand slide between her parted thighs.

  His head angled over hers; his kiss became more demanding. He stroked her through the gossamer silk, stroked and caressed and teased until the silk clung, a second skin, muting his touch, tantalizing her senses. Honoria tensed, finger-tips sinking into the muscles of his back. She felt his hand shift; one long finger slid into her, probing gently, then more deliberately.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. She pulled back with a gasp—he let her go, his hands leaving her. Grasping her waist, he toppled her back on the bed.

  “Wait.”

  Devil crossed to the door to his dressing room, opened it, confirmed Sligo had not waited up, then locked it. Striding back across the room, he shrugged out of his coat and threw it on the chair. Flicking the intricate folds of his cravat undone, he tugged the yard-long strip from his neck, then stripped off his waistcoat and sent it to join his coat, before unlacing his cuffs and pulling off his shirt. The flame from the candle on the tallboy gilded the muscles of his back, then he turned and picked up the candlestick.

  Sprawled, breathless, across his bed, Honoria watched as he set flame to the two five-armed candelabra upon the mantelpiece. Concentrating on each graceful movement, on the play of the flames over his sculpted frame, she held back her thoughts, too scandalous for words. Anticipation had soared; excitement shivered over her skin. Her lungs had seized; a delicious panic had tightened every nerve.

  Leaving the single candle on the mantelpiece, Devil carried one candelabra to the side of the bed, tugging the bedside table forward so that the candles’ light fell across the covers. Blinking, aware that in the light she’d appear next to naked, Honoria watched as he placed the second candelabra similiarly on the bed’s opposite side. She frowned. “Isn’t it usually night? I mean dark?”

  Devil met her gaze. “You’ve forgotten something.”

  Honoria couldn’t think what and wasn’t sure she cared; her gaze roamed his chest as he walked toward the bed, bathed in golden light. He stopped by her feet, then turned and sat. While he pulled off his boots, she distracted herself with his back. His
cuts and scrapes had healed; she reached out a hand and traced one. His skin flickered at her touch; he muttered something beneath his breath. Honoria grinned and spread her fingers—he stood, casting one black glance back at her before stripping off his trousers. He sat to pull them free of his feet; Honoria stared at the long, broad muscles framing his spine, tailing into twin hollows below his waist. He reached, and muscles shifted; the view was almost as good as his chest.

  Free of his last restriction, Devil half turned and fell back on the bed. He knew what would happen—Honoria didn’t. With a valiantly smothered shriek, she rolled into him, into his arms, unable to gain any purchase on the slippery sheets. He lifted her over him, her legs tangling with his, her hair fanning over his naked chest.

  He expected her to be shocked, expected her to hesitate—this had to be the first time she’d touched a naked male. The shock was certainly there—he saw it in her stunned expression; hesitation followed—it lasted a split second.

  In the next, their lips met—there was no longer any distinction between him kissing her and her kissing him. He felt her hands on his chest, greedily exploring; he ravaged her mouth—and felt her fingers sink deep. He spread his hands over the firm mounds of her derriere and held her against him, easing the throbbing ache of his erection against her soft belly. She writhed, heated and eager, thin silk no barrier to his senses.

  Some women were catlike, elusively seductive—she was far too bold to be a cat. She was demanding, aggressive, intent on, not just fraying his reins, but shredding them. Deliberately invoking his desire, his demons—all the possessiveness in his soul. Which, given she was a virgin, qualified as abject madness.

  Breathing raggedly, he pulled back from their kiss. “For God’s sake, slow down!”

  Engrossed in caressing one flat nipple, Honoria didn’t look up. “I’m twenty-four—I’ve wasted enough time.”

  She wriggled; Devil gritted his teeth. “You’re twenty-four—you should know better. You should at least have some measure of self-preservation.” Intent on impaling herself on her fate, she seemed to have no concept of how much he could hurt her, of how much his strength overshadowed hers, of how much harder than her he was.

  She was intent on learning—her hands reached lower, exploring the ridges of his lower chest. Devil felt desire rise, full-blown, ravenous—too strong for her to handle. Releasing her buttocks, he grasped her upper arms.

  Just as she grasped him.

  The shock that lanced through him nearly shattered his control. He froze. So did Honoria.

  She looked into his face—his eyes were shut, his expression graven. Carefully, she curled her fingers again, utterly fascinated by her discovery. How could something so hard, so rigid, so ridged, so blatantly, elementally male, be so silky smooth, so soft? Again, she touched the smoothly rounded head—it was akin to stroking hot steel through the finest peach silk.

  Devil groaned; he reached down and closed his hand over hers—not to pull it away but to curl her fingers more tightly. Eagerly, she followed his unspoken instructions, obviously much more to her taste than slowing down.

  He let her caress him until he thought his jaw would break—he had to pull her hand away. She fought him, squirming all over him, soft, hot, silk-encased flesh writhing over his by-now-painful erection.

  With an oath, he caught her hands, one in each of his, and rolled, trapping her beneath him. He anchored her hands to the bed and kissed her, deeply and yet more deeply, letting his weight sink fully onto her—until she had no breath left to fight him, no strength to defy him.

  They both stilled; in that instant, she was open to him, heated, her thighs spread, soft and welcoming, her hips a cradle in which he already lay. All he needed to do was reach down and rip the thin silk from between them, then sink his throbbing staff into her softness and claim her.

  Simple.

  Gritting his teeth, Devil let go of her hands and lifted away. He moved back. Knees spread, he sat back on his ankles in the middle of the bed. Locking his eyes on hers, he beckoned with both hands. “Come here.”

  Her eyes widened; they searched his, then fell—jaw locked, he suffered her scrutiny, saw the age-old question form in her eyes.

  Giddy, not only from breathlessness, Honoria slowly blinked, then raised her eyes to his face. He looked like some god, seated in the candlelight, his maleness so flagrantly displayed. The soft light gilded the muscles of his arms, his chest—and the rest of him. She drew in a deep breath; her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Slowly, she rose on one elbow, then freed her legs from the folds of her nightgown and came up on her knees, facing him.

  He took her hands in his and drew her closer, then closed his hands about her waist and lifted her. As he set her down astride his thighs, Honoria frowned into his eyes. “If you tell me we have to wait, I’ll scream.”

  The planes of his face looked harder than granite. “You’ll scream anyway.”

  She frowned harder—and saw his lips twitch.

  “With pleasure.”

  The idea was new to her—she was still puzzling as Devil drew her closer. High on her knees as she was, her hips grazed his lower chest.

  “Kiss me.”

  He didn’t need to ask twice; willingly, she twined her arms about his neck and set her lips to his.

  One hand at her back holding her upright, Devil deepened the kiss, skimming his other hand upward, over her taut abdomen, before closing it about her breast. The already heated flesh swelled and firmed; he kneaded and heard her moan. He drew back from the kiss; she let her head fall back, the exposed curve of her throat an offering he didn’t refuse. He trailed hot kisses down the pulsing vein; she inched closer, pressing her breast to his palm.

  Bending her back, he lowered his head. She stilled, her breathing harried. One long lick dampened the silk covering one nipple. She gasped as his lips touched the ruched peak—he suckled lightly and felt her melt.

  He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d bedded a virgin—even then, whoever she was, she hadn’t been a gently reared, twenty-four-year-old capable of unexpected enthusiasms. He harbored no illusions over how difficult the next half hour would be; for the first time in his lengthy career, he prayed he’d be strong enough to manage—her, and the passion she unleashed in him. Head bent, he tortured one tightly budded nipple, then turned his attention to its mate.

  Sinking her fingers into his upper arms, Honoria gasped and swayed. With her bones transmuted to warm honey, her weak grip, his hand at her back and the tantalizing tug of his lips were all that was keeping her upright. Hot and wet, his lips, his mouth, moved over her breasts, teasing first one aching peak, then the other until both were swollen tight. She ached to touch him, to send her hands searching, but didn’t dare let go. His lips left her; a second later, his teeth grazed one crinkled nipple.

  Sharp sensation lanced through her; she gave a muted cry. His lips returned, soothing her flesh, then he suckled hard—and within her heat rose. Wave upon wave, it answered his call, a primal urge building, swelling, surging ever stronger. With a long-drawn moan, she swayed forward, into his kiss.

  It caught her, anchored her, as his hands roved her body, heated palms burning. Every curve she possessed, he traced; every square inch of her skin tingled, then ached for more. Her back, her sides, the curve of her stomach, the long muscles of her thighs, her arms, her bottom—none escaped his attention; her skin was flushed, dewed, when he lifted the edge of her gown.

  The shiver that racked her came from deep within, a final farewell to the virgin she was but would be no more. His hands rose and he released her lips. From under weighted lids, Honoria saw the silk in his hands, already above her waist. Dragging in a huge breath that, for all her effort, was insufficient to steady her giddy head, she lifted her arms. The gown whispered from her. It screened the candles as it floated out beyond the bed; she traced its fall, feeling the air, then his hands, on her skin.

  His arms closed about her.

  Heat
, warm skin, hard muscle surrounded her; his crisp mat of midnight black hair rasped her sensitized nipples. Hard lips found hers, demanding, commanding, ravishing her senses—no surrender requested, no quarter considered—he would take her, body and soul, and more.

  For one instant, the onslaught swept her before it, then she shuddered in his arms, set her feet against desire’s tide—and met his demands with her own. Passion stirred, stretched, unfolded between them; splaying her fingers, she sank the tips into his chest, and felt his muscles lock. She kissed him with a fervor to match his own, reveling in the urgency building between them, glorying in the heady rush, the growing vortex of their need.

  Excitement whirled as their lips melded, each breath the other’s, tongues entwined. She sank into his heat, drank it in, and felt it flood her. His hands roamed, as urgently demanding as his lips, hard palms sculpting, fingers flexing, possessing. Still on her knees, her thighs locked on either side of his, her hips pressed to his abdomen, she felt his hands curve and cup her bottom. One remained, holding her high, the other slid lower, long fingers questing. They found her heat and slid further, pressing between her thighs, probing the hot, slick folds, caressing, then pressing deep.

  And deeper, igniting her fire.

  The wild rush of flames seared her; she ached and burned. His only response was to deepen their kiss, holding her captive as the flames roared on. His fingers stroked slowly, deliberately—the flames grew in intensity, to a sheet, then a wall, finally erupting into an inferno, fueled by urgent need.

  The inferno pulsed to her heartbeat; the same beat rang in her veins, in her ears, a tattoo of desire driving her on.

  Abruptly, Devil drew back from their kiss. His fingers left her; he cupped her bottom with both hands. “Slide down.”

  Honoria couldn’t believe the strength of the compulsion that gripped her—she needed him inside her more than she needed to breathe. Even so . . . She shook her head. “You’re never going to fit.”