by Jane Porter
“I think you’ve made your point,” she said lowly, fingers flexing to ease some of her nervous energy.
“And what point would I be trying to make, Mrs. Sheenan?”
She averted her head, hating to be called that, especially in such a mocking tone. “You know this is hard for me. I don’t know why you must make it more difficult.”
“I admired your father. There was a great deal to like. But as a parent, he failed you—”
“Do not speak ill of him.” Her shoulders squared and her cheeks flamed. “He was a wonderful father, in every way.”
“Because he let you have your way, on everything. You’re spoiled, selfish—”
She lifted her hand and slapped him across the face, the crack of her palm against his cheek horrifyingly loud in the kitchen.
Ellie exhaled hard, frightened. Even without looking at him, she knew she shouldn’t have done that.
Apologize, apologize. Her heart beat frantically as he leaned even closer, the shape of her fingers distinctive on his cheek. She stared at the red handprint in shock.
What was wrong with her?
Why did he bring out the worst in her?
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That wasn’t right, and my father would not condone me striking you. He would be appalled, so please don’t blame him. Blame me. I have a temper, and he did try to curb it, he did. I won’t even give you the excuse of saying I’m a redhead because that’s not it. It’s just me.”
And then tears filled her eyes, tears she hated because tears were a weakness and she wasn’t going to be weak in front of him. “I’ll work on my temper, I will, but please don’t criticize him. I miss him so much and it hurts me that he’s not here.”
“You’re the strangest kitten,” he said under his breath. “Just when I want to shake you...”
She looked up into his eyes and they were dark and full of things she didn’t understand. “Did you call me a cat?”
“A kitten.”
“Which is a cat.”
“So yes, I did.”
“Well then, Mr. Sheenan, you’re a wolf.”
Grooves formed at his mouth, amusement flickering in his eyes, easing the darkness she’d seen there moments ago.
“I wouldn’t argue with that,” he answered, reaching out to follow one of the coiled curls she’d pinned up. He tugged on the curl, loosening it, pulling it free of the pins.
“Don’t,” she said, trying to save her hair but it was already too late. Glossy strands of hair were tumbling free, spilling over her shoulder.
He ran his fingers down, over the curl, as if savoring the feel. “Do you know anything about wolves?”
“I was raised with them—” She looked up into his eyes. “Not in the house, of course, but you can hear them at night, and then when you’re riding in the back country.”
“We didn’t have wolves in Ireland, and so when I first moved here, I met a science professor who taught at Harvard, and he came to Yellowstone to study the hot springs, but after several encounters with the wolves in the park, he decided he wanted to study them. And do you know what he found? That the wolves kept the same mate, and that the leader of each pack, which is called the alpha—”
“I know what alpha means.”
His voice dropped and deepened as he leaned even closer. “The alpha male only wants the alpha female, and they only breed together.”
She was afraid to breathe because he was so near now his chest was almost touching her breasts. She could smell the soap he’d used for shaving this morning. He also smelled of smoke and coffee.
Heart galloping, she looked from his chest, to his strong chin, and then up to his mouth, fascinated by the shape, his lips neither thick nor thin, but just right, and she swallowed hard, unable to look higher, and yet unable to look away.
She wanted him to kiss her, and just the thought made her skin prickle, lower back tingling, nerves sensitive all over.
And then it didn’t matter that she hadn’t made eye contact.
It didn’t matter that she was trying so very hard not to breathe and not to move, desperate to keep that last remaining inch of space between them, because his hands settled on her upper arms, and he slid them up to her shoulders, and then across her collarbone where his thumbs lightly stroked her delicate skin.
“We agreed,” she said hoarsely, voice strangled, adrenaline escalating the intensity of her emotions.
“Agreed to get acquainted,” he retorted, his dark head dropping, blocking the light, and she knew right before his mouth captured hers that he was going to kiss her and, in that moment, she stiffened, lips parting to protest.
His lips covered hers then, claiming her mouth as if she were his, and had always belonged to him. She’d been kissed before. Sinclair had kissed her the night she’d accepted his proposal, and then again the night of their engagement party. In both instances the kisses had been nice—quite pleasant, actually—and she’d looked forward to more once they married, but this kiss was nothing like Sinclair’s.
The kiss was neither safe, nor polite. No, this was a kiss of possession. Of a man confident that he had the right to kiss his wife.
Her hands went to his chest to push him back but he ignored the half-hearted attempt, one hand circling her nape and the other low on her back, urging her closer.
He was hard everywhere and impossibly warm. She shivered at the sensation of him against her, and he stroked up her back and then down again. It felt so good to be touched, and yet there was a danger in the delicious caress.
She pulled back, breathing heard, head spinning. “Just how acquainted do you intend us to be?”
His dark eyes glowed. His lips curved. “Very, very acquainted, my sweet.”
“You are not abiding by our agreement.”
“I never actually agreed to anything.”
“You did!”
“No, I just listened to you talk about the agreement.”
She pushed hard at his chest. “Release me!”
“Why? I’m not hurting you.”
“You’re making me very uncomfortable.”
“Am I?”
She gave him another ineffectual shove. “Yes!”
“Hmmm. Maybe I need to make you more comfortable.” And then his head dropped, and his lips took hers again, the kiss softer, lighter, his mouth brushing the corner of her lips, and then the bow of her upper lip, the kiss so teasing that she couldn’t help the shivers racing up and down her back.
“Not helping,” she said hoarsely.
“Good to know,” he murmured, his lips settling on hers in a long, warm, slow kiss that made her feel as if she was melting. “Better?” he asked, lifting his head an inch.
“No.”
“Hmmm. Strange.” And then he licked the seam of her lips and she gasped.
The parting of her lips gave him access to her mouth, and his tongue traced her upper lip, and then just inside the tender lip, finding nerve endings she didn’t even know existed. Ellie shuddered and he held her closer, shaping her, molding her to his enormous frame—thighs, hips, chest. His strength was dazzling, nearly as intoxicating as the heat rising inside of her, a warmth that made her brain feel mushy and her senses drugged.
He was too good at this, she thought woozily, and the longer he kissed her, the more she welcomed the heat and the pressure of his muscular chest against her breasts and the strength of his thighs. He was hard where she was soft and his strength was far too seductive. Being in his arms made her want to yield to him, and give herself over to him—
But what would happen then?
Ellie stilled, panic flooding her. Her hands were still against his chest and she gave him a short, hard shove. “I think that’s more than enough, unless you intend to take more without my consent?”
Thomas released her slowly, but he didn’t move away. She smoothed her skirts, creating a sliver of space between them.
He gazed down at her, one eyebrow lifting. “Happy?”
Not entirely. She’d been so warm in his arms and now she felt chilled. “Yes, thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he answered, a hint of mockery in his deep voice.
She looked up at him, searching his dark eyes and hard features. “You can’t be mad at me. I did not initiate the kiss.”
“Correct. I did.”
“And you did it knowing how I felt about...” Her voice faded as she searched for the right word. “Intimacies.”
“You’re shy because you’re inexperienced—”
“That’s not true. I’ve been kissed before.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. And I’m quite... comfortable... kissing.”
“Huh.”
He didn’t believe her. She saw it in his expression and heard it in his voice. She flushed hotly. “Sinclair kissed me. And for your information, he kissed nothing like you.”
“How disappointing.” His gaze met hers and held. “For you, I mean. You had so many plans together, and then there was that huge engagement party at the Graff.”
“You’re misunderstanding me. Sinclair was a fine kisser.”
“Only fine?”
“His kisses were quite nice.”
“That sounds even worse.”
“No! They were nice. They made me feel lovely and safe. Protected.”
“Like an expensive vase in a curio cabinet?”
“No. Yes.” She frowned, frustrated. “My point is, he didn’t take liberties.”
“Not to be contentious, my sweet, but he also didn’t marry you. Whereas, I did.”
“Are you to be applauded? Should I open some champagne? What is your point?”
“That I didn’t marry a glass vase. I married a woman. I married you.”
Ellie was finding it increasingly difficult to follow the conversation, and she wasn’t sure if it was because he was deliberately tripping her up, or if her brain was still addled from the kiss, because the kiss had warmed her from the inside out, making her feel so strange... so tingly and deliciously shivery.
She hadn’t thought she’d like kissing him quite so much. She hadn’t thought a kiss could be so... so... shattering.
Sinclair’s two kisses had been sweet and respectful and, in hindsight, maybe too respectful, while Thomas’s kiss hummed in her veins, making her feel wildly alive.
But was that a good thing?
She already had an impulsive nature. Was it right to feel so passionate?
Her brows pulled as she stared up at Thomas, trying make up her mind about him and the kiss and passion itself.
“What now?” he said dryly.
She couldn’t tell if he was exasperated or amused, and did it matter if he was exasperated or amused?
His opinion wouldn’t have mattered yesterday morning but everything was different now. He’d kissed her and she’d felt such wonderful and overwhelming things...
“Did you enjoy kissing me?” she blurted, before she could have second thoughts.
“Yes.”
“If I hadn’t stopped you, what would have happened?”
He smiled a faintly crooked, wicked smile. “I could show you.”
“Not necessary!” She stepped back, bumping hard into the edge of the table. “I just wanted to know. So I could be prepared next time.”
“Well, I’d keep kissing you and touching you, and I’d kiss not just your lips, but that little spot below your ear, and then your neck, and I’d find your breasts—”
“Okay, enough. Thank you.”
“I’d put my hands beneath your skirt—”
“No more. I have a good picture now.” She smiled tightly, and glanced away, her hands on her middle, holding the butterflies in.
His kiss had warmed her but his words had undone her. She felt excited and shocked and far too curious, heat rushing through her, making her skin burn from head to toe. Even her breasts felt full and aching, the stiff corset rubbing against her sensitive skin, chafing her. Tormenting her.
She was worried she’d like his hands on her breasts, and beneath her corset. But what if she didn’t? And then, how would she manage him? How uncomfortable it would be between them then! “I realize men have an... appetite... but I really don’t know you yet, and I think we need to become better acquainted before we kiss... and the rest of it.”
“When will you be ready?”
“I don’t know. It could be weeks... months....”
“Years?” he supplied helpfully.
“Maybe.”
“Ah.”
Something in his eyes made her look away and she knotted her hands. “But we have our whole lives ahead of us. Surely the... the... physical... isn’t something we need to rush?”
“So no touching, just kissing?”
She was still not yet free of the effects of the earlier kisses. “Is kissing even necessary?”
“Yes. Kissing is necessary.”
“Why?”
“Surely our marriage will include some affection?”
She squirmed inwardly at the way he said some affection, unsure which part she was more uneasy about, the word some, or the mention of affection. “All right. If you insist. One kiss a day, and I don’t like it, but I’ll do it as I acknowledge I have a wifely duty.”
“I admire your strong sense of duty.”
Her eyes narrowed. She was certain he was mocking her but he wasn’t smiling, not that she could see. “You agree then? One kiss a day?”
“That’s just impractical and downright stingy, Mrs. Sheenan. One kiss? You, ma’am, have no idea how hard I work for you—”
“Fine. Two kisses. That is it. That is all. Do not push. I’m already regretting agreeing to the second one.”
“You do drive a hard bargain.”
“You seem to be having a tremendous time at my expense.”
“I’m just relieved we’ve agreed to the two kisses,” he said gravely. “We have made substantial progress.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
His dark eyes laughed at her. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“You amuse me. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
“No, I imagine all your other girls were quite smitten by your dark hair and brown eyes and big frame. I’m sure they all wanted your kisses.”
“Pretty much.”
“Are you quite experienced?”
His broad shoulders shifted. “It depends on your definition of experience.”
“Have you taken a woman to your bed before?”
“Yes.”
“And done... everything?”
“Yes.”
“Have you taken more than one woman to your bed?”
“Just to clarify, at a time, or...”
Her jaw dropped, and she flushed, going hot, then cold, and hot again. “You haven’t!” she said breathlessly, heart racing, pulse drumming in her veins. She wasn’t afraid, but overwhelmed by something far more complicated, and far more dangerous.
“I don’t think this is a proper conversation, considering you are a proper young lady.”
“And you are being deliberately provocative.”
He had the audacity to smile, not just one of those faint wry smiles he’d perfected, but a wide, white smile that transformed his face, easing the hard jaw and strong cheekbones, and putting creases at his dark eyes.
It was all rather dazzling.
He was rather dazzling.
“I should go,” he said, still smiling at her.
“Yes, you should,” she answered tartly, thinking it was not fair that this husband of hers was so devastatingly handsome. “Goodbye.”
And then he caught her by the waist and pulled her to him, hard, and his head came down and his mouth covered hers in another slow, hot kiss that made her melt on the inside and forget everything. Her mouth was his and she was his and she clung to him, needing the support as her legs threatened to give way.
“You’re getting the knack of it,” he sai
d when he finally lifted his head. His voice was deep and rough and sent shivers through her.
She was still gripping his arms, her fingers wrapped around the warm dense muscle. “Now you’ve had your two,” she said breathlessly. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow—”
He cut the words off with another kiss, the pressure of his mouth parting hers. His tongue traced her swollen upper lip and then found her tongue, teasing it, before sucking on the tip, the pulling sensation sending streaks of fire through her veins and heat low in her belly, matched by a bewildering new ache between her legs.
She shuddered as his hand brushed the side of her breast, and shuddered again when his knuckles brushed the taut peak, finding the straining nipple that her corset had chafed raw.
She shouldn’t want this so much, and yet she did, and as his thumb found the nipple again, strumming it as though it were the strings of a violin, the heat beneath her skin made her frantic and breathless.
Ellie leaned into him, kissing him back, her hands gripping his arms and then, when that wasn’t enough, she clung to his shoulders, fierce and hungry, but hungry for what she didn’t know.
She was certain he knew, though, and she was certain he could answer this new feverish need. Just when she felt as if she’d burst out of her skin, he lifted his head, his dark gaze drinking her in. She couldn’t look away, nor could she catch her breath.
She felt wild, and desperate and tricked. This was not just a kiss. This could not be called a kiss. A kiss is what Sinclair gave her. This was fiery and fierce and it flamed her senses and heated her blood and she’d never feel the same.
She’d never look at him the same.
Thomas lightly brushed her lips, sending yet another frisson of pleasure through her.
“Don’t worry about making me anything for dinner, just concentrate on supper. I’ll be hungry tonight. Don’t disappoint me.”
She blinked, surprised by the swift change of topics. “I’m not a cook!”
“You weren’t a kisser, either, and now look at you.” And he, the blasted man, laughed as he headed for the door.
Ellie watched him go, telling herself she was glad he was gone and, when she had to repeat it to herself, even more firmly the second time, she knew she was definitely in trouble.