This time, as he took her into his arms, he set out to make the kiss more tender, more pleasant. He finessed his way over her lips, exploring, asking, introducing, and when she followed his lead, his shaft pulsed with appreciation. Dear God, she was soft and silky as he caressed his hands up and down her bare arms, yet he knew from prior acquaintance she possessed a will of iron that didn’t bend when confronted with his ire.
You basically paid her to marry you. The woman won’t stay with you once you finally snap. His damned anxiety wouldn’t shut up, and no matter how erotic the sounds of enjoyment Sarah made at the back of her throat or how sweet the touch of her hands as she explored his shoulders, he couldn’t banish that destructive little voice at the back of his mind. You aren’t worthy of love. How could you be?
Anger mounted, for himself as well as the situation. He growled and wrenched away from her. When she murmured something unintelligible, he grabbed the hem of her nearly transparent nightgown, and in the process of yanking it up and off her body, the fabric tore.
“Oh, no!” The exclamation couldn’t break through the waves of anger roiling through him. “Andrew, be careful. I bought this so I’d look pretty for you tonight.” She hung to the garment, clutching the ruined fabric to her breasts.
Of course, he was destructive; beasts usually were. He hated himself, and that made him feel even worse. “Would me giving you empty compliments make any of this better?”
Hurt stamped across her expression. She cried out when he tugged the nightgown from her fingers and tossed it away. “Well, it can’t make it worse, can it?” Those damned narrowed eyes and her ire fed his own. “This is hardly what I expected on my wedding night.”
“On that, you and I agree, but isn’t this what be both agreed to, this begetting an heir?” They’d never discussed love or romance, so why should he make an effort? With his state of mind, he couldn’t focus properly on the slender length of her body or how perfect her breasts were with their hardened rosy pink tips. Or how the thatch of blonde hair at her thighs was distracting as all hell.
No, the only thing he could focus on was the rampant lust that blinded him and the anger that clawed through his insides in a bit to tear him apart. The longer he stared at her body, the more visibly shy she grew. When she attempted to shield herself with her hands, he snatched at them. “No, countess, these belong to me.” And cad that he was, he cupped her breasts, kneaded them, smashed them together. Perfect indeed. Not overly large or small, they filled his palms as if she were made especially for him, but he didn’t pause to properly worship them. Not when his mind was plagued with doubts and his chest felt tighter with each drawn breath thanks to the bloody anxiety.
Confusion and apprehension filled Sarah’s eyes, slightly magnified behind the lenses of her spectacles. “Please, be gentle. I haven’t—”
“Hush. I know.” He dipped his head and took a pebbled nipple into his mouth.
She whimpered but slid a hand to his nape and encouraged him to continue. “I had no idea…”
It didn’t matter that she didn’t finish the thought, for he was nearly gone. There was no strength to master control over the desire circling through him. “Damn, but this will go quickly, Sarah.” As best he could, he modulated his voice, so he didn’t sound like the beast he felt. “It’s been too long.” And he was out of practice, besides.
“Give me time to acclimate. These sensations are too big,” she whispered as she delved her hands beneath his shirt. “Let me play, arouse you as you’re doing to me. Teach me—”
“No.” For that would only leave a deeper impression and greater regret on both their parts. “You don’t understand…” It was Drew’s turn not to finish a sentence. As she looked at him with trust and stark need in her expression, he’d give anything to be someone other than who he was. He cupped her cheek, drew her closer and kissed her again and again, drinking his fill of this woman who’d voluntarily braved his wrath and would have to weather his ire. As he did, he pulled her naked body flush to his. In his haste, he hadn’t even taken his own clothing off.
Another reason she’d have to berate him. Then he was lost to the glory that was Sarah, her lips that tried to welcome him home despite his reluctance to go back, her wandering fingers that sent shuddering awareness into his blood. He roved his hands along her back, couldn’t have enough of her warmth, and when he encountered her buttocks, he cupped them, his fingers glancing between her thighs to brush at the blonde curls.
A surprised moan escaped her throat. The innocent sound drove him onward as he strove to beat back the demons inside. She was the answer to his nightmare, but she was also another way his life would unravel. Over and over he kissed her in the hopes that he could forget all that he was if he buried himself in her honeyed heat. As he gripped her hips so hard, he feared he’d leave bruises, and that only added to the surging anger.
Of course he would hurt her. That’s all he was capable of doing. You’re going to ruin this woman, use her as kindling for your ill-temper, and then what? The damned anxiety mocked him, threw the question around in his head until it bounced like soap bubbles. Take her by force like a savage?
“Sarah…” Why couldn’t he say it? Why couldn’t he ask for her help? Something deep down in his soul called out to her, but the words wouldn’t leave his tongue.
“Yes?” She put her palms on either side of his face and looked into his eyes.
Suddenly terrified of what she’d find, he growled and then half-carried, half-walked her toward the bed. When it connected with her backside and prevented further movement, he kissed her again. She couldn’t know how far gone he was, how close to falling apart he was, not now. Fear cooled his blood. Would he lose her following this night or would she grant him one last chance?
“Please forgive me,” he managed to whisper through a tight throat.
“For what?”
With shaking hands, he fumbled at his frontfalls. Barely did he give her time to glance at his hardened length before he spun her about so that she faced the bed. “I…” Hell with it. He couldn’t talk, concentrate on bedding her, and keep his anger in check at the same time.
She’s your wife now, so put a babe in her belly and be done with her. Then you can hide away and sulk.
In the end, rage and anxiety won. It always did. He’d never had a chance. With a knee between her thighs, he widened her stance. “Bear down. The first time will hurt.” God, she’d hate him, and he didn’t blame her. At least this way he wouldn’t see the disgust and loathing that would be in her expressive eyes.
“Andrew?” She glanced backward. “Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help, talk to you.”
“It’s too late.” He swallowed. “Do you want me, Sarah?” He was many things, but he wouldn’t rape his own wife. “Do you want me to couple with you?”
“Yes, I do, but this isn’t the way I thought we’d do it.”
“It’ll be over soon.” He fit the head of his shaft to her opening and with a flex of his hips, he penetrated her as deep as he could go, tearing through the slight resistance of her maidenhood and burying himself to the hilt.
A cry of pain issued from her, but he was too far gone to care about going slow. With every stroke, he held onto her hips and despised himself. She clutched the bedding in her fists as her body trembled in his hands. Her innocence and inexperience left her vulnerable, but she wriggled her backside against him, which only inflamed his unchecked desire. Faster and faster he moved, pounding in and out. His breathing, already compromised by the enormous strain he carried, labored even more, his lungs aching, and just as he’d said, need tingled through his stones. A tiny moan escaped her, followed by a sob. Those little noises broke him. The force of his release raced through his length and as he pulsed out his seed, he ground himself against her.
God, I’m a prick and a black hearted tyrant.
And he’d failed at bedding his wife the first time out.
Several silent moments went by as he lay
collapsed against her back, and when he moved away, the quiet was punctuated by the sound of her crying. “Sarah? Are you all right?” When he went to touch her shoulder, she heaved upright and turned on him so fast, he gaped.
“You bastard.” Tears fell unchecked. She lifted a hand and slapped him so hard, he was certain he wouldn’t soon forget it. Angry red color mottled her chest and cheeks. Humiliation clouded her eyes behind her smudged spectacles. “How dare you.” Emotion graveled her voice. “You treated me little better than you would a whore, and you have the gall to ask after my health?” She darted around him, casting about the floor for her robe. When she snagged it, she shoved her arms through the sleeves. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
Drew’s lower jaw worked. He tried to make his lips form words, but nothing would come, for he couldn’t deny her claims.
“Bloody arrogant prig. No woman should have to suffer through what I just did. Especially not on her wedding night.” Sarah swept to the door and then looked over her shoulder at him. “Until you can figure out why this entire night was wrong, until you can apologize to me with some semblance of intelligence, until you’re ready to become a better man, I want nothing to do with you.” She opened the door. Seconds later it slammed behind her. The answering crash of her door put the final nail into the proverbial coffin of his married life.
Not even wed twenty-four hours and he’d already torn it apart.
He sank to his knees with his head in his hands. I can’t go on like this, but who will save me now that I’ve turned Sarah against me?
Chapter Twelve
Sarah made certain to lock her door before she leaned her back against the heavy oak panel, covered her face in her hands, and sobbed out her angst so hard her whole body heaved. What the hell was wrong with him? Through her tears, she glanced about the room, but thankfully, she was alone. The maid who’d been assigned to her wasn’t in attendance, for she—like everyone else no doubt in the house—would have assumed she’d spend the wedding night out of this suite.
When had anything ever gone the way she wished?
It had been wicked and this side of sinful to let a man she barely knew do such… things to her, but oh, he had a certain skill. Too bad the act had gone so fast and had been so shameful. He’d humiliated her! The earl had treated her like a prostitute, hadn’t bothered to take her virginity with any sort of gallantry or tenderness, never took the time to initiate her into intercourse so she wouldn’t have felt like such a green girl. If that was what relations between them would be going forward, she wanted no part of it.
“You can pluck an heir out of the damn garden for all I care!” she yelled into the silence of her room. The light from a guttering candle on the nightstand sent anemic light through the darkened room. “I will not be disrespected by my husband again. Do you hear that, Andrew?”
She hoped that he did. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks. Annoyed, she perched her spectacles on the top of her head and scrubbed at her cheeks. How unfortunate it was that when she was beyond incensed, she cried, for no doubt the earl thought he’d hurt her feelings when in reality she’d been enraged beyond all coherence. It had always been a flaw and something she was acutely aware of when people who hadn’t the sense God gave a goose talked down to her or embarrassed her, which her husband had done in spades.
If he couldn’t gain control of himself and stop bottling his emotions to the point that he was a slave to anxiety, she was done, completely done, with him.
Yet she’d married him and had pledged to help him if she could. Were his problems—demons as he’d called them—beyond his ability to conquer?
I’ve been foolish. She’d known better. Of course she had, but here she was, shaking with rage and humiliation because he’d bedded her in a way she hadn’t considered nor been prepared for. Hot saliva filled her mouth, and she swallowed several times to stave off the urge to retch.
“This was a horrible mistake,” she whispered into the quiet.
Oh, dear Lord. Sarah bolted over the floor. She fumbled about in the cupboard beneath the nightstand for the chamber pot and barely grasped it in time to catch the contents of her stomach as she cast up her accounts. Andrew had used her for his own pleasure and devices, hadn’t given her the respect she deserved, and he callously took want he wanted in a way that an untried woman should never be shown, especially on her first bedding.
Sarah’s sobs continued unchecked. It was obvious he didn’t have the basic decency or compassion to make the night special. Did he even care, or had she been a means to an end all along? No doubt he did, for wasn’t it her idea to keep everything between them a business arrangement? Another bout of retching followed. Regardless that she might want a friendship from the earl, none of that was possible right now, not when he was essentially lost and hurting.
Her stomach heaved again, and she spat into the porcelain receptacle. When her insides quieted, Sarah replaced the pot into the cabinet and then wiped her streaming eyes. Her body shook from reaction, her muscles ached from misuse, and the glide of the pretty wrapper she’d bought scraped against her still-sensitized nipples. She recalled his hands on her body—too fleeting and rough for her to properly enjoy the attention, and she shivered, both from emotion and a need she didn’t fully understand.
But he’d been a cad, acted like the beast he thought he was, and he’d torn her delicate nightgown without uttering a compliment about it. Damn him. She’d been so proud of that purchase, bought the finery with the remainder of her pittance to mark the momentous night, and he’d crushed the whole experience beneath his heel as if none of it mattered.
As if she didn’t.
Another round of tears fell, and Sarah let them. She deserved to vent her disappointment and perhaps disillusionment. In a fit of pique, she took off her robe, wadded it up, and hurled it onto the foot of the bed. Bloody ego for wanting to rig herself out for that man. Shaking her head, she marched to the wash table in the corner of the room.
“If he wants a countess and that’s all, then that’s what he’ll have. And an ice queen at that.” After pouring water into the bowl, she wetted a rag and cleaned the stickiness from between her legs. A trace of blood came way on the rag, and she sobbed again, this time for something she’d given that went unappreciated by the Neanderthal down the hall.
Fumbling for her spectacles, Sarah wrenched them from the top of her head. The curved ends of the arms tangled in her hair and she cursed as she pulled the eyewear from her tresses. After popping them onto the bridge of her nose, she inspected her hips where he’d gripped her. Sure enough, bruises in the shape of his fingers were beginning to form purple smudges. “Arse.” Once she’d tossed the soiled rag into the bowl, she moved into the adjoining dressing room. When yanked open a drawer from the bottom portion of the clothes press, she snagged the old familiar and worn night shift she’d always donned for the last few years. With a sigh, she struggled into the garment, and when she blinked, another shower of tears fell to her cheeks.
“How stupid I was to think that this new life would start off with a bit of hope.”
As much as Sarah would have liked to relieve hurt feelings and aggravation by throwing something, she was too smart and thrifty to break the new silver vanity set he’d left in her room, or the cheval glass that even now reflected her tear-stained face. She’d never owned such expensive things. Instead, she settled for returning to the bedchamber where she grabbed a pillow from the bed. Then she buried her face in the heavy goose down mass and screamed into the soft barrier.
A few minutes later, when her ire was spent, she tossed the pillow back onto the bed and followed it down, collapsing into the cool, soft sheets. “I meant what I said, Andrew,” she whispered and then blew out the candle. As darkness accumulated in the room, she pulled the covers up to her chin. “I won’t see you again until you apologize and commit to change. This is a partnership, and I can’t do it alone.” She removed her spectacles and rested them on the bedsid
e table.
Devil take him anyway for making her think there might have been a chance at happiness between them when they’d talked that day in the meadow.
Lies, all lies. She sniffled. And stupidity on her part.
*
Oh, Sarah hated him all right. There was no doubt about that. Drew’s cheek stung from that slap, and he’d deserved it. His ears were blistered from her parting words, but damn if the humiliation on her face and the fury in her eyes would haunt his every moment. The slam of her door resonated through the quiet of the manor.
What the hell is wrong with me?
What he’d done was unforgivable. Of course, it was, and he’d known it but did it anyway. He shoved a hand through his hair. Each breath he drew sent pain ricocheting through his impossibly tight chest. Had he harmed her physically? Oh, God, had that incident damaged her mentally, left her in fear of what carnal relations could be? So lost to anger and his own bloody lust as he’d been, he hadn’t given consideration to what she might have been thinking or feeling.
With a growl, he stood. Why was he so terrified if anything good came into his life? Stumbling over to the nightstand, Drew picked up the water decanter and then hurled it against the door. Crystal and water exploded, rained down onto the floor. Sarah had been a damned virgin, and he’d taken that innocence without finesse or gentleness. He hadn’t cared about anything except getting his rocks off, like a savage beast rutting in the woods.
Then he’d shoved her away so he couldn’t begin to care for her.
Or she for him.
There’d been no respect given on his part, no affection, no time taken to bring her to arousal. Hell, he’d not even seen to her release, that’s how much of a black-hearted cad he was. As much as he’d like to blame his lack of emotional control, he couldn’t. This horrid episode rested firmly upon his shoulders. He was at fault, and he deserved her wrath.
I must apologize for my behavior.
The Soul of a Storme Page 14