CULLEN'S BRIDE

by Fiona Brand

  She should be happy that he'd been so ruthlessly clear-cut, that he hadn't taken advantage of her. This way she could step back from a potentially hurtful situation, control her emotions before it was too late. But Cullen's stance filled her with a helpless fury. He was making all the decisions, all the rules. And she was tired of being shut out, of being forced once again into the passive role she knew too well.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, after Cullen had quickly washed and thrown on a clean shirt, she was driving down his winding drive with his truck lights glowing behind her. Her body felt odd, disconnected, as if she were going through the motions and her brain had gone on hold. It took all her concentration to keep her car out of the ditch and make the correct turns. Another fifteen minutes and she was slotting her car into the tiny garage at the rear of the salon, and rummaging for the keys to get into her flat.

  Cullen came up behind her just as she finally managed to get the key in the lock and push the door open.

  "I'll check your flat before I leave," he said quietly.

  His presence filled her hallway as he stepped around her and started up the stairs.

  Rachel closed the door and, out of habit, locked it and put the chain on before following Cullen. She couldn't hear his footsteps; it was eerily quiet, and he hadn't turned any lights on. If she didn't know better, if she couldn't feel his presence, she would think she was alone.

  When she reached the lounge, he melted out of the darkness and switched on one of her low lamps. A shiver coursed down her spine at his sudden appearance, and the image of Trask emerging from the shadows played through her mind. Suddenly the thought of being alone was unnerving, even in the cosy confines of her own home. But she was used to coping on her own, she reminded herself. She was used to being alone. And she was perfectly safe. All she had to do was stand here and wait until the downstairs door shut behind Cullen.

  But instead of leaving, he stepped closer. "You need someone with you. I'll call Cole."

  The clipped impersonality of his tone was like being hit by an icy cold wave. It rocked her, washed her defences away. Until he'd spoken, she hadn't known how much she'd wanted him to stay. "No," she said quietly.

  She didn't want Cole, she wanted Cullen. Maybe she had changed in some fundamental way, because suddenly she yearned for the protective qualities she'd found so stifling in her brothers. She wanted Cullen's arms around her, the comfort and peace of just being close to him. And she wanted to offer that comfort in return—to soothe the darkness and despair he'd let her glimpse.

  A muscle twitched in the hollow below his cheekbone, and, if possible, the line of his mouth became even grimmer. And then Cullen closed his eyes. The naked intensity of his expression hurt to see, and she knew in that moment that he was torn. He didn't want to leave—and he didn't want to be the one to stay.

  The strain etching his features taught Rachel more than she wanted to know about Cullen if she was to keep her distance and her dignity. She'd known she could attract him—arouse him—now she knew he cared for her, even if he would never admit it. Taking a breath, she reached up and touched his jaw. His eyes didn't open, although his breathing altered. Without thought, beyond shame, she rubbed her palm over the stubbled darkness shadowing his skin, slipped her fingers upward to the midnight softness of his lashes. They flickered against her touch, oddly delicate when everything else about him seemed larger than life and so strong.

  With a movement that took her by surprise, he captured her hand and brought it to his mouth. "I don't want you to be alone," he said roughly.

  "I know," she whispered.

  For the barest moment she saw an answering loneliness open up in his eyes, saw the yawning darkness he usually hid so well; then, in a convulsive movement, his arms were around her, clamping her in tight against his hard, musky warmth, holding her the way she'd wanted to be held on his verandah. Her arms went around his neck, fingers automatically seeking out the sleek skin at his nape, the thick silky texture of his hair. He shuddered as her fingers tightened in his hair and, with a slow inevitability, bent his head and laid his mouth on hers. She opened for him at the first touch. The taste of Cullen was rich and dark, masculine and untamed, and the stroke of his tongue made her ache.

  Long minutes passed, and he didn't lift his mouth, not completely, and suddenly she knew he wasn't as controlled as she'd thought. The encounter with Trask had pushed him closer to her than he'd wanted to get, and now he couldn't back off.

  "Rachel," he groaned when he finally wrenched his mouth free. "Tell me to go."

  Rachel dragged in a breath. Her mouth was tingling, her lips swollen, her body lethargic with a drugging sensuality that made it difficult to think at all. But even so, she understood everything inherent in Cullen's terse statement. His control was hanging by a thread. If she didn't call a halt, he would make love to her. There would be no promises, no declarations, nothing but a few moments out of time.

  Fierceness swept through her, pushing aside caution and doubt. She could retreat, take the sensible, rational course, or she could take the few moments out of time. Balanced against a forever that so far held little promise and a past that was measured by failure and regret, there was no contest. Cullen alarmed her, made her vulnerable, but he also made her feel more alive, more richly, vibrantly female, than she'd ever felt before.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she reached for the first button of his shirt. It slid free. Another button went the way of the first, and she slipped her hand beneath the soft cotton and felt the heat pulsing off his skin, the coarser texture of hair.

  A low sound grated from his throat, but he didn't push her away. Deliberately, she unfastened the rest of the buttons and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. Her arms slid around his lean waist, and she opened her mouth against him, tasting the salt and maleness, breathing in the difference and the shattering familiarity of him.

  She'd never seduced a man in her life. During her marriage, Adam had always been the one to instigate lovemaking, but now she couldn't stop touching Cullen. Beyond holding her, Cullen wasn't touching her. The rigidity of his muscles, his odd stillness, finally transmitted itself to Rachel, and as he pulled away, hands settling on her upper arms, she braced herself for rejection. But instead of pushing her away, Cullen sucked in a sharp, uneven breath and bent his head, brushing his lips over the sensitive skin where her neck and shoulder joined. His grip tightened while he stroked her with his tongue and teeth, tracing the quivering cords of her throat until her legs weakened and his hands were the only thing holding her up.

  "Cullen," she whispered when she couldn't take any more. Not if he was going to leave.

  He made a sound that was half assent, half groan, as his mouth became more demanding, ravaging her neck, the lobe of her ear, her cheek. And everywhere he touched, her skin ignited, sending rivulets of fire to the aching centre of her body. With a gulping moan, Rachel knotted her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth to hers. A tremor shook him, then his tongue pushed into her mouth, driving deep as he crowded her back until she came up against the wall. The heavy weight of him pinned her, making her skin flush and moisten, sending a shiver of instinctive feminine fear shooting down her spine at the prospect of surrendering to all that raw, sleek power. But she wanted him too much to let him go. On the most primitive level, it was his mesmerizing combination of strength and gentleness that had drawn her.

  His hands cupped her breasts through her blouse, and a pang of such intense desire shot through her that for long moments she couldn't breathe. He tore at the buttons and then simply dragged her bra down before taking her breast in his mouth the way he had at the swimming hole, deep and hot and hungry. Rachel's head fell back against the wall, fingers sinking into the taut muscles of his shoulders. Her senses were spinning, drawing her into a whirlpool where there was only feeling, only sensation. She felt the calloused scrape of his hand between her thighs, the sensation of bareness as he rucked her skirt up around her wa
ist, and then he was touching her through the thin barrier of her panties. She whimpered, both at the exquisite relief of his touch and the frustrating hindrance of her clothing. Cullen groaned hoarsely and found her mouth again. Rachel felt his thwarted male impatience in the rhythmic plunging of his tongue, the roughness of his fingers as they hooked around the lacy edge of her panties and tugged. She was dazedly aware of fabric rending, the coolness of air circulating; then his big hand cupped her with intimate pressure, and he penetrated her with his finger.

  Rachel gasped, her whole body clenching at the rasping pleasure of the intrusion. Other than the interlude with Cullen at the water hole, she hadn't been touched or made love to for more than two years. And they'd been a difficult two years. She'd missed Adam. She'd missed the intimacy of married life, the sheer animal comfort of skin against skin, of strong arms around her, the sharp, clean scent of male sweat, and the coarser textures of body hair and hard muscle.

  Cullen shuddered against her. She heard his harsh intake of air, felt his hands at her waist, then a sense of weightlessness. Rachel's head snapped forward as he lifted her. Her arms automatically clamped around his neck to stabilise the movement. He clasped her buttocks, hoisting her even higher. Instinctively, her thighs parted and gripped his hips. The movement brought her hard against him, and she felt the coarse rub of denim against her inner thighs, the brush of his hand against her female flesh, the rasp of a zipper, then the unmistakeable satin-hot bluntness of his sex lodging against her opening. A split second later, he began pushing himself inside her.

  Rachel contracted around him in shock, making his entry more difficult. She couldn't see him, but she knew he was large, stretching her delicate flesh to its limits. When she realised he was only part way in, panic tightened her internal muscles even further.

  Cullen's head shot up; his gaze locked with hers. He looked dazed, and she sensed his stunned realisation of how far they'd come, and how impossibly fast.

  For an agonising eternity he didn't move, and in those moments her panic, and much of her discomfort, subsided. He felt hot inside her, inescapably muscular and male, and she wanted to feel all of him. But she also felt his hesitation, and that sent panic of a different kind twisting through her. She couldn't bear it if he stopped now, but the dazed look had left his eyes, and now they glittered with a sharp, savage awareness.

  "I'm too big," he rasped.

  "No." Rachel arched, deliberately parting herself more widely over him, inviting him deeper into her body. She heard his intake of air, felt the raw tremor that shook him. Sweat sprang out on his skin, making him glow copper in the half-light. His lips drew back, baring his teeth as he fought for the control she was intent on denying him; then, with a rough sound somewhere between a groan and a purr, his hips jackhammered, and he thrust himself all the way in.

  Time stopped. Rachel registered the wild dilation in Cullen's eyes, her own sense of unreality. She was backed up against a wall, her arms and legs wrapped around Cullen, and he was so deep inside her that her muscles quivered in reaction to his alien heat and hardness.

  And then he started to move. Roughly, jerkily at first, as if he were still fighting for control after the explosive shock of entry, then more smoothly, as she softened around him and lubricated the solid male glide of his flesh.

  He shifted, pinning her more securely against the wall, one hand gripping her nape with surprising gentleness. His gaze linked with hers as he thrust with a steady, hungry intensity that she met and matched. He might not love her, but at the moment it didn't matter, they were man and woman, and he wanted her. Only her.

  She could feel the tension inside her building, gathering, with startling speed. His gaze sharpened, moving beyond purely physical absorption, and he thrust harder, short, sharp shoves that made her tighten unbearably. With a shaky cry she let the shimmering delight take her. His mouth found hers, cutting off the small sound, and then he groaned and tensed and drove himself so deep inside her that she could feel him against the entrance to her womb, could feel the pulsing stream of incandescence as his whole body shook with the fury of his release.

  Minutes later, Cullen stirred. They were still locked together in a limp sprawl against the wall. Rachel's legs were still clasped around his waist. Reluctantly, he disengaged himself, letting her slide until her feet touched the floor. She lifted her head. Her dark hair was a wild cloud, her eyes heavy-lidded. The pale, delicate skin around her mouth and along her neck was pink, abraded from his stubbled jaw. Possession jolted through Cullen, roughly, arousingly. She looked like a woman who'd just been thoroughly loved. His woman. The thought gathered momentum, hardening him again with a fierceness that took his breath.

  His jaw clenched against the needy ache. He wanted Rachel again, but he wouldn't take her. She looked sore and shattered. Her clothes in disarray, she looked like she'd been in a fight. And he'd done it to her. Disgust filled him at his lack of control, the rough way he'd marked her. The blank, stunned expression he'd put on her face.

  With careful movements, he fastened his pants, then picked her up, cradling her in his arms with a gentleness he wished he'd shown when they were making love. Damn it, he knew how to be gentle. He knew how to make it so sweet and slow she would nearly die of the pleasure before he took his. But he hadn't been able to slow down; he hadn't been able to stop. He hadn't been able to do anything but drag her clothes out of the way and get inside her as hard and fast as he could.

  He'd lost control.

  His mouth tightened grimly. There wouldn't be a next time.

  There shouldn't have been a first time. He hadn't used any protection. He hadn't had any protection with him, because this wasn't supposed to happen.

  Her arms stayed around his neck as he made his way into the darkness of her bedroom. She was quiet. Too quiet. When Cullen saw the steady way she watched him, the acceptance in her eyes—as if she knew what he was thinking, what he had to do next—his chest locked up with pain. She knew he was going to leave.

  Rachel could see the silent battle on Cullen's face. She reached up and stroked his lean cheek as he lowered her to the bed, not bothering to hide how she felt. She wasn't about to embarrass him with words, but she was going to savour every moment with him. Making love with Cullen had shaken her. She'd never felt so utterly female, so vulnerable, but at the same time, she'd held him, taken his strength inside her, matched the primitive force of his passion.

  Unexpectedly, he bent and kissed her with a slow, destroying tenderness; then he disappeared in the direction of her bathroom. When he came back, he had a damp washcloth in his hand.

  Gently, he removed her rumpled clothing, then sat on the side of the bed and began to lave her skin before cleaning gently between her legs. He'd bathed her the last time they'd been together, at the river, and it occurred to her with a sudden chill that he was cleaning his touch from her skin.

  His eyes sought hers, cool control restored as if he'd never gone wild in her arms. "I didn't use any protection. Are you likely to get pregnant?"

  Contraception hadn't occurred to her. When she'd been married she'd been on the pill, but for the past two years there hadn't been any need for that kind of protection. "I'm not taking anything, if that's what you mean. It's late in my cycle, so it's probably not likely."

  He continued to stroke her skin with the washcloth, seemingly absorbed with removing every last trace of their lovemaking, and even though he didn't mean his touch to be arousing, the sheer intimacy of Cullen caring for her in such a way made her skin tingle, made her soften inside. Rachel swallowed on a burst of anguish and endured the gentle stroking.

  Finally Cullen put the cloth aside. "If you're pregnant," he said in a low voice, "then it's done. We'll face that hurdle if and when it happens."

  He pulled the quilt back and eased her beneath it, his touch as tender and impersonal as if he were ministering to an unknown child. Then he astounded her by coming to lie beside her, on top of the quilt, still wearing his jeans.<
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  She'd never shared a bed with any man other than her husband, and the intimacy of actually sleeping with Cullen made her mouth go dry. People couldn't keep glass walls, or even granite ones, intact while they were sleeping. When you slept, you were wholly vulnerable, wholly exposed. "You're staying?"

  He pulled her back against his chest, settling her head on his arm. The gesture was gentle and oddly determined. "Do you want me to leave?"

  Rachel didn't bother answering; she just pushed herself back against him until she was as close as she could get with the quilt wadded between them. His free arm curled over her waist, drawing her in even more securely.

  She stayed awake as long as she could, soaking in his warmth, the vitality that didn't seem to dim even when he was lying quiescent. Eventually she felt herself slipping into oblivion, aware that Cullen wasn't allowing himself to relax, that he was waiting for her to sleep—and that when she did, he was going to leave.

  * * *

  Cullen came up out of sleep fast.

  A fine tremor ran through muscles corded with tension. Something was wrong. Different.

  The something moved, burrowing into his side.

  The breath left his lungs on a silent string of curses, and he sank back onto the bed, still on edge, still poised for… He grimaced. The enemy.

  And here she was, all 120-odd pounds of her, wound around him like a vine, silky head nudging a pillow out of his chest and shoulder, hair spread from moonshine to breakfast and smelling of flowers. He traced his fingertip along a dark strand with a careful gentleness, not wanting to wake her, just needing to touch her incredible softness. He hadn't meant to stay, hadn't meant to let Rachel's warmth seep so far into him that he relaxed his guard enough to fall asleep with her in his arms.

  Her hand shifted, brushing down his tense midriff, settling with a soft, warm weight over his navel. Desire pulsed in a hot lava flow, drawing his body tight with a need that was becoming as familiar to him as breathing. Carefully, so as not to wake her from the rest she needed, Cullen eased from the bed. What they'd shared for one night was more than he asked of heaven or earth, and all they would ever share.