Chapter 21
The fever dream spiraled on; first the horror, then the heaven. She was here, she wasn’t angry—or if she was angry, the anger
had not sharpened into hate. On the contrary, she was wrapped around Luke like a taut, wet rope. And oh, how he wanted to
be bound.
He kissed her like he’d always kissed her, deep and ravaging. She returned the kiss in kind, clawing to get closer, making
desperate little noises. They stood beside the bed; he clutched the voluminous fabric of the chemise in fistfuls. He was happy
to keep his hands occupied, it prevented him from touching her body. She was right there. He could feel the warmth of her, trace the shape of her, absorb her as she pressed against him.
While held to her chemise, she held him. She gave a small hop, catching the arches of her feet on his legs and crawling up.
Her eagerness brought him nearly to his knees. He released the fabric of her gown to catch her bottom in both hands. She was
a delicious handful, and he staggered a little under the exhilaration of desire.
“I’m dreaming,” he mumbled against her mouth.
“You are not dreaming,” she rasped, “you are awake. You would never dream this.”
He laughed. “You’ve no idea of how vividly I’ve dreamed of this.”
“What did you dream?”
He moaned.
“Tell me your dream,” she insisted. “I don’t believe you.”
He hitched her higher, getting a better grip. They were half a step from the bed. “I dreamed we would be in this bedroom.
I dreamed you would wear nothing. I dreamed I could see you—all of you.”
She made a purring noise and released one hand to tug at the neck of her chemise. “Take it off,” she whispered between kisses.
“Off.” Her movements were ineffectual, hands flopping, fingers stubbing. The chemise was a tangle between them. Luke allowed her
to struggle. Just because he wanted her naked didn’t mean it should happen.
He would, he thought, reserve one section of his brain for rational thought. Their embrace was ongoing, obviously, but he
couldn’t hold her for long—he couldn’t hold her all night. It couldn’t happen all the way to the end. He would kiss her, he
would imprint the taste and feel of her on his memory, a beautiful fern preserved in hard rock. Then he would deliver her
to the baroness’s suite and lock himself on the other side of the door. The annulment hinged on her chastity. They could not
consummate the marriage, even in a fit of passion, even one time. He must not allow himself to be carried away.
“Bannock,” she cried, her voice a soft plea.
“M’étoile,” he replied. It was careless to speak to her in terms of endearment. He should not think of her in relation to the stars or
the heavens or his guiding light. He should not think of her in the way he truly wanted to think of her, as his wife.
“Don’t think,” she sang softly.
“Hmmm?” He’d never struggled more for a coherent thought.
“The nightmares are a result of your brain working too much. It is possible to overthink, Bannock. Even in your sleep, your
brain spins memories into nightmares. Can you pause for a night and simply feel the . . . ?”
He kissed her deeper and she didn’t finish. He couldn’t allow himself to be beguiled. His survival—even more important, the
survival of Linus Welty—hinged on knowledge and planning. Her future hinged on him leaving her unclaimed. Thinking less hobbled
him; it made it so they couldn’t go back.
“Your brain is churning,” she whispered between kisses. “I can feel it.”
“You want to feel something?” he challenged, crowding her against the bed. He let go of her—simply dropped her—expecting her
to tumble downward. But she didn’t understand—damn her innocence—she held tight, clinging to him, a bear cub in a tree.
Luke tried again, more gently this time, leaning over the bed, going down with her. When she lay prone, he aligned his hardness
between her legs. He pressed against her.
“Do you feel that?”
“Oh.” She sucked in a desperate breath and cinched her ankles around his waist, locking herself to him. It was the most exquisite
torture.
“What do you feel?” he hissed.
“I feel . . . I feel so good.”
“Good in what way?”
“Like a burn—but pleasurable. Like enough but also not enough. Like . . . like . . .”
He was trying to make a point, but she was so bloody honest, and earnest, and innocent.
“If I don’t think, Princess,” he panted, “if I’m not incredibly controlled, that burn will carry us away.”
“Do you not feel it, too?”
He was gutted by all she did not know, and it made him want to vanquish her innocence, to claim it. Without thinking, he pressed
again. She broke the kiss and tossed her head, pressing her cheek into the coverlet, breathing hard.
“Oh yes, I feel it,” he growled. “I feel too much.”
“How can you feel too much?”
It should not have been a challenge—it wasn’t a challenge—but he wanted to show her just how much she could feel. To bring her to the brink. To tease, and torture, and
play—
Suddenly he had an idea. Miraculous, considering the fog of lust in his brain. Maybe it was less of an idea, and more of a
need disguised as an idea. But it would mean they didn’t have to stop—not now, at least, not this second. Later, they would
stop; but not immediately. He could give her pleasure; he would give her so much bloody pleasure, she would never forget him.
It could be done. If he was careful. If he kept control. Her body would be an instrument and he would play it—but he would
not abscond with it. She was not his to take.
“Give me your leg,” he growled, reaching back.
He swept his hand up her leg to the ticklish spot beneath her knee.
Wiggling his fingers, he teased the sensitive skin.
Danielle giggled and clamped down on his hand, trapping his fingers between her calf and thigh.
Now her leg was bent like a frog, and he pressed it to the side, opening her.
She had one leg open to him, the other around his hip, and he rocked against her.
He was rewarded with a rapturous little keening noise. She rose her hips to meet him.
Luke chuckled and made a tsking sound and released her bent leg, dropping it down the side of the bed.
Now he reached behind him for the other leg, still wrapped around his hip. He massaged her leg until he found her knee, then
he tickled her again. He was rewarded again with laughter, and she clamped her leg to trap his hand. He bent her leg, doubling
it, kissing her all the while. He pressed the bent leg to the bed, splaying her open to him. When her center was exposed,
he thrust against her.
“Bannock . . .” she moaned.
“Hmmm?” he asked playfully, dropping the second leg down the side of the bed.
Now her head and torso were draped across the bed, while her legs dangled over the side. Her hips rested on the edge of the
mattress. He stood between her legs and leaned, resting his palm between her breasts and spreading his fingers. With her legs
hanging and his body looming over her, his erection made contact with her body at a new angle. He pressed again, and the sensation
was sharper, brighter, harder. She cried out, the sound a mix of pleasure and disbelief. He pressed again, and again, and
again.
“What do you feel?” he demanded.
“Please,” she cried.
“What was it you told me? To stop thinking? To feel?”
“More,” she cried out, and her boldness was his undoing.
Breaking the kiss, he hitched his knee on the mattress, caught her up beneath her arms, and dragged her to the center of the bed.
Her chemise had worked its way off her shoulders, but the slide across the sheets pulled it entirely off.
She was bare to the waist. Her breasts were revealed to him.
He stared down at her nakedness: small, pert breasts, flat stomach, tiny navel.
The long, thick rope of her braid was coming undone, a splash of ebony on white sheets.
He released her—literally spilled her on the covers—and rose up so he could gape. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked down
at her nakedness. If he thought she would use her arms to cover herself, he was wrong. If he thought she would hide her face,
he was wrong. She bit her lower lip and looked him square in the face. Her eyes were half-lidded. She blinked. Ever so slightly,
she arched her spine.
Damn her, he thought, grabbing the fabric of the chemise and tugging it down her legs in a frustrated yank. Danielle lifted and bent
to allow it to slide free. It cleared her feet in a flutter. Blowing out a puff of air, he looked down at her glorious body,
bared to him in the candlelight. She wore nothing but an expression of triumph and expectation. She waited, allowing him to
live out his fantasy.
“Stop thinking,” she whispered.
He ignored her. I can look, he reasoned in his head. His hands trembled at his sides. He balled them into fists. He panted like he’d sprinted to this
bed from Cornwall. He was as hard as iron. I can look. We can come back from a long, memorizing look.
Her body was a gift, and he could admire it without touching. He glanced up. Oh, but her face. Her face was an invitation.
“Bannock?” she teased, her voice a whisper.
He squeezed his eyes.
“Bannock?”
Pull yourself together, he warned. He’d kissed her before, he’d touched her. He was a grown man. He understood self-control.
He also understood what was at stake. Consummating this marriage would be a final act of selfishness.
He opened his eyes. He looked at her. She was propped on her elbows, breasts heavy but nipples pointed high. He let out a
tortured moan at the sight. His erection throbbed. She watched him through lowered lashes. He’d been wrong about her expression.
It was not an invitation, it was a challenge.
“If you must think,” she whispered, “will you tell me what you’re thinking?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Of course not. Why am I not surprised?”
“No,” he repeated stupidly—the only useful word left in his mind.