Chapter 17 The Trigger for Action #2
“Those men.” His voice dropped dangerously low, jealousy burning through him like acid.
The memory of Mitchell’s hand on her arm, Blake’s proximity as he whispered in her ear, made his vision tinge red.
“Mitchell with his hands constantly on your arm. Blake standing close enough to breathe down your neck. They don’t just respect your work, Amelia. ”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” He moved closer still, backing her against the dressing table, his body thrumming with the need to touch her, to claim her, to erase every other man’s touch from her memory. “I’ve seen how they look at you. How they find excuses to touch you, to lean close, to whisper in your ear.”
The heat of her body so close to his was intoxicating, her scent filling his senses and making his head swim with want.
“They’re friends. Colleagues.”
“They’re men.” His hands braced on either side of her, trapping her between his arms, and he could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest, could see her pupils dilating despite her protests. “And they want what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours,” she whispered, but her breathing had quickened, and he saw the way arousal began to bloom beneath her defiance.
“Aren’t you?” His voice was rough with possession, with the fear that had clawed at him all evening. The thought of losing her, of her choosing another, made something desperate and wild unfurl in his chest. “Then where were you tonight, Wife? Who were you with that you couldn’t send word?”
“I was working—”
“Liar.” He was close enough now to feel the heat radiating from her skin. The need to touch her, to prove she was real and safe and here, overwhelmed every rational thought. “You left the office hours ago.”
Her lips parted, but before she could speak, his mouth crashed down on hers.
The kiss was hungry, desperate, born of hours of worry and jealousy and need so acute it felt like starvation finally being fed.
She stiffened for a moment—one terrible heartbeat where he thought she might push him away—then melted against him with a soft moan that shot arousal straight to his groin.
The taste of her exploded across his senses—wine and something sweet, something uniquely Amelia that he knew he’d crave for the rest of his life.
His hands tangled in her hair, scattering the remaining pins with a chime as they hit the floor, the silky strands sliding through his fingers like liquid copper.
“Where were you?” he murmured against her lips, his voice hoarse with need and fear and desire.
“Charles…” Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as she tried to speak, and the gesture sent heat spiraling through him.
“Tell me.” His mouth moved to her throat, finding that sensitive spot just below her ear that made her gasp and arch against him. She trembled against his lips, her pulse matching the rhythm of his own racing heart. “Tell me you weren’t with another man.”
“I wasn’t—” The words died as his hand slid down her body, gathering her skirts with desperation, the need to touch her, to feel her respond to him, overriding every other thought.
His fingers found the heat between her thighs through her drawers, and the discovery that the thin fabric was soaked made him groan against her neck. “So wet already,” he growled, his voice rough with wonder and possession. “Is this for me, or for whoever kept you out so late?”
“You,” she gasped, her head falling back as he stroked her, her body taut against his like a bowstring ready to snap. “Only you.”
The words sent triumph surging through him, primal and fierce. “Prove it.” His fingers found the opening in her drawers, sliding against her slick flesh, and the feel of her—hot and wet and wanting—nearly brought him to his knees. “Come for me, Amelia. Let me feel you fall apart in my hands.”
She bit her lip to stifle her moans as he worked her with skilled fingers, and the sight of her trying to maintain control even as pleasure overtook her was the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed.
Her inner walls clenched around his fingers as he slipped them inside her, tight and perfect, while his thumb circled that sensitive bundle of nerves until she was shaking against him like a leaf in a storm.
The feel of her responding to his touch, the way her body opened for him, welcomed him, made something fierce and alive roar to life in his chest. This was his wife, his Amelia, clinging to him, and the knowledge was more intoxicating than any wine.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his thumb pressing against her most sensitive spot while his fingers worked inside her, feeling every flutter, every clench, every sign of her approaching climax. “Let go for me, Wife.”
She shattered with a cry she couldn’t quite muffle, her body convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed over her.
The feel of her release, the way she pulsed around him, the broken sound of his name on her lips, sent such a surge of satisfaction through him that his own body ached with need.
He held her through it, his mouth claiming hers again to swallow her gasps, tasting her pleasure on her lips.
When the tremors finally subsided, she slumped back against the dressing table, her face flushed, her breathing uneven, looking thoroughly debauched and utterly beautiful.
He withdrew his hand slowly, bringing his fingers to his lips to taste her essence, and the flavor—sweet and musky—made him want to fall to his knees and worship her properly.
“Mine,” he said quietly, his eyes burning into hers, the word torn from somewhere deep in his chest. “Whatever game you’re playing, wherever you’ve been—remember that you’re mine.”
He left her there, trembling and undone, the taste of her still on his lips and the knowledge that he was lost to her completely burning in his chest like a brand.
The careful distance he’d maintained, the rational approach to their arrangement—all of it had crumbled the moment he’d felt her respond to his touch.
She was under his skin now, in his blood, and he had no idea how he was supposed to let her go.