Devil's Bride with Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  His hands firmed about her hips. “Just slide.”

  She did, sinking lower, his hands guiding her. She felt the first touch of his staff, hot and hard, and stopped. He slipped his fingers between her thighs and opened her; she felt the first intimate intrusion of his body into hers. Catching her breath on a strangled gasp, she sank lower, and felt the rounded head slip inside.

  He felt large, much larger than she’d expected. She sucked in a breath; under the weight of his hands, she sank still lower. Hard as forged iron, hot as unquenched steel, he pressed into her. She shook her head again. “This is not going to work.”

  “It will.” She felt his words within her; he was, if anything, even tenser than she, rock-hard muscles flickering. “You’ll stretch to take me—women’s bodies are built that way.”

  He was the expert. Through the maelstrom of emotions besetting her—uncertainty, desire, and giddy need, laced with distant remnants of modesty, all subsumed beneath the most desperate longing she’d ever known—Honoria clung to that fact. The inferno inside her swelled; she sank down.

  And stopped.

  Immediately, Devil lifted her, not quite losing her clinging heat. “Sink down again.” She did, until her maidenhead again impeded their progress. Under his hands, she repeated the maneuver again and again.

  She was hot, slick and very tight; once she was moving freely, he brushed his lips against her temple. “Kiss me.”

  She lifted her head immediately, swollen lips parted, eager for more. He took her mouth voraciously, struggling to harness the wild passion that drove him, battling to remain in control long enough to avoid unnecessarily hurting her. He was going to hurt her enough as it was.

  On the heels of the thought came the deed. One, powerful upward thrust, timed to meet her downward slide, enforced by the pressure of his hands on her hips, and it was done. He breached her in that single movement, forging deep into her body, filling her, stretching her.

  She screamed, the sound smothered by their kiss. Her body tensed; so did his.

  Focusing completely on her, waiting for her softening, the first sign of acceptance that he knew would come, Devil grimly denied the primal urge to lose himself in her heat, to plunder the scalding softness that clasped him, to assuage his driving need.

  Their lips had parted; they were both breathing raggedly. From under his lashes, he watched as she moistened her lips with her tongue.

  “Was that the scream you were talking about?”

  “No.” He touched his lips to the corner of hers. “There’ll be no more pain—from now on, you’ll only scream with pleasure.”

  No more pain. Her senses awash, overloaded with sensation, Honoria could only hope. The memory of the sharp agony that had speared her was so intense she could still feel it. Yet with every breath, with every heartbeat, the heat of him, the glow suffusing her, eased the ache. She tried to shift; his hands firmed, holding her still.

  “Wait.”

  She had to obey. Until that moment, she hadn’t appreciated how completely in his control she was. The hard, throbbing reality that had invaded her, intimately filling her, impinged fully on her mind. Vulnerability swept her, rippling through her, all the way to . . .

  Her senses focused on the place where they joined. She heard Devil groan. Blinking, she looked up; his eyes were shut, his features like stone. Under her hands, the muscles of his shoulders were taut, locked in some phantom battle. Inside her, the steady throb of him radiated heat and a sense of barely reined urgency. Her pain had gone. On the thought, the last of her tension ebbed; the last vestiges of resistance fell away. Tentatively, her gaze on his face, she eased from his hold, and rose slowly on her knees.

  “Yes.” The single word was heavy with encouragement.

  He stopped her at the precise point beyond which their contact would break. She sensed his eagerness, the same compelling urgency that welled within her; she needed no direction to sink slowly down, enthralled by the feel of his steely hardness sliding, slick and hot, deep into her.

  She did it again, and again, head falling back as she slid sensuously down, opening her senses completely, savoring every drawn-out second. Their guidance no longer required, his hands roved, reclaiming her breasts, the full curves of her bottom, the sensitive backs of her thighs. All awkwardness, all reticence, had vanished; lifting her head, Honoria draped her arms about his neck and sought his lips with hers. The glide of their bodies, uniting in a rhythm as old as the moon, felt exquisitely right. She gave him her mouth; as he claimed it, she tightened her arms, pressing herself to him, drawn to the promise contained within his powerful body, flagrantly demanding more.

  He drew back from the kiss; under his lashes, she saw his eyes gleam.

  “Are you all right?”

  His hands traced mesmerizing circles over her bottom. At the peak of her rise, Honoria held his gaze—and slowly, concentrating on the rigid hardness invading her, sank down.

  She felt his rippling shudder and saw his jaw firm. His eyes flashed. Greatly daring, she licked the vein pulsing at the base of his throat. “Actually, I find this quite . . .” She was so far past breathless her words shook.

  “Surprising?” His voice was a rumble almost too low to be heard.

  Catching a desperate breath, Honoria closed her eyes.

  “Enthralling.”

  His laugh was so deep she felt it in her marrow. “Trust me.” His lips traced the curve of her ear. “There’s a great deal more pleasure to come.”

  “Ah, yes,” Honoria murmured, trying desperately to cling to sanity. “I believe you claim to be a past master at this exercise.” Dragging in a tight breath, she rose upon him. “Does that make me your mistress?”

  “No.” Devil held his breath as she sank, excruciatingly slowly, down. “That makes you my pupil.” It would make her his slave, but he’d no intention of telling her that, nor that, if she applied herself diligently, the connection might just work both ways.

  On her next downward slide, she pressed lower; he nudged deeper. Her breath hitched; instinctively, she tightened about him. Devil set his teeth against a groan.

  Eyes wide, she looked up at him, her breathing shallow and fast. “It feels . . . very strange . . . to have you . . . inside me.” Breasts rising and falling, brushing his chest, she moistened her lips. “I really didn’t think . . . you’d fit.”

  Devil locked his jaw—along with every other muscle he possessed. After a moment of fraught silence, he managed to say: “I’ll fit—eventually.”

  “Event . . . ?”

  Her eyes grew round—he didn’t wait for more. He caught her lips in a ravishing kiss and, anchoring her hips against him, tumbled her back onto the pillows.

  He’d chosen their earlier position to breach her, placing a limit on how deep he could go, helpful given the force of his instincts. But the time for limits had passed; his swift rearrangement landed her on her back among the pillows, his hips between her thighs, his staff still within her.

  She tensed as his weight trapped her; instantly, he lifted his chest and shoulders from her, straightening his arms, his hands sinking into the down on either side. Their kiss broken, her eyes flew open.

  He trapped her gaze in his. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew from her, then, fluidly flexing his spine, he entered her.

  Inexorably, inch by inch, he claimed her; heated and slick, her body welcomed him, stretching to take him in. He watched her eyes widen, the blue-grey transmuting to silver, then fracturing as he surged deeper. He sheathed himself in her softness, sinking into her to the hilt, nudging her womb. He came to rest embedded within her; she held him in a scorching silken vice.

  Gazes locked, they both held still.

  Honoria couldn’t breathe, he filled her so completely; she could feel the steady beat of him at the base of her throat. Staring up at his face, she saw the hard planes shift, sharp-edged with reined passion. A conqueror looked down on her, green eyes dark, ringed with silver—the conqueror she’d g
iven herself to. A sense of possession swamped her; her heart swelled, then soared.

  He was waiting—for what? Some sign of surrender? On the thought, certainty bloomed within her; a glorious confi-dence filled her. She smiled—slowly, fully. Her hands had come to rest on his forearms; lifting them, she reached up and drew his face to hers. She heard him groan in the instant their lips met. He came down on his elbows, his hands flick-ing her hair aside, then framing her face.

  He deepened their kiss and her senses went spinning; his body moved on her, within her, and pleasure bloomed.

  Like waves piling on the shore, they surged together. Sensations swelled like the incoming tide, rolling ever higher. She caught the rhythm and matched him, letting her body welcome him, holding him tight for a heartbeat before reluctantly releasing him. Again and again they formed that intimate embrace; each time, each devastatingly thorough thrust pushed her higher, further, onward toward some beckoning shore she could only barely perceive. Her mind and senses merged, then soared, locked in dizzying flight. Heat and light spread through her, running down each vein, irradiating each nerve. Then heat changed to fire and light to incandescent glory.

  Fed by their striving bodies, by each panting breath, by each soft moan, each guttural groan, the sunburst swelled, larger, brighter, more intense.

  It exploded between them—Honoria lost herself in the primal energy, all fire and light and glorious, heart-stopping sensation. Blind, she couldn’t see; deaf, she couldn’t hear. All she could do was feel—feel him under her hands and know he was with her, feel the warmth that filled her and know she was his, feel the emotion that held them, forged strong in the sunburst’s fire—and know nothing on earth could ever change it.

  The sunburst died and they drifted back to earth, to the earthly pleasures of silk sheets and soft pillows, to sleepy murmurs and sated kisses, and the comfort of each other’s arms.

  Devil stirred as the last candle guttered. Even before he lifted his head, he’d assimilated the fact that there was a woman, sleeping the sleep of the sated, more or less beneath him. Before he levered his shoulders away from her and looked down, he’d recalled who that woman was.

  The knowledge swelled the emotion that gripped him; his gaze roved her face, gently flushed, swollen lips slightly parted. Her bare breasts rose and fell; she was deeply asleep. Triumph roared through him; smug self-satisfaction swaggered in its wake. With a grin she would probably have taken exception to, had she been in any condition to see it, he lifted from her, careful not to wake her. He’d tried to withdraw from her earlier, before he’d succumbed, but she’d clung to him fiercely and muttered an injuction he’d had insufficient strength to disobey. Despite his weight, she’d wanted to prolong their intimacy, not an aim he could argue against with any conviction.

  Their intimacy had been spectacular. Superb. Sufficiently remarkable to startle even him.

  He settled on his stomach, feeling her soft weight against his side. The sensation had its inevitable effect; determinedly, he ignored it. He had time and more to explore the possibilities—the rest of his life, in fact. Anticipation had replaced frustration; from the first, he’d sensed in her an underlying awareness, a sensual propensity rare in women of her kind. Now he knew it was real, he would take care to nuture it; under his tutelage, it would blossom. Then he would have time and more to reap the rewards of his control, his care, his expertise, to slake his senses in her, with her—to make her his slave.

  Turning his head on the pillow, he studied her face. Lifting his hand, he brushed a stray lock from her cheek; she snuffled, then wriggled onto her side, snuggling against him, one hand searching, coming to rest on his back.

  Devil stilled; the emotion that stirred within him was not one he recognized—it stole his breath and left him curiously weak. Oddly shaken. Frowning, he tried to bring it into focus, but by then it had subsided. Not left him, but sunk deep again, into the depths where such emotions dwelled.

  Shaking off the sensation, he hesitated, then, very gently, slid one arm across Honoria’s waist. She sighed in her sleep, and sank more heavily against him. Lips curving gently, Devil closed his eyes.

  When next he awoke, he was alone in his bed. Blinking fully awake, he stared at the empty space beside him in abject disbelief. Then he closed his eyes, dropped his head back into the pillows, and groaned.

  Damn the woman—didn’t she know . . . ? Obviously not—it was a point of wifely etiquette on which he’d have to educate her. She wasn’t supposed to leave their bed until he did—by which time she wouldn’t be able to. That was the way things were. Would be. From now on.

  This morning, however, he’d have to go for a long ride.

  Chapter 17

  Success bred success. Late the next night, as he let himself into his hall, Devil reflected on that maxim. He’d successes on more than one front to celebrate; only one major item on his personal agenda remained unfulfilled—and he was making slow progress even there.

  Picking up the waiting candlestick, he headed for the library, crossing directly to his desk. A folded letter sat prominently displayed. He broke the plain seal. In the flickering candlelight, he scanned the single sheet, and the enclosures, then smiled. Heathcote Montague, his man of business, had, as usual, delivered the goods.

  Devil drew the two notes of hand he’d extracted from Viscount Bromley that evening from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them on the blotter; selecting a key from his watch chain, he opened the middle drawer of the desk, revealing a stack of twelve other notes of hand bearing Brom-ley’s signature. They joined the others—and the six notes discreetly bought by Montague from other gentlemen who, having observed Bromley taking a tilt at him, had been only too glad to convert the viscount’s promises to hard cash.

  Flicking through the stack, Devil calculated the total, then compared it with Montague’s assessment of Bromley’s true worth. It wasn’t difficult to gauge where the viscount now stood—in the mire, well on the way to being helplessly adrift on the River Tick. Precisely where he wanted him.

  With a satisfied smile, Devil placed both letter and notes back in the desk drawer, locked it, and stood. Picking up the candlestick, he left the library and headed upstairs. To celebrate one victory he’d already won.

  The house lay silent about him as he strode swiftly to his room. By the time he reached his door, anticipation had dug in its spurs; he was thoroughly aroused. Opening the door, he stepped through, shutting it behind him, his eyes immediately searching the shadows of his bed.

  An instant later, his fist connected with the oak panels; he swore—violently. She wasn’t there.

  Breathing deeply, he stood stock-still, his gaze on the undisturbed covers, struggling to free his mind of the fog of disappointment, frustration—and a nagging discomfort centerd in his chest. He needed to think. Again.

  Crossing to the tallboy, he plunked the candlestick atop it; and scowled at the bed. A familiar tension took hold.

  Devil swore. Closing his eyes, he uttered one, comprehensive, utterly applicable oath, then, features hardening, shrugged out of his coat. It took less than a minute to strip. Donning a robe, he glanced down at his bare feet. He hesitated, then cinched the belt of the long robe tight. Cooling his overheated blood might help. Leaving the candle wavering on his tallboy, he closed his door and strode, purposefully, down the dark corridors.

  He was finished with thinking. Whatever Honoria’s reasons for not being in his bed, waiting, as he’d spent the whole evening fantasizing she would be, he did not wish to know. He wasn’t going to argue or even discuss it. But surely not even a well-bred, gently reared twenty-four-year-old barely ex-virgin could imagine that once was enough? That he could survive until their wedding night going on as before—not after he’d sampled her body, her passion, the challenge of her untutored wantonness?

  As he marched past his ancestors, Devil cast them a narrowed-eyed look. He left the gallery, then swung left, into the corridor leading to Honoria’s rooms.
r />   And collided with a wraith in ivory satin.

  She would have bounced off him but he caught her, trapping her against him. His body knew her instantly. Desire lanced painfully through him, her satin-clad curves stroking him to throbbing life as he juggled her. Her instinctive shriek never made it past a first gasp—he stopped it, sealing her lips with his.

  Instantly, she relaxed, wriggling her arms free, then twining them about his neck. She pressed closer, kissing him back, flagrantly inciting. She offered her mouth—he took it rapaciously. Swaying seductively, she caressed his chest with her breasts; one arm tightening about her, Devil closed his hand about one firm mound, finding it already swollen, the peak a hard pebble against his palm.

  With a gasp, she sank against him, a melting surrender so delicious it left him reeling. Her hands slid beneath his robe, searching out the muscles of his chest, fingers tangling in the crisp hair. Each touch was driven, invested with urgency, the same urgency coursing his veins.

  Swallowing a guttural groan, Devil cupped her bottom and drew her hard against him. He lifted her, tilting her hips so his aching erection rode heavily against her. Suggestively, he rocked her, his tongue mimicking the rhythm; she closed her lips and held him, warm and wet, soft and slick.

  The deliberate temptation, the flagrant promise in the intimate caress, set his demons raging; the gentle tug as her fingers found the tie of his robe sounded a belated alarm.

  Stunned, staggered, his control in shreds, Devil couldn’t summon enough strength for even an inward groan. She was going to kill him. The door to his mother’s bedroom lay across the corridor.

  If she’d been more experienced, he’d have been tempted to do it anyway—to set her bottom on the top of the side table by his mother’s door and bury himself between her thighs. The illicit pleasure, knowing they dared not make a sound, would have wound them both tight.

  But they were already tight enough—and even if she could handle the position, she would never be able to keep quiet. She’d screamed last night, more than once, an achingly sweet sound of feminine release. He wanted to hear it again—and again. Tonight. Now. But not here.