Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  His arm slid around her waist, warm and comforting. “Do you really want to talk about that now?” He pressed his face into her hair. “I know, I don’t.” He drew back, looking at her lips in a way that made all her insides turn upside down. This man forever… or at least for the next few days.

  Georgie leaned closer and kissed him. A warm soft touch of lips that nibbled and pressed until it turned into open-mouthed kisses, tongues, sliding and dueling, setting her ablaze. When they drew apart, right there on the table next to them was the postcard. She picked it up, looked at it intently and then looked at him over the top of it. He took a sip of sherry and she tapped the image against her lips. His eyes hungry, he downed the remainder of his sherry, took the postcard from her hands and placed it in his suit pocket.

  “What’s your first question, Georgie?”

  She, swallowed. “Does a man really want to touch a woman here?” Her hand hovered above her sex. “Should I permit it?” The warm pulse between her legs told her she would if the man involved was Demetri.

  The corners of his eyes creased, he crossed the parlor and locked the door. Her breath hitched and her heart thumped faster. “What if someone comes to take the glasses?”

  “I asked for privacy.” He led her to the sofa, sat with her, took her hand as he always did and kissed her palm. “Does a man want to touch a woman intimately?” He repeated her question as he held her gaze as she waited for his answer.

  His lips curled up in a smug smile.

  “Absolutely. And should you permit him?” Another kiss to her fingers, “if a man has any skill at all, you will beg for it,” he said in a thick delicious voice.

  A ragged exhale told them both she’d held her breath and that smug expression deepened, making her scowl.

  “Are you making fun of me again? People are not born knowing these things.”

  He reached out, she stiffened, and he drew her closer, kissed her brow so she released the glare. Naturally, she melded against him.

  “I think you enjoy prickling me.”

  His eyes creased, “Maybe I do.” And, of course, he kissed her. Kissed her so that her body burned.

  “Now,” Demetri muttered against her lips. “Tell me when you want my hand to touch you … here.” He pressed lightly on her sex, pressed through the burgundy dress and the burgundy pantaloons. She unfurled. Once touched, that area of her body awoke crying like a newborn for love and attention.

  Instead, his attention returned to her neck, kissing and nibbling as his hand cupped her breast, his fingers set to work squeezing and tweaking first one breast and then the other until she wanted to curse her burgundy dress and burgundy chemise for existing, for separating her naked flesh from that oh-so-attentive hand.

  All the while her sex pulsed, ached, hankered for another touch. She struggled to concentrate. Struggled to think of how to tell him what she wanted without sounding like a total fool. Impossible.

  “How will I know that you want this as well?” she panted as he tugged down her bodice to expose her breasts and, for the strangest reason she was all too delighted for him to do it, had no feeling of exposure, just an ache that would make her beg for him to continue if he stopped.

  “Trust me, I want too.” The back of his fingers brushed over her chest, soft exploring strokes as he trailed his touch over her breasts, under, then around her nipple. Touches which sent heat to her core and pebbled her nipples.

  He bent down and the heat of his mouth encircled her nipple. He sucked. His mouth pulling on her breast, taking it in a hard-full-mouthed suck. She forgot everything except the searing pulling hotness that tugged deep between her legs.

  “Demetri,” she moaned, her breasts alive and burning with sensation, her legs moving restlessly as her sex screamed to be touched.

  His hand slid down her side, nerves rioting and flaring in its path. Her legs inched wider in anticipation, in hunger to feel his touch at her core. His palm slid over the curve of her waist she panted; over her hip she groaned; and then he clasped her bottom, clasped and squeezed. Squeezed and pulled her closer. She pressed her hips against him, ground against the weight of him as he continued to squeeze and tug.

  He shifted. She growled. He trailed his hand up her thigh under her skirt, looked down at her as her chest rose and fell, breasts bare, nipples hard, and her sex weeping.

  “Demetri….” She implored as his hand came toward her sex.

  Then excruciatingly passed it by and smoothed over her belly. Her mind snapped.

  “Touch me. Touch me, please.” She ached.

  His hand travelled upward, gliding over her breasts, his fingers leaving trails of fire over her bare skin then up her throat before he cupped her chin. She sobbed as he brushed his thumb over her lips.

  Her fingers curled into his hair as she dragged him down to her. “Touch me.” She growled at him, taking a nip of his lip.

  He chuckled, murmured something nonsensical and twisted both of her nipples making her back arch.

  It was some time before she came back to her request, clutched his shoulders and shook them, “Demetri, now!”

  He drew up, eyes dark orbs of desire, lips shining from the attentions he had given to her breasts.

  “Be explicit Georgie, your breasts, your neck, your mouth?”

  She leaned up toward him and he moved away so she had to grab him to pull him close. She kissed him, nibbled on his throat, little bites traveling up to his ear and whispered.

  “My sex,” she growled, her skin on fire, the heat and ache between her legs unbearable. “Deep in my… in my sex.” In my sex, in my sex…the words panted out of her as her hips undulated with the need he’d set in them.

  A hand clasped either side of her face and he kissed her with such passion her head spun. Deep thrusts of his tongue set her keening, her head held for his pleasure, for his taking, he tasted, he took, and she was totally undone. Demetri pressed his thigh between her legs and pushed it against her sex, tongue deep in her mouth as she rubbed shamelessly against him, undulated as she sucked on his tongue, the pantaloons finally being of value as the bunched up fabric rubbed against her sex in the most delicious way. The pleasure twisted tighter and tighter until she tore her mouth from his, gasping in a breath, tensed. She was on the precipice.

  He pulled away. Thigh removed; body lifted.

  Georgie lurched after him. He evaded her. Stood up.

  “Demetri?”

  His hair disheveled, he panted, his face like the cat who got the cream.

  “No!” She growled at him.

  His hand reached down and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

  He grinned tugged up her bodice and adjusted himself. She growled. He spun her around and fixed her hair.

  He meant it.

  Demetri bundled her into the carriage, dazed, body aching. They watched the Moulin Rouge as she wriggled in her seat while he smirked, pressed his thigh against hers, then his shoulder moved against her. And those hands, always touching, clasping her hand, her lower back. By the end of the performance she was sweating.

  “Come on, we’ll walk for a while…cool off.” She hit his arm with her purse.

  They walked, they stopped at a café and watched as music played and people sang and still her body sang, the tension climbing higher with every glance, every knowing smile. And of course, he made sure to touch her, hold her, whisper to her until she was sure she had lost all reason and turned into a beast of sensation wanting one thing and one thing only.

  At last, thank the gods that presided over Paris, they jumped into a carriage, only to find every bump and sway as they travelled the uneven narrow streets conspired with him to drive her insane with need. They spoke of small things, nonsense things she struggled to keep up with.

  Eventually he tapped his cane on the roof and called out in French. The driver opened the door and Demetri helped her out.

  “This is not the hotel.” She would not be able to take much more of this. />
  “It’s only a block away, let’s walk along the Seine,” he casually suggested. “We can take the river promenade; one leg and it should bring us up near the hotel. Besides,” he steered them to the steps that led down to the pathway along the river. “We will be protected from the wind.” There was no wind, just the softest flakes of snow.

  “It’s about to snow.”

  He shrugged.

  Georgie shook her head in disbelief yet slipped her arm through his as they walked down the stairs to the river promenade. They were the only people walking there. Lights twinkled on the inky water and somewhere there were carolers.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked like an innocent.

  “I am going to kill you. I’m just planning how to draw it out,” she bared her teeth at him.

  He chuckled. “It’s been hours.” He looked behind them.

  They stepped under the bridge, stepped away from the light flowing under it from the promenade lamps and he pounced. Arms around her, he dragged her against him and back against the wall deep in the shadows. She moaned in pure bliss; the sound amplified by the arch of the bridge.

  “Yes?” he asked

  “Yes,” she panted.

  In one swift movement he tugged down her bodice and sucked her burning breasts into his mouth. She cried out, the sound filling the air.

  “Touch me, touch me, touch me,” she begged, dragging up her own skirts the air cold on her legs.

  “Bite my glove.”

  Her teeth clamped on the seam of his leather glove as he wriggled his hand out of it letting it fall as it map. And then his hand was exactly where it should be, between her legs, fingers pressed through the gap in her burgundy pantaloons sliding through the folds of her sex. She sobbed.

  “Bushka, Bushka” He kissed her ear whispering in Russian, “so soft, so wet. Have you been thinking of me all night, Georgie? Are you damp with want for me?” he crooned as his fingers moved over her.

  Her legs started to shake uncontrollably, and he pressed into her. The sensation, the relief was indescribable. She released her skirts and held his head as he devoured her breast, her hips arched against his fingers as they teased her entrance, circled, moved through her folds, pressed against her lips.

  “You’re a devil,’ she whispered in Russian and his fingers pressed in, pressed in further and started to pump.

  She clutched him, her fingers curled into his coat pulling him impossibly close, using him to hold herself up as she moved her hips against his hand. Every sound they made echoed around them, their panted breath, the sucking sounds of his mouth on her breasts, her lips, her moans and the crooning from deep his chest.

  “So beautiful, so wet for me.” He kissed her deep, tongue exploring her mouth leaving no escape. His fingers moved, the tension building higher and higher. Her hips ground against his hands. Then he touched something, she called out. He did it again and pleasure exploded through her. She keened as wave upon wave of pure bliss washed through her. Everything disappeared, there was only sensation, only feeling. Her head light, her muscles weak. It was all she could do to hold onto him, to stay upright. His arms came around her just in time, as her knees buckled.

  “Demetri?”

  He held her, clutched her to him as if she were the most precious of things.

  It was some time before she was able to let go, had the confidence her legs would hold her, but he didn’t release her. They stood there, leaning against the wall, clasped together deep in the shadows of the bridge as he nuzzled her hair, as he murmured things to her in Russian some of which she understood, and others which sounded like nonsense, as he made her giggle and kissed her.

  Chapter 17

  The train to Copenhagen, Denmark rocked them as steam caught in air currents, dipping down into view from the top of the window or dispersing into the landscape in a billowing plume. Denuded trees clustered around farmhouses and lined the perimeter of snow-covered paddocks. Majestic evergreens scaled mountains, ringed lakes, and guarded the entrances to tunnels which threw them into pitch darkness before they powered through the other side into an explosion of light. They sat in a heart achingly, comfortable silence. The kind of silence you have with a man you knew you loved and couldn’t have. He’d look over to her, their eyes meeting. His would soften, an almost indistinguishable difference that caused her to feel foolishly joyous. And then the inevitable sobering thought flashed through her mind. They were running out of time.

  Tonight, was their second last night before they arrived in St. Petersburg when this glorious respite together would come to an end. Time was running out for her father who didn’t seem as worried as she would have thought. Georgie had told him again today that she would be calling off the betrothal as soon as she met her betrothed. And if the damn man didn’t have the gumption to see her, even in St. Petersburg, so be it.

  Demetri picked up the newspaper folded on the bench beside him and opened it. “You are pensive.”

  She was. Each second was one second closer to the end of this precious time together. The things he had shown her, the things he had taught her about a man and a woman were so intensely beautiful and all tied to happening with him. The idea she would someday share those moments with another felt impossible. Every cell screamed for her to tell Demetri she was cancelling the betrothal. Yet she had promised her father she would stay the course while he did everything to resolve their financial issues.

  “A lot has happened.” Their eyes met and although his face remained expressionless, she knew he smiled on the inside.

  They sat in that comfortable silence as she planned the days to come. What she had to do was spend some time with her father to see what the family’s options would be once his creditors became aware that the marriage would not go ahead.

  A coffee service arrived, the tray garnished with linen embroidered with pinecones crusted with faux snow and small red ribbons. German gingerbreads decorated in icing sat on a small plate with a picture of a family in a snow sleigh.

  “This has always been my favorite time of year,” she said as she poured Demetri his coffee, placing a gingerbread biscuit on the side of the saucer. Traditionally this was when she would receive a small gift, although usually very little was written in the Christmas card accompanying it. “It does make me wonder though, if your family were so against the betrothal why send the miniatures?”

  “There was always the chance you would naturally call the betrothal off; a Petroski would not appear to be overly eager and yet not rude.”

  “Until now…”

  He looked up from stirring his coffee. Face still unreadable, yet she knew he was annoyed she had raised the subject. He was enjoying their connection as much as she, despite the fact that he had more to contend with given that he was going against his family’s wishes and forming an association with her, not to mention committing indiscretions with his brother’s betrothed.

  “Until now…” his eyebrows raised in question. Did she really want to talk about this? No, no she didn’t. It would all unfold in two days as it was. However, she raised her finger, there was one troubling factor she did need to reconcile.

  “The present each year…that still confuses me.”

  “We never sent presents.”

  The expected pain didn’t come. “Father…” Her whole view of the betrothal had already been turned on its head, the memories once so precious, now foolish. This simply added to the bucket of falsehoods and neglect.

  “No doubt.” He took a sip of coffee and placed it on the small window table next to him. “By the way, you may want to have a word with him. The mistletoe hung in the dining carriage…I have already seen your father kiss two women.”

  The train was decorated with pine boughs along the corridors, red festive ribbons, and striped candy canes in every compartment.

  “Father mentioned getting married again.” He was not a man who liked to be alone. He wanted someone to boss him about eating enough greens and someone he could s
poil. It was only a matter of time before she would wed although most likely not her recalcitrant betrothed.

  As she sipped her coffee, Georgie looked over to Demetri now deep in the paper. The rock of the carriage, the fairy-tale winter landscape. This was what she wanted. She wanted to feel this comfort, this togetherness. And she wanted it with him. Was there any way you could cancel the betrothal with one brother and marry the other? It had been done. What of the family’s belief that the betrothal was based on blackmail and beneath them? She certainly wasn’t of Demetri’s station.

  “The joke at the Salon, that night about riding Russian men,” she said after some time.

  Demetri, continuing to read his paper, said nothing.

  “They were really talking about intimacies, weren’t they?” She watched his features. They gave nothing away. “Demetri?”

  Still he said nothing. He was a man of silences, every one of them different and expressive. This silence meant that she was right but that he didn’t want to recall the event. That he had been on the brink of calling Lord Marsden out over the matter now made perfect sense.

  “Is Vladimir as silent as you?”

  “No,” his answer was curt.

  “You must have believed me so incredibly foolish when I thought it was a nursery joke.”

  He lowered his paper. Their eyes meet and held.

  “No.” That special look came over his face. As usual, her insides melted under his gaze. She knew what those hot sultry looks meant; what this man imagined when they passed over his countenance; what those things he imagined could make her feel.

  “No?” she sounded breathless.

  Purposefully, he refolded the paper, placed it on the bench beside him and moved to the compartment door. He slowly drew down the small window blind and locked the door. He sat next to her, reached down and enfolded her hand in one of his, brought it to his lips and kissed her fingers.

  “I was disarmed.” His free hand reached for her.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered at him.

  He grinned and her insides flipped.