The Marriage Takeover

by Lee Wilkinson

  ‘Please don’t force me,’ she begged. ‘I couldn’t bear it…’

  Sounding shocked, he said, ‘Much as I want you, I have absolutely no intention of trying to force you…’

  She looked once again into his tough face and saw stark need etched in every line, but this time she also saw the discipline and self-control that governed that need and knew she was safe.

  He wasn’t like Sean. Out of remembered fear, she had seriously misjudged him.

  ‘What kind of a brute do you think I am?’ His jaw was set and angry. ‘I’ve never tried to force a woman in my life, and I don’t intend to start now.’

  ‘I—I’m sorry.’ Miserably, she added, ‘I don’t know you very well.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  Her heart like lead, she stood silent and motionless while, his fingers still lightly gripping her upper arms, he looked down at her.

  Earlier in the evening they had been easy together, sharing a joke, enjoying each other’s company. Now she was taut and wretched, and he was furious. They were on opposite sides of an abyss that it seemed neither could bridge.

  So where did they go from here? Where was there to go?

  Apparently wondering the same thing, Lang frowned.

  A moment later, as though he’d made up his mind, the anger was wiped from his face and he said, ‘Well, even if you don’t want to sleep with me, this is no way to spend our wedding night.’

  Soft, romantic music was still playing quietly in the background, and, putting an arm around her waist, he suggested, ‘Let’s dance.’

  She was tall for a woman, slender and supple. He was wide-shouldered, slim-hipped and well-muscled, with an athlete’s grace of movement.

  They fitted together like two halves of a whole.

  Cassandra gave a little sigh, her feeling of depression lifting. Though they had never danced with each other before, he was strangely familiar, easy to follow, as though they were attuned to one another’s steps. Without stopping to analyse why, she found it pleasant, oddly comforting, to be in his arms.

  After a while he drew her closer and put his cheek against her hair.

  The residue of misery draining away, she closed her eyes and let her head rest on his shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his flesh through the thin silk of his shirt, smell his faintly spicy aftershave and the clean, slightly salty scent of his skin.

  The previous night, though ardent and receptive, a certain shyness, perhaps due to lack of experience, had made her hesitate to touch him.

  Now she found herself wanting to both touch and taste his skin, to follow the smooth ripple of muscle with her tongue, to feel the light sprinkling of body hair crisp beneath her fingertips…

  As though he knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling, his lips brushed her hair, and his hand began to travel lightly over her body, tracing the line of her spine, the curve of her hip, the shape of her buttocks.

  His touch was electric, and she pictured him fondling her breasts, smoothing over the sensitive skin of her stomach, making love to her…

  Unexpected and unbidden, desire stirred into life and began to heat her blood and send her pulses leaping.

  When they came to a halt by his bedroom door, she lifted her head and they stood together, face to face, hip to hip.

  Pressing her gently back against the panels, he leaned into her, his body hard against her softness, and lightly circled his pelvis.

  She gasped and looked up at him with wide, dazed eyes. Perhaps he mistook that dazed look for indecision, because he murmured softly, reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll take it slowly. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.’

  When she said nothing, he coaxed, ‘Shall we begin with a kiss and see where it leads?’

  Knowing quite well where it was going to lead, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips.

  Mouths clinging closely, stroking and caressing, they began to undress each other, he with deft efficiency, she, having no previous practice and more to take off, with somewhat less.

  Shirt buttons were simple, the knotted tie not so easy, and when her untutored fingers struggled for what seemed an age to unfasten the clip at the waist of his trousers he was forced to help her.

  When they were both naked he carried her into the bedroom and, throwing back the covers, laid her on the king-sized bed.

  With a little inarticulate murmur, she wound her arms around his neck and tried to pull him down to her, as eager a bride as any bridegroom could have wished for.

  But, unwinding her arms, he stretched out beside her and began to make love to her with unhurried skill, touching and tasting, sensual and erotic, making full use of every erogenous zone.

  Within seconds she was feeling everything he wanted her to feel, while he went on exploring, probing, arousing…

  His hands and mouth were pleasuring her when a light flick of his tongue made her jerk and brought a gasp to her throat. ‘Do you like that?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed.

  ‘Shall I go on?’

  ‘Oh, yes…’

  ‘Then lie still; don’t thrash about like that.’

  He was a master of his art, in total command of her mind and body. Wringing the most exquisite sensations from her, he kept her on the brink until she thought she could stand no more.

  Only when soft whimpering sounds were rising in her throat, wordless little pleas, did he give her the satisfaction she craved, leaving her quivering and emotionally exhausted.

  Turning away from her, he pulled a silk sheet over them to combat the coolness of the air-conditioning, and suggested flatly, ‘Time to get some rest, don’t you think?’

  The euphoria abruptly faded and died. Last night she had gone to sleep in his arms. Now, lying with a good eighteen inches of space between them, she experienced a sharp sense of disappointment. Of loss.

  This wasn’t the kind of wedding night she had envisaged, and though he had given her the most intense physical pleasure, she felt in some obscure way cheated.

  It had been just sexual gratification, and that on its own, with nothing deeper, was a poor substitute for what they had shared the previous night.

  Yes, that was it, shared.

  Perhaps it was the sharing that made all the difference. The mutual pleasure. Pleasure given and received. She had given nothing. But then he’d asked for nothing.

  Knowing he too was fully aroused, she had expected him to go on and find his own satisfaction. But, exerting the most incredible control, this man who was her husband, a man with rights, had stayed purposely aloof and distant.

  Why had he deliberately held back? she wondered dismally. Was it to make a point? To prove his absolute mastery? Or because, beneath that calm exterior, he was still furious?

  A kind of inner certainty insisted it was almost certainly the latter.

  But as she didn’t love him, did it matter?

  Yes, it did. She didn’t want him to be angry with her, to be cold and distant. She wanted back the man who had smiled and teased her, who had been warm and passionate, who had last night held her close and settled her head on his shoulder.

  Well, in that case, it was up to her to make the first move. If she could whip up the necessary courage…

  The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and the glow from the plethora of neon that lit up Las Vegas at night made the room quite light. Turning her head, Cassandra looked at the man by her side.

  Lang was stretched on his back, the sheet pulled up to his waist. His heavy-lidded eyes were closed, the long, gold-tipped lashes lying like fans on his hard cheeks.

  His breathing was shallow and even, and he appeared to be asleep, but something about his very stillness convinced her he wasn’t.

  For a while, fearing rejection, she lay where she was and watched him. Then, taking her courage in both hands, she moved across the eighteen inches or so of no man’s land and snuggled up against him.

  When he continued to lie silent and unmoving,
she let her hand rove over his chest, touching and exploring as she’d wanted to earlier. Finding the warm hollow at the base of his throat, following the clean line of his collarbone, learning the leathery texture of his small flat nipples…

  His hand suddenly closing over hers made her gasp. ‘You’d better understand straight away that I’m not made of stone. Unless you’re prepared to take the consequences, it would be sensible to get back on your own side of the bed and leave plenty of space between us.’

  ‘That’s no way to spend our wedding night.’ Purposely she echoed his earlier sentiments, adding spiritedly, ‘I’d much sooner stay where I am.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Did I fail to satisfy you?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t get what I wanted,’ she answered obliquely.

  ‘Oh? What did you want?’

  She chose her words carefully. ‘I wanted to make love with you.’

  An edge to his voice, he said, ‘I certainly didn’t get that impression previously. You were anything but willing.’

  ‘I’m willing now.’

  ‘Look, you don’t have to make any gestures. The last thing I want is a wife driven to submit by either a sense of duty or an uneasy conscience. I want what I had last night, an equal partner, someone who isn’t just willing, but warm and eager, and responsive.

  ‘Bearing that in mind I’m prepared to wait until you want me as much as I want you…’

  ‘But I do want you.’

  Still he made no move, and, her nerve rapidly running out, in a last desperate gamble she pushed herself up on one elbow and touched her lips to his in a series of soft, baby kisses.

  ‘You’re playing with fire, Cassandra,’ he warned.

  ‘I thought a little warmth wouldn’t go amiss.’ She took his lower lip between her teeth and bit it delicately.

  Reacting at last to the deliberate provocation, he muttered something that could have been an oath, and rolled, pinning her beneath him.

  Until the previous night she’d had no real idea how voluptuous, how erotic and exciting it was, to feel skin against skin, naked flesh against naked flesh. Now, the moment he touched her, her body flashed to full arousal and welcomed his.

  This time there was no slow and careful build-up. Instead of being gentle and considerate, his lovemaking was fierce and demanding, taking everything she had to give, spinning her entire being until her mind was dizzy and her soul had lost its way.

  When it was over she lay quietly, cradling his head to her breast, while slow tears trickled down her cheeks.

  She had never known anything like this feeling of complete union, of being swept up and made whole by another human being. It was wonderful, terrifying, awe-inspiring.

  But Lang must have. In fact even more so. He’d loved his wife, and love would add the extra spiritual dimension.

  If only he’d loved her.

  She knew with utter certainty that she could have loved him. He was tough, manipulative and autocratic, but he was also caring, compassionate and sensitive. A bitter-sweet mixture.

  Alan’s nature had been basically cold, whereas Lang’s, beneath the veneer of cool composure he habitually wore, was an ardent one.

  Their marriage would never lack the fiery heat of passion. If only it also had the gentle warmth of love. A shared love would have made the experience perfect…

  Lang stirred and lifted his head. His eyes still held a slightly dazed look, and a fine sheen of perspiration dewed his forehead and upper lip.

  A second or so later the dazed look vanished and the dark blue eyes sharpened into focus. ‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘No,’ Cassandra said.

  ‘Then why are you crying?’

  ‘I—I didn’t know I was.’

  ‘Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?’

  She saw by his face that he was disturbed by her tears. More positively, she said, ‘Quite sure.’

  His weight lifted from her, but instead of turning away he gathered her up and held her close. One hand moving up and down her spine in an age-old gesture of comfort and reassurance, he said, ‘I’m sorry if I was rough with you. I shouldn’t have treated you that way just because I was angry. But when you froze up earlier it came as a shock…’

  Perhaps this was the time to try and explain what had made her freeze.

  But would he, like Alan, believe that she had led Sean on? The possibility made her hesitate and kept the words unspoken.

  A moment later the chance was gone, as Lang went on, ‘I believe any woman should have the right to say no, if that’s how she genuinely feels. But it’s another matter entirely when she intentionally blows hot and cold, either to assert her power, or to try and make a fool of a man.’

  Shocked, Cassandra protested, ‘I never meant to blow hot and cold.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he admitted bleakly. ‘But that’s how it seemed, and being treated in that way brought back too many bad memories…’

  He didn’t seem to have much luck with the women in his life, Cassandra thought sadly. His mother had sacrificed him, one of his previous lovers had clearly made him embittered, he’d lost both a beloved sister and his first wife, and now he had a wife he’d had to coerce into marrying him. A woman he might want, but one he neither cared for nor trusted.

  ‘Lang, I…’

  He put a finger to her lips, stopping the words. ‘We won’t talk about it any more.’ Pillowing her head at the comfortable junction between his chest and shoulder, he said, ‘Go to sleep now, and don’t worry; I won’t touch you again.’

  This was only the second time in her life that she hadn’t slept alone. Sharing a bed with someone else was a new experience and one that—rather to her surprise, never having thought of herself as a physical person—she found enjoyable.

  She could feel the steady beat of his heart and the touch of his breath as it stirred her hair; she was conscious of the rise and fall of his chest, the strength of his arm holding her close, and the length of one hair-roughened leg against the smoothness of her own.

  This time she was ready to sleep, but it was a while before her mind, not so at ease as her body, would relax its grip on consciousness and allow oblivion to come.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CASSANDRA drifted up to the surface slowly from a dream of pure joy. Still half asleep, she lay with her eyes closed, savouring the bliss.

  Lang had been making love to her. He had stroked and undressed her, and while she had lain breathless beneath the soft rain of his kisses he had murmured over and over again how much he loved her and how much he needed her to love him.

  Her heart full to overflowing, she had kissed him back and told him she did; that it had been love at first sight. A love she had waited all her life to both give and receive…

  Now, waking to a new day, she realized that it had only been a foolish dream, born of longing and need. Yet it had been seductive, full of sweetness and pleasure and comfort.

  Sighing, she opened her eyes. It was quite late, she judged; thousand-watt sunshine filtered through the curtains, making the attractive room bright.

  Momentarily dazzled, she blinked, and looked up to see Lang, propped on one elbow, gazing down at her. His dark blond hair was rumpled and his jaw rough with stubble. His blue eyes held a look of bleak unhappiness that made her catch her breath.

  The memory of her dream still clinging like golden cobwebs, she held out her arms to him, her face unconsciously tender.

  The bleakness faded, to be replaced by a look she couldn’t decipher. ‘Sure you’ve got the right man?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You weren’t mistaking me for Brent?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’ Feeling rebuffed, she let her arms drop to her sides.

  His face grim, he harked back. ‘Last night, you said I hadn’t hurt you.’

  ‘You hadn’t.’

  ‘Then tell me why you were crying.’

  Taken by surprise, she spoke the exact truth. ‘I was just thinking of how
it might have been.’

  The strong jaw tightened, and she knew he’d misunderstood. He had assumed she’d been comparing their wedding night with the one she might have shared with Alan.

  Before she could make any attempt to correct that assumption, Lang turned away and, pushing himself into a sitting position, said harshly, ‘No wonder you were dreaming about him… Dreaming he was your bridegroom.’

  Struggling up, she sat back against the pillows, her cloud of ash-brown hair tumbled about her shoulders. Pulling up the sheet to cover her nakedness, she denied, ‘I wasn’t dreaming anything of the kind.’

  ‘But if you could wave a magic wand and have him here beside you, instead of me, you would?’

  ‘No,’ she said flatly. And knew it was the truth.

  Seeing Lang looked unconvinced, she added, ‘As far as I’m concerned Alan belongs in a past that’s over and done with.’

  Both her past and her carefully planned future had been overturned and devastated. It was much too late to save either. The only thing possible now was to try to regain her equilibrium, and find, if she could, some kind of future stability.

  As though he had the ability to walk in and out of her mind, Lang queried, ‘So you feel able to look forward to our future together? To a marriage made in heaven?’

  Nettled by that hateful mockery, she lashed out, ‘What a delightfully old-fashioned phrase. I wasn’t aware people used it any longer.’

  He hadn’t expected her to hit back, and just for an instant the merest flicker of his eyelids betrayed his surprise. Then, with a taunting smile, he queried, ‘But perhaps you don’t believe there is such a thing as a marriage made in heaven?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

  ‘So you weren’t anticipating one with Brent?’

  Stung afresh, she said sharply, ‘Would you regard your first marriage as heaven-made?’

  As soon as the words left her lips, she regretted her ill-judged retaliation. The last thing she wanted to do was stir up unhappy memories.

  Seeing his face stiffen, she begged hurriedly, ‘I’m sorry; please forget I said that.’