The Bride In Blue

by Miranda Lee

  He started undoing the buttons on her dress again, and this time she didn't stop him. What would have been the point? Underneath her surface coolness she wanted him to undress her, so badly that she was shaking inside. She stood there, little tremors running through her, while he took off all her clothes, thankful that he made no attempt to kiss her or caress her as he despatched each garment.

  By the time she was naked before him, her eyes were dilated, her skin flushed with heat, her heart racing madly.

  But with him still totally clothed she also suddenly felt shy. The temptation to cover herself was great but she resisted, standing there proudly before him, though her hands had unconsciously clenched by her sides.

  'You're so lovely,' he muttered, his eyes narrowed upon her. When he ran the back of his fingers across the tips of her breasts, she gasped aloud. He groaned, and dropped his head.

  'God, Sophia, do you have any idea how much I want you?'

  She simply stared at him, unable to say a word.

  'I need to have you right now,' he went on, sweeping her up into his arms. 'No foreplay. Nothing for you but the knowledge that I've never been like this with any woman before. I haven't a hope of controlling myself as I did last night. Believe me, I guaranteed that performance by swimming in a cold pool till I was almost exhausted. It took the edge off my need. Not so this time,' he told her as he strode back into the bedroom. 'This time I will be appallingly quick. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to frighten you, or disappoint you. But I must do this. Don't say no.'

  He didn't wait for her to say anything, she realised in retrospect. He laid her face-down across that decadent red bed, making her feel just as decadent as he eased her legs apart and briefly, but only briefly, caressed her. She grew tenser by the moment as she listened to the sounds of clothes being discarded. But mingled with the tension was excitement, the thought of his looking at her lying there, naked and spread-eagled against the red velvet, sending the blood roaring through her head.

  She gasped when he finally penetrated her, her fingernails digging into the velvet at the feel of his hardness driving deep. There was no denying that her body instinctively responded, eagerly awaiting each surging thrust. For a few moments, she was soaring upwards, but then it was abruptly over, leaving her heart pounding afterwards, her flesh suspended on some plateau which was in itself surpris­ingly pleasurable.

  She lay there, almost savouring her lack of release, glad that it was not over for her. She heard the water running in the bathroom, and then he was turning her over, lifting her into his arms and carrying her to the spa. The hot gushing water was delicious against her still aroused body. He settled her comfortably into his lap but when she finally looked up into his face, she was surprised to find he was looking down at her with worry in his eyes.

  Her smile totally threw him, she could see.

  'You didn't mind?' he asked, still frowning.

  'It was a lovely entree.' She snuggled into him. 'When's the main course?'

  His laughter carried surprise and relief. 'You are the most delightful, beautiful, sexy, generous-hearted girl. God, but I will never get enough of you!'

  'I'm glad to hear that, Jonathon,' she said, startled at her own sauciness but revelling in it. This was a side to herself she had never known existed, this wickedly erotic side. Had Jonathon corrupted her? Or was it this place?

  'You take this end,' he told her abruptly, and de­posited her where he'd been sitting while he slid down to put his back to the window. Any initial disappoint­ment that he had chosen to put space between them was soon obliterated when he picked up a sponge and began washing her feet, then her calves, her knees, working his way slowly upwards, sliding between her legs as he went, his own moving under her back.

  Sophia's heart began to race as she realised where he was heading and what he was going to do. It had been one thing in a darkened bedroom, but here, in a bath, in broad daylight, in front of a window?

  She swallowed several times while he washed her very intimately, but when he discarded the sponge and lifted her to his mouth, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Her back arched as her head tilted back, her hair fanning out on the surface of the water.

  I shouldn't be allowing this, she told herself agitat­edly. It was the ultimate in surrender, the ultimate in wanton behaviour.

  But he's your husband, another voice said. And you're his wife. There's no such thing as a wanton wife…

  Too late again, anyway. Her breath was catching, her blood firing, her body already on the edge of re­lease. Sophia's eyes shut even tighter as she gave herself up to the sensations, her mouth gasping open. No use in fighting them. No use in fighting him. Oh, God…

  The following two days would live forever in Sophia's memory as the most amazing forty-eight hours. Within no time, she ceased to question her actions, particularly her sexual responses to Jonathon and whatever he did or suggested. Soon, everything seemed incredibly normal and natural.

  Perhaps this was because Jonathon was so loving, even when their encounters became a little torrid. Afterwards, he would always hold her with such ten­derness, saying the most incredibly complimentary things. Praise was a powerful aphrodisiac, she found. Whatever he asked of her, she gave willingly, eager to please him, thrilling to the sounds of his pleasure much more than her own.

  Her education was also greatly expanded. She found out that pillows had more uses than for resting heads on, that leather was as sensuous under naked flesh as satin sheets, that a woman could have many more cli­maxes in one lovemaking session than a man, but most of all, that Jonathon had to be the most wonderful, considerate, imaginative lover in the whole world.

  They ate dinner in the nude both nights, room service setting up a table, complete with candles and champagne. Each time, Sophia became more than a little tipsy, so much so that after dinner, when she lay naked and replete in Jonathon's arms, she became rather talkative, telling him everything about her life so far.

  He was a most sympathetic listener, especially when she told him about her father dying when she was only a little girl, her much loved schoolteacher father who had doted on her, read her stories and been such an important part of her young life. By the second night, she'd moved on to her years at the farm after her mother had married Joe, Jonathon saying all the right words to soothe these fresher and more turbu­lent memories. But when she tried to move on to her time with Godfrey, he stopped her dead straight away.

  'No, Sophia,' he told her curtly. 'I do not wish to hear about what you shared with Godfrey. I realise you think he would understand all this…' His hand swept in a savage wave over their naked bodies. 'You could be right but I still have my doubts. I justify myself with the excuse that, in a perverse way, I am doing what my brother asked—protecting you.'

  He laughed at her shocked expression.

  'Oh, yes, Sophia, New Year's Eve showed me all too clearly that you had recovered from your grief at losing Godfrey and his baby, and that you were in danger of becoming a ready victim for some clever, conscienceless man. You're an extremely lovely and very desirable girl, full of life and love and passion. You needed a man in your bed that night as much as I needed a woman in mine. I chose to solve both our problems this way rather than let you loose in a world which is hard on naïvité and innocence.'

  Again she looked startled and again he laughed.

  'Don't think that anything we have done together in this hotel suite makes you any less innocent, or less naïve. So you know a few more sexual positions. So you know some more sophisticated ways to please a man. Neither makes you a woman of the world, Sophia. All it does is make you more vulnerable to the dark side of men, and more able to be exploited. Now I think you should get some sleep. First thing in the morning I'll be taking you home. The honeymoon, I think, is over.'

  He rolled away from her and Sophia lay there beside him for ages, wondering if he was the conscienceless man he spoke of. Even if he wasn't, wasn't he happily exploiting this new-fou
nd sexuality of hers, hadn't he still made her a victim, vulnerable to his desires and his dark side?

  She was lying there some time later when he rolled over and pulled her roughly to him. 'I hate women who don't go to sleep when I tell them to,' he mut­tered, his mouth covering hers. Sophia struggled with the urge to push him away, to tell him to go to hell. But it seemed she was some way off being able to deny herself, along with him.

  Still, she would not let him have it all his own way. She did push him, but only on to his back, where she straddled him, her hair falling round her face in a dark curtain. He'd shown her how to make love to him this way, shown her exactly what drove him crazy. She needed to drive him crazy now, needed to see a shift in power in their relationship, even if it was only temporary.

  'No, don't,' he groaned when she'd taken him to the edge a second time, only to retreat, forcibly bringing him back with her.

  'But I thought this was how you liked it, darling,' she taunted breathlessly.

  'I'll darling you, you little bitch.'

  How he managed to reverse their positions so quickly, she had no idea, but suddenly she was flat on her back, her arms held wide in a brutal grip, her body impaled beneath his.

  'And now we'll see who's boss around here,' he growled.

  'Yes, we will, won't we?' she countered wick­edly, using her internal muscles with ruthless re­solve to propel him swiftly and savagely with her into the abyss.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sophia and Jonathon were sitting at the table eating breakfast, Sophia in her bathrobe, Jonathon wearing white boxer shorts, when the telephone rang. The sound was so foreign to the last two days that they exchanged surprised looks for a moment.

  'Probably Reception,' Jonathon said on the second ring. 'I called them while you were in the shower and asked them to make up the bill. Perhaps there's some query about the amount of champagne we've consumed.'

  Jonathon rose and walked across the red carpet towards the telephone table. Sophia watched him admiringly, thinking how she no longer found his body or his size in any way intimidating. She loved both. Neither did she find his autocratic manner as intimi­dating any longer.

  She had a feeling that in future, whenever he barked an order or scowled at her in disapproval, she would not quiver with fear but smile wryly to herself. For he was all bark and no bite, her husband. Passionate, yes. And as physical as his mother had warned her. But beneath his aggressive and sometimes difficult personality lay a depth of caring and consideration which he could not always hide. Sophia didn't think she would be afraid of him ever again.

  Her musing was interrupted by his sudden snarling into the receiver.

  'For pity's sake, Wilma, couldn't you have handled that yourself? I would hardly classify a revised tender deadline as an emergency.'

  When Sophia shot him a startled and perhaps slightly reproachful look, he astonished her by winking, while at the same time continuing with his dressing-down of the hapless Wilma.

  'I suppose I'll just have to cut my honeymoon short and come into the office,' he said after an impatient click of his tongue. 'If this is an example of your decision-making skills, madam, then I think I'll have to reconsider my idea of offering you a promotion. No, no, it's too late now. I've lost faith in your judgement. I'll be there by one. Make sure you're in the office and not out buying one of those ghastly cottage cheese sandwiches you live on.'

  He hung up, then grinned a malevolent grin.

  Sophia was appalled at him. He'd been planning to go into the office anyway, after dropping her home later in the morning. 'Oh, Jonathon, that was cruel,' she chided as he came back to sit down at the table, still smiling with evil satisfaction.

  'Cruel, my foot!' he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. 'That interfering, manipulating witch needs taking down a peg or two. I haven't forgiven her yet for tarting you up on New Year's Eve, then sending hot-handed Harvey in to rile me up further. The woman's insidious.'

  'You like her,' Sophia pointed out indignantly. 'And I was not tarted up! I looked very nice.'

  'You were naked under that dress.'

  'I was not naked! I… I simply didn't wear a bra.'

  'With you, that's enough to make any red-blooded man's hair stand on end. Not to mention other un­fortunate parts of his anatomy.'

  'Don't be so crude,' she countered, flustered when she felt an embarrassed heat gathering in her cheeks. There she was, just a minute ago, thinking she was cured of Jonathon being able to rattle her. But it seemed she'd been wrong. 'I thought you liked my body,' she said, sounding rather sulky and childish in her irritation.

  'You know I do. Why do you think I've kept you naked these past two days? Which reminds me, why are you all smothered up in that infernal robe? Take the damned thing off.'

  'I will not,' came her indignant refusal, determined not to keep acting like a good little sexual slave, even if she had enjoyed it. 'Since you decided the honeymoon is over then my days of sitting naked at a table with you are also over!'

  His eyes narrowed dangerously, and she did indeed quiver inside. But she was determined not to show it on the outside. 'I… I enjoy making love with you, Jonathon,' she said with a somewhat shaky attempt at firmness. 'But there is a time and place for every­thing. Godfrey wouldn't have minded your making me your real wife, but he would not have wanted you to corrupt me.'

  'Corrupt you? You think being naked with your husband is corrupting you?'

  'There's naked and there's naked,' she threw back, even as she realised she was becoming aroused under­neath the voluminous bathrobe. This highly un­wanted development heated her temper along with her blood. 'There's also husbands and husbands! I'm well aware you don't love me, Jonathon, but I would still like to feel that when we are intimate, it's like making love, not having sex. I want to feel like your wife, not a…a whore!'

  Good God, whatever had possessed her to say such a stupid thing? Not once over the past few days had she ever felt like a whore, whatever it was a whore felt like! She had felt slightly wicked, and deliriously sexy, that was all. She had been with Jonathon every step of the way.

  He was sitting very still, his face ashen under her accusation. 'You think I've treated you like a whore?' he asked, his tone grim.

  Sophia couldn't bring herself to take back her lie, but neither could she go on with it. Suddenly—and she had no idea why—she burst into tears. Now Jonathon was looking totally appalled. He went to get up, possibly to come round and comfort her. But then he seemed to think better of it and sat back down again.

  'I… I'm sorry,' he said bleakly. 'I had no idea. I thought… I hoped…' His obvious unhappiness pro­pelled her to her feet. She raced round and knelt beside his chair, clasping his nearest knee and resting her wet cheek against his thigh.

  'I don't think that,' she sobbed. 'I don't know why I said it. I don't know why I'm crying.' She looked up through streaming lashes, pleading with him for the answers.

  His hand trembled as it stroked her hair back from where it had fallen around her face and his thigh. 'I think,' he said slowly, 'that you might be feeling a little guilty. About Godfrey,' he added when she blinked her bewilderment.

  'But why would I feel guilty?' she asked in all innocence.

  'Because he's not here and I am. Because you've been sharing with me the sort of passion you might prefer to be sharing with him.'

  'But I never shared this sort of passion with Godfrey,' she blurted out. 'I… I loved him but I… I never felt the things with him that I feel when I'm with you!'

  Oddly enough, her declaration didn't make him look any happier. 'I know,' he confessed in an ex­tremely cynical tone. 'It's called sex, Sophia. Or desire. Or lust. I have a good record at inspiring such feelings in women. Don't set too much store by it. Don't confuse it for anything else, and for pity's sake don't start thinking you've fallen in love with me. I don't want your love. That belongs to Godfrey. What I do want from you is your body in my bed every night, and a baby some time in the fut
ure. Since you don't seem to mind either of those prospects, then there's no need for any of these tears, is there?'

  'N-no, I suppose not,' she said with all the uncer­tainty in her heart, sighing as she settled her still damp cheek back down on his thigh.

  But what if the words Harvey had spoken to her on their wedding-day had come true? What if she had fallen in love with Godfrey's very handsome and very sexy younger brother?

  Such questions brought instant dismay. How could she have? She still loved Godfrey with all her heart and soul. She had not forgotten him in her mind and memory, not for a moment.

  Her body, however, had other ideas. It loved Jonathon.

  No, no, she agonised. This couldn't be love, this awful churning in her stomach, this wish to place her lips to the flesh beneath her cheek, this yearning to hold Jonathon so close to her heart that she could feel his own heart beating under hers. It was what he just said it was. Sex. Desire. Lust. I've fallen into lust, she accepted bleakly, not love.

  An instinctive aversion to this thought had her scrambling to her feet, away from temptation, away from Jonathon. 'I… I'll go and pack,' she said agi­tatedly, unable to meet his eyes.

  She heard him give a weary sigh as she hurried away into the bedroom, heard him mutter something which sounded like, 'The honeymoon is, indeed, over.'

  'You're very quiet these days,' Wilma commented to Sophia on their way to their weekly shopping ex­cursion. 'Aren't you happy with Jonathon?'

  Six weeks had passed since Jonathon had dropped his bride home at Parnell Hall and decamped to the office for the rest of the day. Six weeks during which the two things he'd said he wanted of her had come to pass. Sophia had spent every night in his bed and she was pregnant; had been, according to the doctor's estimation last week, since New Year's Eve.

  Jonathon's reaction to the news had been unexpec­tedly subdued. She'd gone to tell him in the study after dinner—he still retired there to work every evening, sometimes not joining her in bed till well after mid­night. On those nights, he made no attempt to touch her when he first slipped between the sheets, but in­variably, at some time during the night, their bodies would touch and ignite with a type of spontaneous combustion. Jonathon's lovemaking had none of the wild imagination he'd employed on their honeymoon, but it seemed to have become more urgent, more im­passioned, if that was possible.