Chapter 45
Phoebe’s heart slammed against her ribcage.
The terror thumping through her was so potent, it threatened to drop her in a quivering puddle.
The only truth keeping her fully erect was the certainty that Slade wouldn’t hurt her.
After seeing him at the manor six weeks ago, this truth had cemented itself inside her.
She could trust him. Yet the way he was staring at her now, dangerous, raw, with unbridled lust brewing in his dark hunter-green gaze, she had to wonder.
The pre-wedding-night talk she’d had with Breena and Lucia earlier had been wholly inadequate to prepare her for the burning fire in Slade’s eyes.
She had to seize control of the consummation, but how?
She couldn’t allow another man to control her body.
Ever. Even for a brief moment. Even the first and last one she’d ever had amorous thoughts of.
Granted, Slade was her husband, and this was her duty as his wife, as Breena and Lucia had reiterated several times in this very chamber.
Yet Phoebe still wanted control. She had to have it.
And keep it. But the unbridled molten hunger in Slade’s dark eyes weakened her.
The seven-year-old memory of hard metal buttons from Faye Ross’s open breeches digging into the soft flesh of her thigh invaded her head.
The sharpness of the insignia on his cuffs had abraded the thin flesh of her restrained wrists.
The old shadow pain made Phoebe grab her right wrist. Ice cold panic surged through her, at the prospect of being bedded by a fully clothed Slade.
Phoebe inhaled a deep breath. She had to push through her nerves before she lost all her courage. Without her night rail, she’d lost half of her body’s warmth, and a great deal of her bravado.
She ignored the dampening of her palms and the sheen of sweat forming on her brows. “I’d prefer us to be unclothed,” she said.
His eyes blinked up from traversing the length of her naked body with frightening rapacity. “I beg your pardon?” he said, his voice the lowest octave she’d ever heard.
His gaze, like obsidian, caused a heated liquid sensation to flutter low in her belly and warmth to return to the length of her a hundred times over.
“My first request for consummation is for us to be unclothed,” she repeated, a slight tremor slipping into her voice.
The darkness in his gaze shifted to watchful and restrained, with a sensuous curve to his lips. “Quite reasonable, my love, even preferable. What are your other requests?” he said.
Phoebe’s stomach gave a nervous lurch as she swallowed before speaking. “Above all, I’d rather be in control. That is to say, I’d rather … ah … lead in our dance.”
The corners of her husband’s mouth tipped up further in a sinfully handsome smile. “Any other requests?”
“No,” she said, grateful he wasn’t looking at her as if she was addled.
Slade threw her a devilish look. “Well then, come over here and undress me, love,” his voice soft, silken and sultry.
Phoebe’s legs were like a jellyfish as she edged towards him.
She felt raw, vulnerable, and bare. Could he discern the act that had tainted her?
No, he couldn’t, could he. The stain was under her skin, in her flesh, seeped into her marrow.
It had long since reached the depths of her soul.
She’d done him a disservice, hadn’t she?
Was he expecting a virgin wife? Well, he’d soon find out she was anything but.
He remained seated but straightened, giving her better access to his neckcloth.
He eyed her closely as she willed the tremor in her hands to still, certain he could hear the frantic pounding of her heart.
The crisp white material was cool to the touch, in complete contrast to the heat emanating from the rest of him.
She untied the intricate knot of his cravat and laid it on the nearby ottoman.
Next, she clicked open the twinkling cairngorm jeweled pin holding the woolen tartan in place over the left breast of his black velvet jacket. Phoebe fumbled clumsily in removing the pin and ended up pricking the flesh of her thumb.
“Blast!” she whispered, snatching her hand away at the stab of pain, dropping the pin on the bed.
His brows furrowed as he took the wrist of her injured thumb and turned the finger towards him to get a better look. A single bead of red had formed on the pad of her thumb, and before she could protest, he’d placed her thumb in his mouth and started to suck.
Phoebe gasped, her eyes widening at him. Despite her nerves, the slick, wet feel of his mouth, in particular his tongue encasing her sensitized finger, sent a rush of weakness down the length of her.
His eyes fixed on her as the rough surface of his tongue dragged long, slow licks over the skin of her imprisoned thumb.
The sensation did funny things inside her belly and created chaos in her head.
His rapacious gaze was more seductive than she was prepared for.
Making her want to retract her two requests.
Her breath caught at the unexpected and maddening urge to redirect his lips from her finger to her own mouth.
But Phoebe willed herself to be strong and stay her course.