CULLEN'S BRIDE

by Fiona Brand

  Without waiting for her to agree or disagree, and not giving himself time to rationalise that holding his wife was the last thing he should be doing, Cullen swung her up into his arms.

  Rachel grabbed at his shoulders and hung on, but her body was stiff, resisting. "Let me go, Cullen." Panic spiked the honey-warm flow of her voice. "I don't want to lie down."

  Rachel's raw panic stunned Cullen. He couldn't bear the thought of Rachel sick or hurt by the pregnancy. And he couldn't accept her rejection of his touch. He needed her touch. He hadn't realised how important that small link was until she denied it to him—the brush of her fingers, his hand at her waist when he helped her out of the truck, the casual bump of her shoulder against his arm in the kitchen…

  His arms tightened, holding her more securely against his chest despite her refusal to relax against him. Maybe he would get used to being without her in time, but not now. Not yet.

  Ignoring Rachel's continued protests, he carried her up the stairs, shouldered his way into her bedroom and set her down on the bed. His mind was working furiously, assessing the damage, looking for ways past the vulnerability he'd just discovered. He would have to learn to do without those small touches, and the sooner he started, the better.

  But when he tried to remove his arm from beneath her shoulders. Rachel cried out, her hand flying to her scalp.

  Cullen went instantly still. Her hair must have caught on his watch strap. Cursing beneath his breath, he bent over her and began working the strands of her hair free from the buckle. Murphy's law, he thought savagely. This was it, in spades. Just when he didn't need it to, everything that could go wrong was going about as wrong as it could. Right now he needed distance, and lots of it.

  Rachel's nearness, the intimacy of leaning over her while she lay on her bed, hammered at him. The room was warm, sunlight spreading across the floor and the bed, washing everything in hot gold and intensifying scents. He could smell the cedar chest at the end of the bed, the perfume Rachel used. Cullen sucked in a short, sharp breath and almost groaned out loud. He could smell Rachel's skin. A bead of sweat eased its way down his spine. He cursed silently as his fingers slipped and pulled on her hair.

  Finally he was finished. "If you lift your head, I'll get my arm out."

  Rachel slid both hands around his nape. Her grip tightened as she pulled herself up. When his arm was free, she didn't let go as he'd expected. His gaze locked with hers. He was bent over Rachel, hands braced on either side of her on the bed, and her face was so close that all he needed to do was move a bare inch and his mouth would brush her forehead.

  A tremor moved through him. He knew how close he was to kissing her. To doing a lot more than just kissing. "You need to rest," he said bluntly, warningly. "If you don't let go, I'll join you on the bed."

  "You're the one who decided I needed to rest," she reminded him. "If you hadn't carried me up here, I'd be unloading groceries right now."

  Rachel's voice was as clear and direct as her eyes. Cullen sucked in a breath when he realised that he would have to be the one to unlatch her hands from his neck, because she wasn't going to. He also knew with a sudden unquestionable clarity that the reason she'd recoiled from his touch before wasn't because he physically repelled her, it was because touching him hurt her as much as touching her hurt him. Cullen's gaze dropped to her mouth, and his whole body tightened on a sweet, savage rush of need.

  God help him, but he didn't want to take her hands from his skin. He wanted to stay with her on the sun-drenched bed, immerse himself in the dark longing in her eyes, the soft fullness of her mouth. He wanted to strip away her clothes and acquaint himself with every curve, every change the pregnancy had made to her body. He wanted to push himself inside her, make love to her until they were both shaking and exhausted, and then start over. But most of all, he just wanted to lie with Rachel and hold her.

  "At least there's no danger I'll get pregnant," she said huskily. "Unless you're planning on making medical history."

  Reaching up, she brushed her lips across his. Once, twice, a third time. A shudder went through Cullen, and his mouth opened, capturing hers. She accepted his tongue into her mouth with a hunger and intimacy that shattered him. Her fingers thrust into his hair, gripping, tugging insistently, pulling him even closer as she settled back on the pillows. Then, just as Cullen was tensing himself to pull free, she began raking her nails lightly down his scalp, his nape, across his shoulders, stroking and petting him the way she'd done when he'd first kissed her at the Hansons' barbecue. He'd never forgotten the sheer mind-blowing sensuality of her touch then, but now the stunning, raw pleasure of her nails against his skin drove him to his knees beside the bed.

  A groan rumbled from his chest as she continued to stroke him, knead him. God help him, but he needed Rachel's hands on his skin. He needed her naked. And he wanted her beneath him, her legs coiled around his waist, body fusing damply with his while he took her slowly, sweetly. Endlessly.

  Cullen broke the kiss and tried to block out the graphic vision. It was like trying to stop fire with an empty bucket, but he had to try. Rachel was too damned fragile; the last thing he wanted to do was hurt or scare her.

  He loved her.

  The realisation speared through him as strongly, as inevitably, as the first touch of morning sunlight striking through cold, clear water. A tremor followed that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with fury and despair. Sweet hell. This wasn't supposed to happen.

  "Cullen?"

  Rachel's voice was low, husky. He could see the question in her eyes, the vulnerability, the chance she'd taken in opening herself up to him, and he knew he couldn't leave her. He was going to do what he’d promised himself he wouldn't. He was going to make love to his wife.

  Bending his head, Cullen placed his mouth against Rachel's. He absorbed her taste, the exquisite way her tongue curled around his, then slipped past his own lips to explore his mouth with an intimate delicacy. They'd made love, he'd penetrated her body and made her pregnant, but somehow this kiss was more intimate, more deeply piercing, than the brief, explosively passionate encounter that had consumed them both. Rachel's kiss reached inside him and twined around what passed for his soul, and when she took her mouth from his, she had it all. He knew he loved her with everything he was. Everything that he could be. There would never be another woman for him.

  And he could never tell her.

  When she pushed his shirt from his shoulders, he also knew he wasn't capable of pulling back—if he was damned to a dark eternity without Rachel, then he would take a taste of her exquisite light, her fierce sweetness, with him and hope that what he had to give in return would help heal some of the hurt he'd caused her.

  With fingers that felt thick and clumsy, he unbuttoned her shirt. Even so, fabric tore and a button flew, but he hardly noticed; he was too consumed with the changes in her body. Her breasts were very full, the creamy flesh spilling out of her white bra, the enlarged areolae clearly visible even through the cotton. A stunned sense of the child growing inside her filled him.

  His jaw clenched with the effort it took to hold himself still, to keep his touch gentle. Her skin was moonlight pale. He didn't want to bruise her, and his whole body was too big, too brutal. He couldn't help but mark her.

  Her eyes challenged his stillness; then she slid her hand down between them and began undoing his belt buckle. He felt the touch of her fingers, cool and firm against him, heard the chink of metal, the slide of leather, feel the unintentional caress as she unfastened his jeans.

  Cullen groaned at the hot pleasure as she stroked and measured him—possessed him. Sweat sprang out on his forehead. With a harshly restrained movement he unfastened her bra. The pure, feminine beauty of her breasts stunned him. Her skin was silky, delicate and translucent against his callused palms, the dark velvet peaks enlarged in readiness for the child. "I feel like the Beast touching Beauty," he murmured hoarsely.

  "You're the one who's beautiful," s
he whispered.

  And then she moved. Her fingers clasped, then glided hotly over him, and Cullen felt his own inner tightening, the powerful gathering sensation that urged him to thrust against the light stroke of her hand. With a barely suppressed groan, he clamped his hand over hers, cursing the raw demands of his libido, cursing his fumbling lack of control.

  "This is for you," he growled softly. "Only for you."

  Rachel went still, transfixed by the savage beauty of the man looming over her. Even kneeling, Cullen was still overwhelming.

  And he was still in control. Fury and desperation curled through her when she realised what he was doing; he was going to make love to her, but on his terms. He was going to watch her come undone, expose her helpless vulnerability, and then walk away.

  She watched as he got to his feet and systematically removed his boots, his pants, and her breath came in roughly. She'd never seen all of him before. She'd had him inside her, touched the muscular, hot-satin flesh rising from between his thighs, but the reality of him was … startling. Apprehension feathered her spine as he came down on the bed beside her; then she forced herself to release the breath she was holding. She'd taken him before; she could take him again.

  And then there was no more time to think. The heat of his long sleek body as he lay beside and over her seared her. His musky scent filled her nostrils as he began to remove her clothes, his hands lingering on the rounded swell of her stomach with something akin to reverence. And with every brush of his fingers, Rachel realised that the pregnancy had affected her in a way she hadn't expected. The rasp of his fingers as he eased her shirt from her shoulders and arms, the warmth of his palms as he smoothed her leggings off, tingled through her. The pleasure of his lightest touch was almost unbearably amplified.

  When she was naked, his gaze swept her body with a slow deliberation, as if he were memorising every part of her, drinking her in. And something about his very intentness, his steady determination, started tremors deep inside her. He wasn't touching her, but his frankly hungry gaze was hot on her skin, altering her pulse rate until she ached with the slow, heavy throb of a sensuality more compelling than any she'd ever felt before.

  He began stroking her, gentle, featherlight touches that shivered and burned like fire and ice combined. When Rachel couldn't stand it anymore, she wound her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. He gave in to the pressure, and, despite the fact that she could feel the heavy heat of his arousal against her stomach, the gliding caress of his lips was gentle, careful, almost clinical in its briefness. With a sound that was part fury and all desperation, Rachel held him to her mouth. He was fully in control, while she was a mess of inflamed, clamouring nerve endings. This time she used her tongue, stroking his lips until he opened his mouth over hers and slid his tongue inside her.

  The demands of the kiss brought him so close that his hot, restless vitality seemed to thrum through her with every slam of his heart. One thigh slid between hers, the abrasion of hard muscle and masculine body hair against her ultrasensitive inner thighs making her gasp. He cradled her breast, his thumb rasping across her tender nipple, sending her arching while tremors shook her body. His mouth travelled down her jawline, her neck. Then he was poised over her, his arms supporting his weight caging her, as he dipped and took the aching tip of one breast into his mouth.

  The rough, wet heat of his tongue curling around her, drawing her in deeper, had her clutching at his arms and arching, climaxing with a suddenness that left her dazed.

  She heard Cullen's quick intake of breath, felt him cup the damp curls between her legs, one finger sliding inside her, gauging the tight clasping aftermath of climax. The intrusion initiated another series of shock waves. Then he was gently holding her against him. For comfort.

  It wasn't what she wanted. Rachel sensed that, given the chance, Cullen would take nothing for himself. Like that time at the water hole, he would set his own needs aside. But in denying himself, he denied her, and his withdrawal was beyond bearing. Emotionally, she felt as naked and vulnerable as her body was. She loved Cullen. He was her chosen mate, and she gloried in his blunt, uncompromising masculinity, his ability to protect her and their child from any and all threats, but now she needed him shaking and weak in her arms, just as she shook and trembled for him.

  With movements made short and sharp by anguish and frustration, she freed herself, placed a hand on Cullen's chest and pushed him flat.

  He watched her warily, eyes slitted, jaw taut. "What are you doing?" he asked in a voice that was guttural, thick.

  A rivulet of fear, purely primal and completely feminine in source, eased its way down her spine. With his eyes glittering, his big body tense with arousal, Cullen looked both predatorily hungry and tightly controlled. He'd leashed his sexual need to meet hers, but it wouldn't take much to make him shed that control completely. The way he had when they'd made love before.

  Rachel's jaw squared stubbornly. With a deliberately sensual movement, she slid her palms down his chest, stroking his sleek coppery skin, the deliciously rough pelt of hair. His muscles leaped and hardened beneath her touch. "Do you believe in male-female equality?" she asked huskily.

  His nostrils flared as he drew a harsh breath. "You're on top. Is this a trick question?"

  Her hands slipped lower, and his stomach muscles jumped. He growled a low, grating curse.

  "No. Just a statement of intent."

  He tensed as if ready to spring, and Rachel knew a moment of sheer panic. He wouldn't allow her to keep teasing him. Bending forward, she laid her mouth against his small male nipple and drew him into her mouth, her tongue licking across the tight little nub.

  His whole body arched at the overtly sexual caress, but he didn't push her away. She could hear the rasp of his breathing, feel the air jerking in and out of his lungs.

  Cullen knew he was going to die. But he'd never thought it would be of pure, searing pleasure. Rachel's mouth on him was soft, tentative, and driving him crazy. She stroked him, tasted him. She catalogued him as thoroughly as he'd done her. And then started all over again.

  His hands bunched into fists. He was shaking, sweating, his jaw clamped so tight it ached, and just when he knew he couldn't take any more, she spread his thighs and knelt between them. Before he could stop himself, his hands were on her hips. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded hoarsely.

  Rachel stared at him with the peculiar dreamy absorption that filled her face when she was making love and continued to stroke him. He'd been trying to wipe that particular expression from his memory for months, and he knew with a furious certainty that now he never would. And any second she was going to put her mouth where her hands were, stroking and tormenting him, and then he would— His breath exploded from his lungs when she did exactly that.

  Biting out a lean Anglo-Saxon phrase, Cullen surged upright and reversed their positions so that Rachel was lying beneath him, and he was poised over her, his arms taking all his weight. Sunlight poured across the bed, turning her eyes to gold, her skin to rich ivory, as she lay quiescent in his grasp. With a look that was as sweetly beckoning as the exquisite centre of some rare, delicate flower, she wrapped herself around him and Cullen knew he was lost. When he entered her, he did so with an agonising gentleness, the breath lodged at the back of his throat as she took him sleekly, tightly. Perfectly.

  "I don't want to hurt you or the baby," he said on a soft rumble as he withdrew slowly, then pushed in again deep enough to send a small sound rippling from her throat. "I'll stop if it's too much."

  Her eyes closed, then opened again. "I don't want you to stop."

  Cullen shook with the frank sensuality of her expression and with the effort of holding back, of keeping his movements slow, shallow. Rachel wasn't helping. Her hands were on his shoulders, her nails raking, sliding, tormenting him even now, and she kept arching up, catching him by surprise, taking him deeper each time.

  "Easy," he groaned as she shifted restlessly be
neath him; then his hands were soothing her, holding her still as his thighs pressed hers wider apart and he penetrated her with such completeness that she caressed and clung to every inch of him.

  And then he couldn't think, only move and drown in the dark gold of Rachel's eyes, the small sounds she made every time he filled her. Pleasure rolled through him, pounded him, pressed the air from his lungs. The languorous scent of their lovemaking filled the air. The sun seemed to increase in intensity, shafting across the bed, lying hotly on his skin, outlining Rachel in a passionate nimbus of light. She lifted her legs, pulling him deeper, cried out, and then her internal muscles shivered around him, tightening almost unbearably.

  Heat slammed through Cullen. A hoarse cry ripped from his throat. Then nothing existed but incandescent, burning pleasure and the woman coming apart in his arms as they fell into the sun together.

  Moments later, or it could have been hours, Rachel pulled herself from the drag of sleep. She was pinned by one brawny arm and thigh, her back snugged in against Cullen's chest.

  "Did I hurt you?" he asked in a voice that was edged with alertness and oddly flat.

  Rachel understood his wariness immediately, and she braced herself for the hurt she knew would follow. No matter what happened, she wouldn't allow their lovemaking to be diminished by regrets. "You were … perfect."

  He didn't answer. The euphoria of lovemaking gradually seeped from Rachel, leaving in its place an acute awareness of Cullen holding her but still separate and alone. "I'm not made of candy floss," she said calmly. "I'm a woman. I want to be made love to, not … indulged like a child."

  Abruptly Cullen rolled away, got to his feet and began pulling on his jeans and boots. "I was rough," be said bluntly. "And I'm too damned big. You need someone who can offer you all the things I can't."

  Rachel dragged the quilt over herself, instinctively trying to capture the remnants of Cullen's warmth. "A family and home that will always be there?" she said quietly. "A husband who will stay with me?"