She whimpered and arched her spine, thrusting upward.
Even though his palm was broad, it didn’t fully cover her breast. A rather embarrassing fact. She’d bemoaned the state of her chest all her life, wearing baggier dresses so she did not call attention to her bosom. She’d been a late bloomer and she had continued to develop after she moved in with the Beard family. When the older Beard boys had started to notice, snickering at her and fixing their gaze on her bodice and even being so bold as to toss pebbles at her chest, she’d felt so shamed. She’d done everything to hide them.
Now this man had his hand on her and she wished there was no layer of fabric between them. She wished she felt the texture of his hand, the calluses of his skin, on her.
Her nightgown only made it worse. The fabric bunched beneath his palm, a barrier she loathed. Unthinkingly, she arched, pushing herself up into his hand until her nipple brushed the valley of his hand. The slight pressure made her moan. She bit her lip, killing the sound. She waited several moments, making certain she hadn’t woken him.
Still. Her pulse didn’t slow. The burn didn’t abate. The throb didn’t lessen.
He was dead-to-the-world asleep. What would it hurt? She shifted, bumping back into his swelling manhood while simultaneously pushing her aching breast up into his cupped palm.
His hand flexed on her and her lips parted on a little mewl.
Suddenly he went rock-still behind her, his entire body going rigid at her back.
He was awake.
She stilled, too. Not a breath escaped her.
She held herself tight and waited. Waited for him to fall back asleep. Waited until she could fall asleep, too, and wake up in the morning and pretend this entire thing was a dream.
Only he didn’t do that.
“What game are you playing at?” he growled.
Don’t breathe. Don’t speak. Don’t make a peep. He’ll think you’re sleeping.
He whispered her name against her hair. “Alyse?”
She was actually proud of how motionless she held herself. Still and silent as the night.
He brought his face closer until his lips were right at her ear, brushing sensitive skin as he spoke. “Asleep, are you?”
She jammed her eyes shut and fought back a shiver.
That liquid-dark voice continued its slow assault on her ears. “Did you think you could push on my cock and I wouldn’t wake?”
Sheer determination had her choking back a gasp. He couldn’t prove she’d been awake. She simply had to feign sleep . . .
The hand covering her breast started to move then, squeezing and fondling until a cry climbed her throat. He dragged his palm across her already distended nipple.
It was useless. She was lost. A choked sob escaped.
“I warned you this would not be a real marriage. Did you think to trap me? That I would take you in a wild attack of lust? I have more control than that.”
“No, I didn’t think that at all.”
He rolled her onto her back then, staring down at her and that was tragic. Because then she saw his face. All sharp lines and hollows. That too beautiful mouth. The wildly mussed hair that begged for her fingers.
She fidgeted beneath his weight.
What was wrong with her? He’d accused her of seducing him so that he would be her husband in truth. She shouldn’t be admiring his looks.
“You woke me,” she accused. “With your big body smothering me and your hand on me!” A partial truth.
His eyes narrowed. “And instead of extricating yourself you start purring like a cat in heat.”
“Oh!” Before she could help herself, she lashed out, slapping him across the face.
“A couple days together, a few conversations and you decided you liked me . . . that I might make a good husband, after all.”
Stunned, she stared up at him. Perhaps she had begun to like him a little bit, but he was mad indeed if he thought she had set out to seduce him. “You arrogant bastard. How could I ever want to be married to you?”
He stared back, looking equally astonished. But also furious. It was the fury that made the metallic taste of fear rush into her mouth. She’d just called him a bastard. What if she had pushed him too far?
He gripped her by both arms, his fingers digging. She braced herself, prepared for a reprisal. A hard shake. A slap. She knew it was done. She’d seen other women bearing bruises in Collie-Ben and vowed it would never be her. She’d not be an outlet for any man’s fists.
He looked prepared to retaliate. Prepared to commit violence. She braced herself.
But it didn’t happen.
His mouth came down over hers. Hard. Punishing. She knew that was what he intended. She’d struck him and this was his way to strike back at her.
She couldn’t have pushed him away or slapped him again if she wanted to. Her hands were crushed between them. She struggled to unwedge them, ignoring the way his mouth on hers made her feel alive. As though she had been struck by lightning. Woken from a hundred years’ sleep. Plunged from icy depths into the brilliant sun.
His skin, from the waist up, pressed sleek and hot against her, singeing directly through her nightgown. Her breath caught, beating like a madly fluttering bird in her too-tight chest.
She managed to release one hand. Tearing her lips free, she pushed with all her might, shoving him in his smooth-skinned shoulder, forcing space between them. Not a great deal of space but it was something. It was separation. At least his mouth wasn’t branding her. That intimacy was gone even if her lips still stung and hummed.
Gasping, she stared at him, her hand burning where it pressed into his skin.
Their breaths crashed together as they stared at each another. His eyes gleamed in the near dark, like water floating over gemstones.
“What was that?”
“I think it seemed rather obvious.”
“Not to me.”
“Then it’s called a kiss. Shall I show you again?”
“Of course not, you brute! I didn’t like it.”
The air crackled, alive with energy and prickling heat.
“I think you did.”
“You’re mistaken.” Her heart beat so hard and fast in her chest she was sure he could hear it.
“And you’re lying.”
Her hand was free. She could strike him again as he most certainly deserved. Lying, indeed! The man’s temerity was boundless.
Except she didn’t want to hit him again. Her gaze dropped to the shadowy outline of his mouth. She wanted . . .
With a whimper of defeat, she dove in and kissed him again.
He growled in approval.
The kiss started hard, as it had earlier, but it didn’t stay that way for long.
His lips softened. Turned to nibbling, kissing entreaties where he managed to husk against her lips, “Open your mouth to me.”
Bewildered—at her reaction, at him, at this—she obeyed. She was helpless to resist him. Helpless to resist herself.
His tongue entered her mouth and stroked her own. She gasped and jerked at the strange act. He pulled back slightly, staring at her with eyes that were as inscrutable as ever but also brighter, as gleaming as polished gems.
This was it. Her turn. The time to pull back before things got any more out of hand.
The opportunity slipped past. He dipped his head, kissing her again, rubbing his tongue against hers until she was moaning and turning boneless beneath him at the shocking friction.
He settled his big body between her thighs, his hands falling to her hips, yanking at her nightgown until it was hiked up to her thighs and no longer barring him.
They kissed and kissed until her lips went numb, until her tongue felt raw from mating with his. He began moving, rocking his hips between her thighs, his manhood thick and prodding in the fabric bunched at the apex of her thighs.
“It would be so easy,” he said against her lips. “I could just lift your gown and slip inside.”
She nodded senselessly. He could . . .
Want pulsed through her. Right now it sounded like the most perfect thing ever.
“Can I touch you, Alyse?”