Shameless (37 page)

On the other hand, marriage to him was something she felt she could survive.

“Sooner or later, I must have wed somebody,” she said, as much to reassure herself as him. “And I would sooner be married to you than William or—any of the others.”

“Careful. You’ll unman me with your compliments.” His voice was dry. His eyes slid over her face. Then, with no more warning than that, his hands tightened on her waist and he kissed her.

H
IS KISS WAS SEARING
, and possessive, and not at all gentle. Beth was briefly surprised at the fierceness of it, but then she surrendered to the hot, wet invasion, closing her eyes, tightening her arms around his neck, kissing him back without reserve. The rush of heat he always managed to ignite in her made her body quicken, and she welcomed the familiar sensation with true thankfulness. Now if she could just close off her brain. . .

Marriage is forever.

Even as she had the near-paralyzing thought, he swept her up off her feet, carrying her as if she weighed nothing at all, to lay her down on the bed. When she felt the give of the mattress against her back, another craven pang assailed her.

If you go through with this, there’s no turning back.

But there was already no turning back, and she knew it. Even as he lifted his mouth from hers and she resurfaced enough to begin to think about what she was doing again, he was pulling off his boots and
shrugging out of his coat. Her hair had fallen down, she discovered. It tumbled over her shoulders and across the quilt in a wavy cloud, and as she quickly raked her fingers through it to remove the remaining pins, then swept it to one side, she saw that his shirt was following his coat. She gazed wide-eyed at the muscles flexing in his back as he pulled his shirt over his head, then took in the smooth, bronzed expanse of his shoulders that was marred only by the puckered circle of the wound she had cauterized for him, as he dropped the shirt on the floor and turned back to her. His wide chest was utterly masculine in its beauty. Remembering how warm and sleek his skin was, how firm the muscles beneath it felt, how the hair on his chest tried to curl around her fingers, made her catch her breath. Excitement flickered at the idea that she could now touch him as she would. Almost immediately, it was followed by an ardor-freezing corollary:
After this, he’ll have the right to touch you whenever he likes. To bed you whenever he likes.

Before her wayward thoughts could coalesce into an attack of fullblown fright, he was stretching his length beside her on the bed. Bare to the waist, his wide shoulders and muscular arms outlined in orange by the fire that glowed behind him and picked up red highlights in his black hair, he looked formidable. There was a dark intensity to his face that she’d never seen there before. His jaw was set. The curve of his mouth was harsh.

The way he looked at her sent a shiver down her spine. The expression in his eyes was almost grim.

Propping his head on his hand, he caught her hair where it spilled over her shoulder, winding it around his fist in a gesture that shrieked to her of ownership.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it, but I’m extremely partial to red hair,” he said softly, and lifted his hair-wrapped fist to his mouth, pressing the silken strands to his lips.

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach even as her heart started to pound.

“Neil . . .” Some of the apprehension she was feeling forced its way to the surface despite her best efforts, and almost she gave in to it and
snatched her hair from his grip and shot off the bed. But instead she bit back what she had been going to say and steeled herself. Her hands, which lay flat against the mattress on either side of her, curled into the quilts for support. “Love me.”

Her voice was low, but it did not shake.

“I mean to.”

Then his mouth was on hers again, and she was glad, fiercely glad, because the heat and hunger of his kiss clouded her thoughts, sent them whirling away, made her dizzy and weak and unable, finally, to do anything but kiss him back, her hands sliding over the broad expanse of his shoulders to fasten around his neck, her body arching up against his hard bare chest like a flower seeking the sun. His hands found her breasts through the thin cambric, causing her nipples to tighten, and the quickening his kisses had awakened to intensify into a full-blown ache, but lingered only briefly before sliding down her body, purposefully tracing the curve of waist and hip and thigh, trailing fire in their wake. Almost she panicked again as she realized that he was gathering her night rail up in his hands as he went. But she let him, she didn’t protest, even when a moment later he broke off the kiss to pull the night rail over her head so that she was left without a stitch to cover her.

“You’re beautiful.” His eyes slid over her even as the cool night air whispered across her nakedness.

Following his gaze, she saw herself as he did, skin smooth as satin and painted pale gold by the firelight, the lush roundness of her breasts topped by strawberry nipples that strained most embarrassingly erect, slim hips flaring from a narrow waist, flat stomach leading down to the fiery triangle of curls at the apex of lissome legs. Even as her blood heated and her cheeks flushed at the knowledge that he was seeing her thus, he dipped his head to kiss her breasts, bestowing a single scalding wet kiss on each vulnerable nipple. His hand, big and dark and masculine against her creamy skin, rested on her belly briefly and then slid down, warm and faintly rough as it stroked over the nest of curls, covering them, before moving between her thighs with a surety that made her shudder.

“Oh!” It was a gasp, having been surprised out of her by the jolt of pure sensation that shot through her as he unerringly found the most delicate, sensitive part of her. Quivering at the thrill of his touch, shocked at the sight of his hand moving between her legs, mindful that they were in a public inn where anyone might hear, she set her teeth against giving voice to more utterances, closed her eyes tight, dug her nails into the quilt, and let him do what he would. She could feel him watching her as he played with her breasts and touched and rubbed and explored between her legs, but despite the mortification inherent in that, she was helpless to do anything but respond as that first delicious shaft of pleasure tightened and twisted into a spiral of urgent desire.

“I’ve wanted to do this to you since I first set eyes on you,” he said, his voice thick as she writhed most shamefully beneath his ministrations. Then he kissed her again, his mouth hard and hungry, and at the same time slid his fingers inside her, pushing deep, withdrawing, pushing in again, until she responded with feverish abandon, until he had her boneless and mindless and melting for him. On fire for him, gritting her teeth against the moans that tried to escape, she welcomed his weight as he eased on top of her. The feel of the hard wall of muscle that was his chest coming down on her swelling breasts made her tremble with anticipation. When his warm bare thighs parted hers—When had he removed his pantaloons? She didn’t know—she was ready. When she realized that what was pushing inside her was no longer his fingers, she was, if not eager, at least burning to discover what came next and thus totally acquiescent.

“Hold tight,” he muttered as, gripping his damp shoulders, she instinctively arched against him in response to the invasion of her person by that part of him that she had not expected to be quite so huge, or hard, or hot. She was just trying to make sense of what he was telling her when he most unexpectedly gave a quick thrust that hurt like the devil and felt like it must rip her in two, then with a groan kept on pushing until he was deep inside her.

“Oh!” It was a cry of pain this time, uttered as her eyes flew open, and she stiffened as if she’d suddenly been turned to wood.

“That’s it,” he said. His voice was rough, his breathing ragged. His eyes had opened, too, and met hers. They were black and opaque as coal in the firelight. “It won’t hurt again, I promise. Close your eyes now, and kiss me.”

A dark flush stained his cheekbones. She could feel a fine tremor shake the strong arms that held her.

There’s no going back now,
she thought, feeling a little sick.

With the die cast, she could see no help for it, so she gritted her teeth and did as he bade her, hoping that the nameless yearning only he seemed to be able to awaken in her would soon return, so that she could lose herself in it again. Kissing her mouth, her jawline, her neck, her breasts, with a torrid sensuality that she discovered to her dismay she seemed to have quite lost her taste for, he came into her again, filling her once more, then kept doing it, in and out, more and more until she thought it must go on forever. He heaved and panted over her in the grip of a raw passion that she recognized he was doing his best to keep under some sort of control, taking her with a savage rhythm that now she only wanted to end.

“Ah,
Christ
.” With that, and a last deep plunge, he shuddered and went still, his big body hot and damp and heavy as a dead horse as it lay atop hers.

This is what I’ll be subject to for the rest of my life.

That was the appalling thought that ricocheted through her brain as Beth slowly let out her breath and eased out of the embarrassing position he’d coaxed her into. She then lay still and flaccid as a doll in his embrace, although his weight was crushing her into the mattress, and what she wanted more than anything in the world was to get out from under him and off that bed.

Without warning his head came up from where it had been buried against her neck. Before she could regain enough of her wits to close her eyes—meeting his gaze in the aftermath of what they had just done was the last thing she wanted to do—it was too late.

He frowned, squinting at her in the firelight, and she realized that he was trying to read her expression. Regret was useless. They were
now married past redemption. Certainly presenting him with a woebegone face or reproaches would serve no useful purpose. With that in mind, she resolutely managed to give him a small smile.

“Oh God!” With that pained utterance he dropped his head against her neck again, seemed to gather himself, then rolled off her, coming lithely to his feet beside the bed and turning to scoop her into his arms before she had the least idea of what he meant to do.

“Wh—what . . . ?” she began, stuttering under the onslaught of senses that were being all but overwhelmed by the fact that he, utterly naked, was carrying her, utterly naked, in his arms. But before she could finish demanding an explanation, or do anything else except try to cover herself, he stepped into the tub with her, then sank down into the still-warm water with her on his lap.

Squeaking in surprise, Beth snatched her hair out of the way so that it would not get soaked, then splashed hastily around so that she was facing him as he lounged back against the rolled rim of the tub. Twisting her hair up into a precarious knot, she eyed him warily. The water covered him to midchest only, and droplets glistened on his wide shoulders and brawny arms like diamonds, and were sprinkled throughout the wedge of curls that covered the muscular breadth of his chest. With his hair having escaped from its ribbon sometime during the course of their late, unlamented exertions, he looked the veriest brigand—and so handsome he took her breath. Huddled at the narrow end of the tub, her knees almost touching her chin, she had to scrunch down to keep her breasts beneath the surface. Given the way the fire reflected off the water, she hoped her position was enough to preserve some modicum of her modesty. Certainly he didn’t seem to be troubled by such concerns. Having discovered the soap, he was lathering himself with every evidence of enthusiasm, which she watched with an emotion very much akin to disbelief. It was all but impossible to grasp that she was engaged in something as indecent as sitting naked in a bath with him, and even more impossible to believe that she was married to him.

But she was. They were. And he, at least, seemed to be enjoying himself.

Her brows snapped together.

“That’s better,” he said.

“What’s better?” she asked suspiciously.

“You’re no longer looking at me like I imagine an early Christian martyr might a lion.”

She bristled. “If you’re implying that I’m afraid of you . . .”

“Not afraid. Just being very, very brave.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Other than the fact that it makes me feel like the biggest rogue unhung? Not a thing.”

She was quiet a moment.

“I don’t blame you for”—she hesitated, unsure of how to put it—“any of this. Getting married was my idea to begin with, after all. And as I told you times out of mind, there was no other way.”

“So you still have no objection to making a human sacrifice of yourself?”

“I’m wed, not dead.” Her tone was tart.

His eyes softened.

“I’m sorry I had to hurt you,” he said. “The first time is always difficult for women, I believe.”

“It was necessary. I’m perfectly aware of that.”