Chapter 9
"I've wanted this since I pulled you from that lake," he confessed against her throat. "Soaking wet, spitting mad, absolutely glorious."
"I was a disaster."
"You were perfect." His hands worked at the buttons of her dress with surprising skill. "You are perfect."
"I'm not..."
"Argue with me later." The dress fell away, and his eyes blazed as he looked at her. "My goodness, Arabella."
She should have been embarrassed, standing before him in only her chemise and stays. Instead, she felt powerful. Desired. Alive in a way she'd never experienced.
"Your turn," she said, surprising herself with her boldness.
His smile was wicked as he stripped off his shirt, revealing a chest marked by scars but undeniably masculine, undeniably attractive. The firelight painted his skin gold and shadow, and she couldn't resist touching, tracing the lines of old wounds and new muscle.
He shuddered at her touch. "You're killing me."
"Good."
He laughed, dark and rough, and kissed her again. They stumbled toward the bed, hands exploring, boundaries dissolving. Thunder shook the house, but it was nothing compared to the storm between them.
"Are you certain?" he asked one more time, poised above her, his control clearly hanging by a thread.
"Lucien," she said, using his name deliberately, watching his face change at the sound of it. "Stop asking and start teaching me."
What followed was revelation. She'd read books, heard whispers, thought she understood what happened between husband and wife.
She'd been utterly unprepared for the reality though; the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the shocking pleasure of it. Lucien was patient when she needed patience, passionate when she was ready for passion, and tender in ways that made her chest ache. His hands roamed slowly, deliberately, mapping every dip and curve of Arabella’s body as if memorizing her by touch alone.
She gasped softly when his lips found the slope of her neck, his breath warm against her skin.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
“I’m not afraid,” she whispered.
“No,” he said, his voice low, “but you are mine.”
He let his teeth graze gently over the delicate flesh beneath her ear, following the bite with a kiss, then a soft suck; just enough to leave a mark. A visible reminder. She arched toward him with a soft whimper, pressing her body into his.
His hands slid down her back, holding her tightly to him as he began his descent—slow kisses trailing from her neck to her collarbone. Arabella threaded her fingers through his hair, breath hitching as his mouth moved lower.
“You always smell like lavender,” he said against her skin, nuzzling the hollow of her throat. “It drives me mad.”
“And you always say the most wicked things,” she murmured, though her voice betrayed no real protest.
He grinned against her skin. “Because they’re true.”
Lucien kissed her again, more deeply this time, before his hand moved to cup one breast, fingers splaying wide. The gasp that escaped her lips made him chuckle low in his throat.
“Lucien...”
“Too much?”
“No… just unexpected.” She tilted her head back with a shaky laugh. “You make me feel like I might dissolve in your hands.”
“Then let me catch you,” he said, his thumbs brushing over her hardened peaks through the thin barrier of fabric. Her knees weakened, a surprised squeak escaping her when he rolled them gently between his fingers.
Heat flooded her, pooling low in her abdomen. She couldn’t look away from his face; eyes dark with focus, mouth slightly parted as if tasting her reactions. He kissed her again, slower this time, savoring her like a man starved.
Then his free hand slid lower, brushing past her navel, fingers slipping into the damp warmth between her thighs.
Arabella gasped. “Lucien...”
“Shh,” he whispered against her mouth. “Let me take care of you.”
His fingers found her folds, parting them with careful precision. When he found her pearl, he paused.
“Here?”
She gave a helpless nod, eyes fluttering shut. He pinched lightly, rolled, then soothed the spot with a gentle rub that made her entire body arch toward him.
“Oh, Lucien...”
Lucien grinned. “That good?”
She couldn’t answer, she could only moan as the sensation shot through her in shuddering waves. He pressed another kiss to her lips before trailing lower, planting kisses along her ribs, her stomach, until he reached the underside of her breast. There, he paused.
“Beautiful,” he breathed.
And then his mouth was on her, warm and teasing, kissing gently at her peak. Arabella cried out, hands flying to his shoulders. She dug her fingers into the hard muscle of his back and held on, anchoring herself.
“I need... I don’t even know what I need,” she said, dazed and breathless.
“You need me,” he murmured against her skin. “And I need you.”
Once Lucien had kissed and tasted his fill, driving her to the edge with every brush of his mouth and every deliberate press of his fingers, he finally stilled, breathing heavily against her skin.
Arabella lay trembling beneath him, her chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, her body loose and pliant in his hands.
He lifted his head slowly, his mouth slick from the worship he had paid her, his eyes dark and searching.
“You’re ready,” he said, voice husky.
She nodded, her lips parted, dazed. “Yes… I need you.”
Lucien moved to settle between her thighs, and as he did, he caught her gaze and held it. His hand reached down, guiding himself to her entrance. He brushed against her first, letting her feel the full intent of what was coming.
Arabella exhaled shakily. “Don’t look away,” she whispered.
“Never,” he promised.
And he didn’t. Even as he slowly pressed the tip of himself against her, nudging forward with agonizing gentleness, his eyes remained locked with hers. The slick heat of her made it easier and her readiness was a silent invitation he honored with care.
She gasped as he pushed in inch by inch, her fingers clenching the sheets beneath her. His expression changed, tightening slightly with restraint.
“You’re perfect,” he rasped. “So warm... so tight.”
Arabella whimpered. “Lucien—please.”
He leaned down and kissed her, slow and deep, his body moving at the same pace as his mouth. She felt every stretch, every inch of him filling her, until there was no space left between them.
When he was finally seated fully within her, still and trembling with the effort it took not to move too fast, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured.
She reached up to cradle his face. “It’s not. I want all of you.”
His breath caught at her words. With a low groan, he began to move—slow and controlled, as though savoring each moment of joining.
Inch by inch, he pushed deeper, until his entire length was sheathed inside her.
Her body stretched to accommodate him, the fullness overwhelming and exquisite all at once.
Lucien leaned forward, bracing himself above her, but not pulling away.
His chest brushed hers, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them.
And then he kissed her—not hurriedly, not with desperation, but with purpose.
Slow and deep. Passionate. A kiss that said you’re mine and I’ve waited for this and don’t ever leave.
Arabella moaned softly into his mouth, her hands sliding down his back, drawing him closer.
His thrusts were steady, each one drawing a soft cry or whispered plea from her lips.
Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, each roll of his hips matched by the arch of hers, as if they had done this a thousand times in another lifetime and were only just remembering how.
Later, much later, Arabella lay curled against him, her leg draped over his, their skin damp with the sheen of shared exertion. Lucien’s fingers lazily tangled through her hair while she traced soft, idle circles on his chest.
Neither of them spoke at first. The silence was not awkward, but reverent.
Eventually, she broke it with a wry little smile. “So much for separate rooms.”
His chest rumbled with laughter. "My carefully laid plans, destroyed by a storm."
"Just the storm?"
"No." He tilted her chin up to look at him. "You've been destroying my plans since the moment you dived into that lake."
"I fell into the lake."
"Fell, dived, threw yourself—the result is the same. My life hasn't been the same since."
"Is that a complaint?"
"That's a confession." He kissed her, slow and deep. "I didn't want a wife. I certainly didn't want to want my wife. But here we are."
"Here we are," she agreed, settling against him more comfortably. "What do we do now?"
"Now? Now we sleep. Tomorrow we can figure out what this means."
"And Cassandra?"
His arms tightened around her. "Let her come. She'll find things have changed more than she expects."
"Including you?"
"Especially me." He was quiet for a moment. "You know this changes everything."
"Does it?"
"You're in my bed, Arabella. My actual bed, not the rose suite in the east wing. That's not part of our arrangement."
"Then we'll make a new arrangement."
"Just like that?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
"No," he admitted. "But then, I haven't had a better idea since I met you. I've just been stumbling from one moment to the next, trying to keep up."
"Poor Beast," she jested. "Brought low by a lady and her criminal dog."
"Speaking of which, where is Thistle?"
"Probably in the kitchen, destroying the treaty you so carefully negotiated."
"Wonderful. The Cook will murder us both."
"At least we'll die happy."
He looked down at her, something soft and vulnerable in his expression. "Are you? Happy?"
"In this moment? Yes."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow can take care of itself."
Lightning flashed again, illuminating them in stark relief; two bodies intertwined, boundaries dissolved, carefully constructed walls in ruins. Tomorrow would bring complications, she knew. Cassandra's visit, society's gossip, the reality of a marriage that had suddenly become very real indeed.