Chapter Seven #2
“I will give you my body, in other words,” I said, “to do with as you please.”
His skewering gaze was, alarmingly, feeding the soft warmth in my breasts, which funneled deeper and lower, settling into the low pit of my stomach. “Aye, and your willingness.”
“My willingness,” I repeated.
“Aye.”
“What would I have to...do?”
“Not a damn thing, lass. I will do everything that needs doing. I ask only that you allow it.”
I watched him as he cut another slice of pear.
How strange, that my battle-scarred, muscle-bound husband would make such a concession.
I have thought about how I might ease your fear.
I would hope that you might trust me. These were not at all the words I was expecting.
He didn’t, after all, need my permission.
He could do with me as he pleased now, and as often as he liked.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then we might attend to the consummation right now, if you prefer. ’Tis my right, after all, as your husband, to take of you anything I want. And my want, I can assure you, at this very moment, is threatening to overtake my well developed practices of both discipline and control.”
I glared at him, and my brief sense of composure fled, replaced by stirrings of the recurring fear that crept with featherlike stealth up the tiny hairs on my arms.
“I would prefer, however,” he said, “not to force you, which is why I am proposing this month—or more, if absolutely necessary—for you to get used to me. I am confident that I can win your invitation, in time.”
Despite my unease, my body continued with its peculiar reaction.
He did unspeakable things. His words, and all he referred to, had a physical, seeping effect.
I will do everything that needs doing. Shockingly, my nipples were now painfully beaded and the warm throb in my stomach had spread lower, tingling and aching.
My better judgment warred against his controlling, dominating manner, yet an unmistakable excitement glowed deep within me that I neither understood nor wanted there.
“You appear to be warming to the idea,” he said.
The fact that he could clearly detect my body’s reaction to him only frustrated me further. “I am warming to nothing you have to offer,” I said with hesitant defiance.
“Then why is it,” he purred, touching his thumb once again to the stickiness on my lips, the light, gliding touch causing another flare of heat deep inside me, “that your body is unfailingly receptive to me, at even the slightest hint of provocation?”
“I—” I was grasping, my face hot with embarrassment.
“When I told you I found you captivating, wife, I meant it. For two weeks, I have thought of nothing else but the sound of your voice, the perfect, bowed shape of your lips, the unusual golden tips of your long hair, your shining, amber eyes, like jewels from an ancient hidden treasure. And this the little furrow between your eyebrows as you look at me with terror in your eyes that I want to ease away.” He touched his thumb lightly to my forehead, smoothing away the outward signs of my anxiety, tracing a line down the side of my face with his finger. “Why do you look at me that way?”
His confession, shockingly heartfelt, especially considering the rough rasp of its delivery, astounded me. That there might be more to his intention that duty, and more to this marriage than military considerations, made me feel light-headed with something close to relief. And hope.
And warm, coiling anticipation.
“What do you think would happen...” he said, letting his finger drop lower, to trace the silk cord of my shift, drawing a line that snaked lower.
I gasped as his finger lightly circled the outline of my beaded nipple that was clearly jutting against the fabric of my clothing.
His long fingers were graceful in their movement, his hands brown and strong-looking.
I remembered the touch of those fingers silkily prodding into my most intimate flesh, inspiring blooming sensation that my body was recalling, and reigniting now.
“If I touched you...very, very softly...right here.” His thumb and finger skimmed the peak of my nipple in a brief, pinching caress.
The touch was so vibrantly intense, I tried in vain to lean back, to evade this scalding intimacy—it was too new, too overwhelming.
As soon as he sensed my withdrawal, the touch was immediately removed.
My nipple pulsed with echoing heat. I felt as though hot wax had been poured upon the intimate points of my body and the sensation was sinfully exquisite.
Kade was smiling thoughtfully. “Would you like,” he said slowly, “for me to do that again?”
“I—I don’t know,” I managed to say.
His hand once again eased closer, so close I could detect the heat of him through the thin layer of my shift. His eyes held mine with their sultry power. “I’ll only touch you if you ask me to,” he said softly.
Nay, don’t touch me! my mind was screaming. You’ll hurt me and humiliate me. Like they do. You’re a brute and a scoundrel, like all the rest of them. Leave me.
But his hand was not raised in anger. His touch caused no pain. Only hot, delightful promise. And I heard myself whisper, “Aye.”
A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth and his hand withdrew an inch, as though he was reconsidering.
My breasts felt rounded and swollen, the taut tips hot and flushed.
My thighs, too, were overheated and my delicate, swollen flesh throbbed lightly.
Muddled thoughts flashed through my mind, reminding me of a dark, secluded garden and an uncontrollable yearning.
Don’t pull away. Put your hands on me. Touch me.
There, there. Anywhere. My husband, the devil, smiled slowly and his face took on a hint of the rugged beauty that lurked behind his fierceness, when he smiled and when he slept.
As though reading my mind, he said in a low chuckle, “All right, then.”
And his fingers began their slow ascent, touching me, rubbing slow circles around the outline of my nipples.
His hot touch was viciously potent, painting my body with raw, ripe need.
I arched, wanting more pressure, more contact.
He was maddeningly restrained, taking his time, lingering with casual deliberation, rubbing and pinching until I was awash with molten desire.
Kade raised his knife, which he still held in his left hand.
I felt my eyes round at the sight of it.
Had I misread him? Would he hurt me as I was so accustomed to?
He moved slowly, slipping the tip of it under the corded tie of my shift.
The coolness of the blunt metallic blade against my skin provided a stark relief to the sudden heat of my body.
“And what do you think would happen, then, if I cut the cloth from your skin to touch you with my fingers, here?” His thumb pressed gently, swirling, teasing.
He challenged me with his eyes, and I squirmed under his touch, my body lit with melting sensitivity.
“Nay?” he mused lightly, when I did not immediately respond. “You would prefer that I leave it on?”
Through my shift, he squeezed the sensitive tips of my breasts more roughly, sending sharp rivers of desire to my center.
Against my will, I moaned, “Please. Do it.” My voice sounded low and hushed.
He needed no further encouragement. With uncanny control of his knife, he sliced through the cord and the cloth, not once, but twice, allowing my shift to open and fall. At the sight of my naked breasts, Kade’s eyes grew visibly darker and his breathing caught.
“Holy God,” he said after a moment, all trace of amusement gone.
My husband, for all his bravado, was momentarily speechless.
My nakedness had somehow tampered with his unerring control.
“Your beauty,” he whispered, “is nothing short of miraculous. I am at your mercy, wife.” His words echoed with the earlier warnings of my sisters, now caught in sharp relief with the contradiction.
I was at his mercy, aye. But he was also at mine.
This equality and the power of the realization only succeeded in feeding my own desire for him to touch me.
He dropped his knife and reached for me with both hands.
Rather than teasing, his touch became reverential and affectionate, caressing my nipples with light, squeezing pulls.
Each careful tug of his roughened fingers sent a channel of pure heat to the secreted place between my thighs, which softened and pulsed in rhythmic harmony to the play of Kade’s fingers.
Only once had I felt this kind of pleasured expectation, in a forbidden garden with an unknown stranger; the memory seemed far away and long ago.
I wanted this, now, more—more of the excruciating touch of his warm, gifted hands.
As the pressure built, the heated inner channel between my core and my breasts grew in intensity, until the moistened entrance to my body throbbed unbearably.
I moaned and writhed to get closer to the enchanting feel of him.
The furs fell lower with my movement, and the skin of my thighs was cooled by the sudden exposure to the air.
I felt the beginnings of an indescribable rush deep within me.
When his head lowered as though to take one of my nipples into his mouth, I very nearly begged him to do it.
But before I could, a staccato beat of insistent knocks at the door broke through the haze of my stupor. And again.
“Stella!” It was Maisie’s voice. “The maids are here with the bath you called for. We’ve come to attend to you and help you dress.”
More knocking.
Kade withdrew his touch, and pulled the furs back up my body to cover me. His color was high, his cheekbones burnished with a light flush. “’Tis just as well,” he said with an unmistakable air of smugness. “I might not have lasted an hour, let alone a month.”