Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  He nodded but was looking at her hand held behind her back. “What do you have in your hand Georgie?”

  Butterflies flew through her and her face grew hotter.

  “Nothing, simply an old photograph.”

  He moved closer blocking her path to freedom. Real fear darted around her chest at the prospect of him seeing the photograph. And yet, she was tormented with not knowing, not having some answers to her questions.

  Demetri moved closer, his face suddenly dark and very unhappy. “Show me who you hold so precious that you slip out at night to gaze so intently at him.” He presented his palm for the photo plate even as she shook her head, no.

  “It’s private. Demetri, I’d rather not,” she said in a hushed voice.

  He crowded her, “So it is of your beloved!”

  “My beloved?” It took a few seconds for her to understand. She stepped back, needed room to think clearly and he moved forward keeping that impossible-to-concentrate distance between them. “You think I am looking at the image of a sweetheart I am leaving behind?”

  His jaw tightened, his eyes traveling over her like a visceral, possessive touch. “Why else keep it secret?”

  A sudden warmth bloomed in her chest, she smiled, he had no idea.

  Placing her hand on his chest, she tried to move him out of the way. “You have it all wrong, I have no beloved, just a betrothed.” The rise and fall as he breathed under her palm made her want to do strange things.

  “You’re going to lie?” he growled, giving her unexpected satisfaction. He leaned down and closer. “Vladimir never sent you a photo plate, only painted portraits.”

  She raised a brow, “Well there is the pot calling the kettle black, for someone who knows nothing of his brother’s affairs that is a rather specific piece of knowledge, don’t you think? What else do you know that you are not telling me?” Georgie again tried to shift him back, pressing her palm against the warm hard chest and instead wanting to press herself against him, feel the full heat of him down her front, at her back. Alarming fantasies that had her breasts tingling, her skin buzzing.

  He unexpectedly dipped forward, his arm snaked around her and captured the hand she held behind her. As if the universe conspired to make her fantasies real, the motion drew them together, her chest touching his, singeing her breasts, her belly, her hips. Soft esters of brandy sat on his breath, the day’s stubble on his chin tickled her cheek as his breath moved her hair.

  “I will see the image before we part.”

  She watched his mouth as he spoke, saw the movement of his tongue and a need swelled in her body. Tongues touching. She suddenly had to know, wanted to have the knowledge that others had in this game, wanted desperately to be able to face a man who didn’t want her and tempt him despite it all.

  “You don’t trust people do you, Demetri?” She said as her breasts burned, her sex ached, and her fingers clutched hard at the image he wanted to see.

  “I trust those worthy of it.”

  “And I am not?”

  He didn’t answer. It was fair, she was betrothed to his brother and here she was burning alive for him.

  “But I should trust you and your brother? Where were you tonight, do you know all the salons in Paris as well as those in London?” Georgie wriggled, she should at least try and get some distance between them. His arm around her simply tightened.

  “I am under no obligation to you Georgie.”

  She stilled and looked up at him. “No, you aren’t. But your brother is, should I trust him?” She pressed her chin forward.

  “Never.” Then perhaps realizing what he had said, his face softened. “I am sure he will be an honorable husband...someday.”

  Her face screwed up. Someday. That meant not for her.

  Eyes sharpening, he inclined his head at her reaction. “You could always call off the betrothal…”

  Georgie shook her head even as she wished with her every fiber that she could say it right now.

  “I recall asking you not to mention that again.” The promise to her father, as tedious as that was, stilled her voice. Besides, she wanted to have that discussion with her betrothed. There was after all a youth full of fantasies, formal arrangements. They were a promise of sorts, she wanted to face that man and understand why they were at this point, why things had played out the way they had and not something kinder.

  And then it occurred to her.

  “You saw Vladimir tonight, didn’t you? The papers say you both left London, he’s here in Paris, isn’t he?”

  He released her. “Of course, he is.”

  Shame, anger, hurt, how many times was she to be blindsided?

  Georgie shifted to walk past him, and he mirrored her move.

  She tried again and again he stepped in front of her.

  “Demetri,” she growled only to have her chin lifted and their gazes lock.

  “I’ll see the image first, Georgie.” He said in Russian. A voice suddenly thick as the fingers holding her chin glided down her neck in a trail of fire before lifting away.

  Georgie looked into his eyes, they were darker, his pupils dilated. Suddenly it didn’t matter that he knew, he already knew she was unwanted by his brother. He was after all the agent for the annulment of her betrothal. And despite all of that, he was the one who made her mind foggy as her body rippled and blossomed with aches and needs. She wanted to show him. Wanted him to tell her the answers to her questions.

  “If I show you, will you answer one question absolutely truthfully?” Her heart started to beat faster and her chest tightened as she leaped.

  Demetri stilled.

  “It’s not about the betrothal,” she clarified.

  A single nod.

  Hear pounding, Georgie brought her hand forward, fingers curled around the image and for some strange reason they wouldn’t release. His touch was soft, deliciously soft making her want more as he slowly unpeeled her fingers back, then stilled as he saw the erotic image.

  Her chest twisted tighter and tighter as each second of silence stretched.

  His brow creased. “Where did you get this?” There was a fractional tug of his mouth. And just like that the tightness in her chest left and was replaced by a surge of indignation.

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Ask your question.” His eyes softened and his warmth drew her closer.

  “So, you are laughing at me?” He was!

  His hand came up to cup her cheek, her burning hot cheek.

  “I am surprised; that doesn’t happen often.” His finger trailed over her lips and her breath stopped. “Ask your question,” came a Russian whisper.

  “Do husbands…” she cleared her throat and started again, “do husbands and wives touch tongues when they kiss like this? Is that how people kiss or is this something particularly erotic?” There. She’d said it. A heady sensation flooded her much like walking out of The Velvet Basement with the postcards in her pocket.

  A flare passed through his eyes. “You’ve not been kissed by a man?”

  She glared at him. “I asked a question first.”

  He smirked, “I’ll need context.”

  She screwed up her face shook her head no. “Why would I encourage someone to kiss me when I had a betrothed?” Were you supposed to make sure you got kissed? Well, she had been too busy clutching and whispering to miniatures.

  What she saw in his eyes made her squirm.

  “Not even by a young boy?” His hand found its way to the back of her neck.

  She shook her head no and scowled at him for making her humiliation feel worse. The hand on her neck squeezed and released, squeezed and released, sending delicious ripples down her spine and making her head want to loll about. She reached back and drew that soothing hand away and lifted her chin.

  “Do they?” she whispered.

  And as if the heavens answered her prays, his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed thickly.

  “Da.” His voice was gratifyingly gruff, a
nd he swallowed again. She wasn’t the only one so excruciatingly affected, she knew it with absolute certainty.

  Yet that wasn’t all that he revealed, and it made her feel lightheaded all over again; it was that he had not been indignant on his brother’s behalf that she might have a picture of a sweetheart, but on his own behalf.

  That feeling of vertigo returned, the one that she’s gotten when she stepped off a cliff, like going to The Velvet Basement, like showing him the image. She tentatively lifted her hand, like she might to a wild beast, not wanting it to shy away and not wanting to get bitten either, and let her fingers hover over his lips.

  “Demetri?” her voice was a whisper. “Can I….?”

  He made a sound, a beautiful pained sound she took as assent and lightly touched his lips. A quick glance up into those black pupils showed he wasn’t shocked, annoyed or angry. Her touch deepened, a soft press against their fullness, a glide across their surface. They were much, much softer than she imagined, firm, full and soft.

  His hand came around her wrist but didn’t stop her.

  Every nerve was suddenly alive, vibrating. A cacophony of communication as if she had swallowed a beehive. Rational thoughts had clearly long since left. What drove her was something far more primitive. And unbelievably delicious.

  She traced the seam of his mouth, back and forth, and then she stopped, took a shuddering breath and pressed her finger between his lips.

  The tip touched teeth which parted, dragged over the top of her finger as she gently and slowly slipped pressed in and touched his tongue.

  His hand tightened around her wrist.

  Georgie held her breath. Her finger encircled and encased in the soft, damp, heat of his mouth.

  The air between them so tight.

  And then he sucked. Aching need blossomed between her legs. A throbbing want that pulsed and lured her with all kinds of promises. Inexplicable feelings that washed through her making her aware of everything…her nipples pressed against fabric, her breasts aching to be touched, the emptiness between her legs, especially there, at the hot center of her sex.

  Much like stepping to the edge of a cliff and feeling the ground start to crumble under you, that you needed to step stealthily backward, one step after the other the way you’d come, she stood on that cliff.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled her finger from the delicious heat of his mouth while all she wanted was more. She wanted to climb over him, wanted to rub herself on him, and wanted him to press against her, into her. Her clothes were irritants she wanted removed.

  “What’s happening to me, Demetri?”

  He made that sound again, a deep pained groan which sent shivers under her skin, across her breasts and hurtling down her belly and over her sex.

  He caressed her face, “You want to know why people kiss with their tongues?” He ran his thumb over her lips making them burn. “The tongue is what truly begins the dance of passion.”

  Of course, it did. What she felt as his tongue wrapped around her finger was carnal knowledge. She rubbed her damp finger over her lips and touched it with her own tongue tasting it. Tasting him.

  “I can’t taste the brandy,” she whispered as his hands came to either side of her neck, his thumbs pressing her chin up and tilting her as his mouth gently touched hers. Soft gentle movement of his lips on hers, small nibbles with lips and teeth, presses of lips on lips, soft and plump.

  Coaxing. Teasing.

  Gradually, confidence increasing, she mimicked him, followed what he did, pressed her lips to his, kissed the corners of his mouth, captured his bottom lip with her teeth, and rubbed her lips across his. It was delicious, sensual and a promise of something more, luring her towards something deeper.

  Little by little they stilled.

  Yet neither drew away.

  Her eyes looked up to his, dark and broody. “I want to taste the heat of your mouth.” Then she pressed her lips against his. He murmured words in Russian against them as his hands tightened their hold, allowed no movement as he angled her face in the way he wanted. Her heart beat faster as she felt something shift in him, as if he were releasing something tightly restrained.

  His tongue ran over her lips, hot and soft, sending tremors through her, heating her core, building the ache into a furnace of need, drawing out sounds of need begging for more. It pressed for entrance. She opened under him and that warm tongue slipped into her mouth, a pure silken slide setting her on fire. Her hand grabbed his face, held him as she felt the way he explored her. Then as his tongue retreated her followed and pressed into the warm cavern of his mouth and tasted him, tasted the brandy he’d drunk after dinner, tasted what was pure Demetri. Her head spun as she pulled him closer, the heat of his body, the feel of him under her palms.

  And finally, his tongue engaged with hers and she was lost. They danced. They tangled and twisted together, an un-choreographed dance that her hands mimicked as they ran over the surface of his body, felt his shape, his strength, his heat. The need inside her rose higher and higher. The ache tightened. Georgie pressed her body against his. His hand released her face and his arms came around her, clutching her against him. Blindly she undulated against him, her hips moving in a way they’d never moved before, pressing against his. He was hard and warm and that made her want to press against him even more. All the while their tongues touched, danced, their lips moved, and it was like nothing she had ever experienced. Nothing she had ever read or heard had prepared her for the way he made her feel. As if she wanted to stay here in this moment forever as if she wanted to be joined this way with this man forever.

  She stopped. Wobbled and recovered, her lips damp and warm, her body on fire, heart racing. This man forever….pulsed through her thoughts. She looked away, turned to face the mantel reached out to steady herself. Behind her he reached out and turned her, she allowed him to wrap her against him, soothe her back with long strokes as he nuzzled her hair.

  “Are you alright?” He asked in Russian, voice thick like a viscus syrup.

  “Da,” she breathed as he pressed her forehead against his chest.

  This man forever…

  But he wasn’t….

  Her chest tightened, ached in a whole different way than moments before.

  Georgie stepped back, stepped back again, and his hands fell away. He put them in his pockets.

  “As it should be.” He said making it sound all too much like ‘are you sure?’.

  A long hard shape pressed against the fabric of his trousers and she couldn’t help but grin making his eyes crease in response. There was so much more she wanted to know, wanted to do…with this man.

  “Is the curious Miss Georgie Franklin satisfied with her first kiss?”

  She nodded. How could she not?

  A brilliant smile broke over his face. It transformed him. Years fell away and she recalled portraits of him as a young boy and her heart lost its footing.

  “I should go to bed,” she said, her lips still feeling the ghost of their kiss.

  “We have a busy day planned tomorrow.” Demetri said putting the image into his shirt pocket.

  “That, is mine.” She stepped forward, reaching for the postcard. His hand caught hers and brought it to his lips. Kissed her fingers.

  “You don’t need it anymore.” The usual confident arrogance was back.

  “I might want to refer to it at a later date.” He released her hand and stepped back, looking for his jacket.

  “Then you will remember our kiss, not look at another man.”

  Georgie hid her smile as she turned back to the fire and looked at the flames, her body had felt like that. “Your brother isn’t ever joining us on the trip, is he?” She glanced over her shoulder to find him right there behind her.

  His hands settled on her shoulders, smoothed down her arms.

  “No.”

  “Will he see me?” She was actually past caring but to sort things out face to face was still her preference.

  �
��No.” He said next to her ear, then pressed a kiss to it.

  “Not even to talk?”

  He squeezed her shoulders and stepped back. “You can talk to me.”

  Georgie turned; Demetri collected his jacket putting it over his arm.

  “Would he stand me up at the wedding if I went?”

  Demetri looked back at her, his hand on the door, held her gaze, face back to that neutral expression he got when he spoke of the betrothal or his brother.

  “He will be at St Petersburg.”

  Chapter 14

  Demetri had planned for two days in Paris. Originally to ensure he had enough time to find something to counter her father’s blackmail. He now had what he needed. The postcard, the kiss, and the indiscretion of her behavior were enough for him to insist she was not of suitable character as the Prince. Enough to threaten her reputation if the damn betrothal was not withdrawn. According to plan, he should act immediately. Reveal who he was, have the betrothal called off and go their separate ways. And yet…

  Last night he had not been pretending. He had been himself. Yes, his task had been in his mind when he saw she hid something, yet his reaction at the thought she had someone else had been real. Everything that followed had been real. So, where did that leave him?

  Across the foyer, to the right of the floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree, the elevator chimed its arrival. Demetri watched as the unexpectedly intriguing and alluring Miss Georgina Franklin stepped out, adjusting her hair. As usual, her presentation was faultless, beautifully rugged up in a long Parisian Blue coat and large winter day hat with Ostrich feathers. The effect made her skin glow like porcelain and, surrounded by those impossible lashes, her amber eyes gleamed.

  Was there another road? Was there another path he had not considered? What if she wanted him for himself, what if it was her father’s ambition to have her wed to a Prince, not Georgie’s? He could not hold her attachment to her betrothed against her. From what he had come to know of her, she was a passionate and loving woman. She had been so content with the small items sent to her over the years that she had not ever sought to be kissed, knowing that she already had someone. It was wildly satisfying, knowing that it was for him she’d waited.