The Bridal Arrangement

by Cindy Gerard

  It wasn’t just this tightening in his chest when he looked at her, the constant craving of his physical need when he touched her. The feelings she was dragging out of him he hadn’t even known were there, they’d been buried so deep, protected so well by years of building shields.

  It scared the hell out of him to think about letting the barriers down. But his fears were nothing compared to the fears she had to overcome on a daily basis.

  He flexed his fingers, realized his palms were sweating. And then she said his name, in welcome, in anticipation, in the wonderful way she had of making him feel like the one man, the only man, the most important man on earth.

  And he quit thinking. He just felt.

  Sundown had come and gone. The small bedside lamp glowed softly, casting the room and her face in gentle shadows. It made him want to see her by candlelight. It made him want to make love to her under the stars.

  Her hair was loose. It spilled down her back and drifted across her shoulders like a cloud, trailed like a spool of vibrant, curling ribbons over her breasts.

  He went to her. Pressed a knee onto the bench beside her hip and felt, more than heard, her sigh as she leaned back against him. Her eyes were warm and searching as she met his in the mirror; her hair was cool against his skin as it grazed his belly.

  Without a word he gathered the curling mass in his hand. Heavy, like satin. Thick, like sable. He inhaled the honeyed scent of it and leaned toward her. Her breath trembled out on a sweet little catch, her fingers suddenly limp on the handle of her delicate silver brush as he eased it from her hand.

  “You are so beautiful.” He met her gaze in the mirror. Her violet eyes, misty with anticipation, followed the motions of his hands as he gathered her hair, draped it over her left shoulder, then began brushing with slow, long strokes.

  “That…feels…wonderful,” she whispered as she relaxed against him, the back of her head pressing against his bare abdomen, her shoulders nestled between his hip points. His erection pulsed, huge and hot between her shoulder blades. “You feel wonderful,” she added, turning her head slowly from side to side, caressing him with her eyes and that slight, subtle pressure.

  “Tell me what you want, Ellie,” he managed, aching with need, determined to please her, then please her some more.

  “I wish…I wish I’d worn my white gown,” she said shyly.

  With the brush still gripped in his hand, he rested his hands on her shoulders. “But you look so pretty in pink.” He smiled when she blushed. “Even prettier out of it.”

  Very slowly he stroked the cool silver back of the brush along the curve of her jaw. She shivered, and with her eyes closed in sensory pleasure, reached back and gripped his thighs with her small hands.

  “Open your eyes, Ellie,” he commanded on a gruff whisper. “Look. Look how pretty you are.”

  With slow, pleasured languor, she obeyed. He watched her eyes fill with wonder and fascination. The picture she made—the picture they made together—equally fascinated him.

  She was so pale and delicate; he was dark, muscled and rough around the edges. He was stunned by the contrast, yet it helped him get a firmer grip on the importance of making this good for her.

  Torn between watching her face and the progress of his hand, he lowered the brush and with deliberate, downward motions, caressed her slender throat with the same sensual motion. Cool silver touched warm, flushed skin and he felt another delicate little shiver eddy through her body.

  He edged the brush under the robe’s lapel, pushed it aside. Her breasts rose and fell sharply, straining against the fabric as he leaned forward, found the loosely knotted belt at her waist and, with a gentle tug, pulled it free. Her robe fell open to reveal a deep vee of pale, creamy flesh, wide at her shoulders, narrowing to a slender opening just below her navel.

  “So pretty,” he whispered, and, setting the brush aside, splayed his fingers wide at her throat, then over her collarbone and slowly pushed the pink chenille down her arms, baring her breasts to the night.

  A slow shudder passed through his body as he watched her reflection in the mirror. Watched her eyes cloud over with a sensual haze, watched his hands, work roughened and as big as bear paws glide over her delicate flesh where they rested just above the gentle round at the top of her breasts.

  He was mesmerized by the contrasts, by her heat, by the velvet softness of her nipples that tightened into stiff little peaks as he lowered his hands, covered her, then filled his palms with the soft, resilient weight of her.

  She liked it—she liked him touching her this way, and he loved experiencing her reaction when he ground his palms against her, then shaped her with his fingers, lifted and flicked the tips of his thumbs over those velvety hard little beads.

  When he lightly pinched, then rolled, her erect nipples between his thumb and forefinger, she clutched wildly at his thighs, then, with an urgency that thickened his pulse, raised her arms above her head, reaching for him, arching her sweet breasts deeper into his hands.

  He lost it then. Caressing her breast with one hand, he dragged the other hand up her chest, bracketed her jaw in his hand and tipped her head back for a deep, searing kiss.

  Touching her wasn’t enough. Tasting her wasn’t enough. He wanted her tongue. And he took it, then showed her with an intimate ebb and flow, a calculated stroke and withdrawal that he wanted more than his tongue inside her, more than his mouth invading her sweet, giving body.

  He wanted in a way he’d never wanted anything in his life. He wanted to own her. He wanted to be owned by her. Heart. Body. Soul. He poured everything that he was into that kiss, told her with the hands that held her, the body that burned for her that she was the one, the only one he wanted or needed or desired.

  Ellie’s head was spinning. Her blood was flying through her veins, throbbing at her pulse points and lower, woman low. She ached there. She burned. She yearned with all that was in her to know what a wife should know about the physical love that only her husband could show her.

  “Make love to me,” she begged against his mouth, his busy, busy mouth that was devouring hers, worshiping hers, telling her with his kisses that tonight would not be like the others. Tonight he wasn’t leaving her.

  Strong arms banded around her and lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather. He carried her across the room to the bed, where he laid her down.

  He stood above her, like a dark angel, like a man who saw only his woman, and roughly shrugged his shirt from his shoulders and stripped it down his arms. She hiked herself up on her elbows, not wanting to miss anything, not one move, not one single event as he reached for his zipper and drew it down.

  He stopped abruptly, his thumbs hooked beneath the denim at his waistband, where his skin was pale and that arrow of silky, dark hair narrowed and disappeared out of sight.

  “Do you have any idea…” His voice sounded raspy and rough, and he swallowed as his blue gaze strafed her body then returned to her face. “Do you have any idea how incredible you look?”

  She blinked slowly, then looked down at herself. She should probably be embarrassed. The warm flush she felt spreading in tiny, tingling fingers beneath her skin told her she was, at least a little.

  But the look in his eyes, oh, the look in his eyes. He made her feel achy and wanton and proud. She was completely naked. She was sprawled shamelessly on the bed. Her elbows dug into the mattress, which made her back arch and thrust her breasts forward. His gaze was fixed there, as if he couldn’t get enough of looking and yet what he really wanted to do was touch.

  Just like she wanted him to touch her. With his hands. With his mouth.

  “Please,” she whispered, and lay back down on the bed, lifting her arms in reckless abandon to lie, palms up, on the pillow by her head.

  He peeled his jeans and briefs down his hips and shoved them down his legs—and she couldn’t stop staring.

  He…he wasn’t exactly like the pictures in the book that even now lay tucked between he
r mattress and springs at the edge of the bed. He was—he was more. He was better.

  He was bigger. Much, much bigger. And for a moment, to her mortification, she felt the stinging pinch of anxiety.

  What if…what if—

  “Ellie.”

  Her gaze flashed from that part of him that was so fascinating and so male to his face as he eased a hip on the corner of the bed. He was smiling as he reached out, brushed an errant curl away from the corner of her mouth.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he demanded softly.

  She swallowed, then groaned when his fingertips drifted across the round of her breast, then returned to cup her, mold her in his palm.

  “That…that you’re beautiful,” she managed, and covered his hand with hers, riding the motion of his hand, forgetting that she’d been concerned and instead drifted on sensation.

  “And?” he continued as he lowered his mouth where his hand had been.

  “And, umm. Oh…” She squirmed, needing to be closer, begging him without words to keep on doing those wonderful things he was doing.

  “And what, baby?”

  “And…and that you’re very, very big.” The words spilled out on a restless sigh, and then, realizing what she’d said, she opened her eyes to see what he made of that.

  He chuckled softly and lay down beside her. “We’ll fit just fine,” he told her, drawing her snugly against his side. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “You will?” She threaded her fingers through his hair as he moved from one breast to the other to sip and savor, lick and softly nip. “H-how?”

  “By doing what I’m doing. Am I making you want me, Ellie?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes,” she exclaimed without inhibition.

  “Am I making you wet?”

  “Yes. I’m…sorry.”

  He lifted his head. “Sorry? Ellie, it’s beautiful. The way you feel.” His hand trailed down her abdomen, found her curls, covered her with his palm, then with the drift of a finger, delved into warm, slick flesh. “Wet,” he murmured, as he brushed his open mouth over hers, catching the sigh that escaped her parted lips. “You are wonderful. And wet. Just for me.”

  “I…I get that way sometimes,” she confessed, as her hips moved involuntarily with the slow, wondrous motion of his finger. Inside her. Stroking her. Moving her toward something she craved. Something she couldn’t describe but didn’t know how she’d ever lived without. “Sometimes,” she tried again breathlessly, “sometimes, all I have to do is think about you. About, oh—” she shivered when he touched her deep “—about your mouth.”

  The mouth in question crushed down on hers. A deep growl sounded low in his throat as he moved over her, supporting his weight on his elbows, edging a powerful knee between her thighs.

  She drowned in the kiss, then floated in the wonder of it and all the feelings he’d coaxed to life with just the gentle probe of his finger, the delicious pressure and skillful strokes.

  She gazed up at him, her eyes dreamy in anticipation of more.

  “What?” he asked, responding to the yearning in her eyes. “What do you want? Tell me, Ellie. It’s yours.”

  “I want your hand back,” she said a little desperately. “Where it was.”

  “Do you now?” he murmured with a smile in his voice and dropped the most tender kisses on her cheek, then on her brow before returning to her mouth. “What else do you want?”

  She swallowed, closed her eyes, hardly believing what was coming out of her mouth. “Your…your finger. Why did you take it away?”

  For a moment he just stared at her, then his beautiful mouth curved up into a smile so tender, so indulgent, she forgot about being embarrassed.

  “You liked that?”

  She nodded and felt her cheeks flame.

  “You’re going to like this even better,” he promised and with exquisite care, reached down between their bodies and guided that part of him—that very big part of him—to the spot where his finger had been.

  She closed her eyes as he rested there, just rested with a steady, heavy pressure.

  “Ellie?”

  “Hmm,” she sighed dreamily and because she couldn’t not, lifted her hips, just a little, increasing the contact, enhancing the sensation as her body stretched, accommodated and allowed him penetration.

  She caught her breath. He groaned. She opened her eyes. His were pinched tightly shut. The veins on his neck were bulging, his lips compressed like he was in pain.

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” she whispered urgently.

  The sound he made fell somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Nothing. Lord. Not one thing.” He opened his eyes then. They were dark and deep and full of passion and concern.

  “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He ran his thumb in a gentle caress along the line of her brow.

  She thought about it, about the sharp, biting sting that had already settled into a distant, pulsing ache that only made her wonder and want more. She shook her head, her gaze locked on his and pressed her small hands against his hips. “More. Please.”

  He closed his eyes, swallowed hard. “How did I ever get so lucky to have you? In my life. In my bed.”

  Lucky? He was lucky? To have her? To have her? A rush of love so intense, so profound filled her chest—as her husband filled her body. Little by little. Inch by precious inch.

  She bit her lower lip between her teeth, felt tears sting her eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. No. Don’t…don’t go,” she begged, when he started to withdraw. She clutched his hips in her hands, holding him close, keeping him near. “It’s…it’s just so…good. Stay. Please, please stay with me.”

  Above her, her husband, her husband who filled her body in the most intimate, most cherished of ways, smiled. “I can make it better.”

  An incredulous laugh escaped her. “Better?”

  “Trust me.”

  “I do. Oh, I do.”

  A look crossed his face then—a look so tender, so deeply touching—and warmed her in places that had nothing and everything to do with this physical joining that bound them together as husband and wife. She wanted to tell him…how he made her feel…how much she loved him. But he started moving inside her then. A slow, lazy withdrawal that stopped her heart—a long, deep penetration that sent it racing and stole all coherent thought.

  Over and over he entered and withdrew. And he was right. It was better. It was…it was… “Lee…”

  “I know, baby. Let it happen.”

  Trust. It was all about trust. She let herself fly free, let herself tumble, head over heels out of control into the fall.

  Heat. Flight. Heaven. He took her there. He took her beyond, and for the first time in her life she willingly and without reservation gave in to a power that stole those most precious pieces of what made her whole. Her sense of time, her sense of place, her sense of self. She gave them over to his keeping—completely consumed, utterly lost in the shelter of her husband’s loving arms.

  Lee had forgotten about Montana mornings like this—where the cool was so pure you could breathe it. Where the sun was so crystalline and bright it cut through the chill as it edged over the mountain ridge and flooded the valley with light. In Texas it would already be so hot this time of day you could feel the weight of it pressing down from above even as it pushed back up from the baked earth until you felt wedged in the middle of an oven.

  He stood on the front porch, drank from the mug of coffee he’d brought outside with him. And thought of his wife. All silky and warm and snuggled deeply in the covers of her bed where he’d left her sleeping. Of their bed, he amended with a smile and set the coffee aside. He headed for the barn, hurried through the chores, then climbed the stairs to join her there again.

  He was quiet as he entered the bedroom, silently shucked his clothes and slid back beneath the covers beside the sweetest heat, the most delicate flesh.

  She warmed him like a fire. But she needed to sleep. So
he tried. He really tried to lie there, to let her be, to content himself with her softness snuggled against him. To let it be enough.

  But it wasn’t enough, and he was beginning to wonder when he would ever get enough of her. It played hell on a man’s ego to realize that one tiny little woman could turn him inside out like this, and all she had to do to accomplish it was sleep.

  She lay there with her hair spilling across her pillow and sunshine slanting into the room. He loved the look of her by daylight. He loved the tiny sprinkling of freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose and the soft slope of her shoulders like angel fire. He loved the snuffling little sleep sounds she made when she curled into him and pressed her face into the hollow of his throat.

  He loved her.

  It hit him like a velvet punch.

  He loved her.

  He loved.

  He—Lee Savage—loved.

  He waited for the denial. For the profound and pathetic panic that always edged in whenever he even skirted the perimeters of a territory he’d always considered uncharted, overromanticized and, for him, unattainable.

  He tried it again. He loved her. He waited again for the thundering heartbeat, for the inconsolable urge to run. For the anger that reminded him he wasn’t capable, couldn’t possibly be entitled to anything this good.

  Nothing.

  Just peace.

  Just…love. Sweet, healing love.

  Man, oh, man, who’d have thought it. From the beginning he’d planned on a physical relationship. He’d counted on affection. He hadn’t anticipated this emotional commitment she’d dragged out of him with her undeniable trust. Her true and honest giving.

  It rocked him. And in an unexpected way it also anchored him, as he’d never felt anchored. He’d thought he could physically love her without giving too much of himself away. Hell, it had worked for him for thirty-three years. But with Ellie he’d not only dropped all of his shields, he’d walked over them, left them in the dust.

  Will and Clare, for all they had given him, for all he had cared for them, they’d never gotten past his defenses. They’d never gotten this deep. Not soul deep the way she had.