The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (28 page)

He drew back a little and gave her a long, thoughtful look.

“I meant
couple
with me.” She pushed at his shoulders. Why didn’t he understand? “On the bed,” she added desperately. She wanted to get it over with, to know. These kisses, they were too . . . too
dissolving
. They made her want to float forever on the magic.

But coupling was not like that, she knew; it was hard and fast and sweaty and not the slightest bit dissolving.

And if this were to be the only time she lay with him, she wanted to be aware of every moment, every second of it, losing nothing, storing up every sensation for the long winter of loneliness ahead. And while he kept kissing her, she couldn’t concentrate.

“You want us on the bed?” he said. “Very well.” And without warning he scooped her up, carried her to the bed, laid her on top of the covers and followed her down in a loose-limbed sprawl beside her. Before she could say anything, he was lying half on top of her, kissing her again.

She pressed her palms against his chest, pushing him back a little. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me, I asked you to lie with me, to couple.”

There was a short silence. She caught a flicker of some expression in his eyes but couldn’t interpret it. “The way I do it, the two go together.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “This is just the preliminary.”

“The preliminary?”

“Just trust me,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of her throat. The deep timbre of his voice vibrated through her. “Relax. Let yourself go.”

Her heart was thudding in her chest.
Let yourself go.
It was exactly what she was afraid of. But she needed to see what would happen. And how he would respond if she did truly let herself go.

“Trust me,” he said again. “You have nothing to fear here.”

She hoped that was true, but it wasn’t him she feared; it was herself. As he bent again to claim her mouth, she closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around him and gave herself up to him.

As his mouth plundered hers and their tongues tangled, she rubbed her palms along his jawline, enjoying the friction of his unshaven skin, his rough to her smooth, her soft to his hard.

And he was hard; she could feel it pressing against her. She was braced for him to drag up her skirts and plunge into her, but still he made no move to take her.

His big hands roamed, stroking and caressing her even though she was still fully clothed. And despite the thickness of her dress and underclothes, she felt her nipples rising into hot, hard little buds. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs teasing at the thrusting buds until they were aching with need. Each movement sent delicious shivers through her.

And always, always he returned to kiss her, as if somehow sensing she could never get enough of it, of him. She ran her fingers through his thick, dark gold hair, cupping his head, as she angled her mouth to deepen the kiss.

“Let’s get this off you,” he muttered and half rolled her on top of him, so he could get to her laces at the back. In seconds, she felt a draft at her back, and as he pulled the dress off her shoulders, she ran her hands down his arms, over his shirtsleeves, and dropped her hands to his chest.

“No.” She pushed him away and sat up abruptly, pulling her dress back up. This wasn’t right.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” His eyes, blazing blue, searched her face with dark intensity; his hair was rumpled where her fingers had roamed; his unshaven jaw, dark gold and deliciously rough to the touch.

She swallowed. This could very well be her only time with this man, and she wanted to have everything the way she’d dreamed it could be. Everything. She moistened her lips. “Take off your shirt,” she said, her voice oddly husky. She wanted to feel him, not just his clothing. And she wanted to look at him, feast her eyes on him.

He stared at her a moment, then the gleam returned to his eyes as he smiled a slow smile. “Whatever my lady desires.”

He rose and shrugged off his coat, then hung it on the back of the chair. Slowly he unbuttoned his waistcoat, one cloth-covered button at a time. Her mouth dried as she watched. They were just buttons and she’d already seen him in his shirtsleeves—and less—but there was something hypnotic about the slow way he was disrobing, and the way his eyes fastened on her so intensely the whole time.

Finally the last button was undone and he let the waistcoat slide down his arms. Without taking his eyes off her, he tossed it carelessly toward the chair with the coat. It hit the chair, then slithered to the floor. Neither of them moved.

He stood a moment in crumpled shirt, breeches and boots. He hadn’t bothered with a neck cloth.

She was breathless, waiting for him to take off his shirt. She’d already seen much of his body when they’d been drenched the day before, but somehow, this was more . . . intimate. He was disrobing for her. At her request.

He sat on the bed, then bent and pulled off his boots, then peeled off his woolen stockings and tossed them on top of the boots. “Those boots are ruined now,” he commented. “Pity, they were a favorite pair.”

How could he make light talk at a moment like this? She made some sort of response. It came out as a kind of husky gurgle. She couldn’t drag her eyes off him.

A lazy smile danced in his eyes as he rose to his feet again and faced her. “It was the shirt you wanted off, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, but her gaze dropped to the fall of his breeches. There was a distinct bulge under it. She moistened her mouth. She wasn’t ready for that yet—she wanted to make the moment last.

Slowly he unbuttoned his breeches, then tugged the shirttails free. In one movement he pulled the shirt off over his head and stood there, in nothing but his breeches, which sat low on his hips. There was a faint dusting of hair on his chest. A trail of darker hair ran down from his belly button and disappeared into his breeches.

It was such a strange feeling, she being almost fully clothed and he almost naked. It gave her a sense of . . . power.

He was one beautiful man. Perfectly proportioned, his skin gleaming like marble, but he was more beautiful than any statue she had seen; he had not an ounce of fat, was all hard-muscled masculine elegance.

He saw her eating him up with her eyes and gave a faint smile. “It’s chilly; I’ll just build up the fire,” he said and turned away to put more wood on the fire. It gave her time to catch her breath.

And to ogle him some more. She admired the breadth of his shoulders, the hard ropy arms, the line of his spine as he bent over the fire, and the very fine, firm male backside revealed by the tight-stretched buckskin breeches. And the way the firelight danced over his skin, gilding him.

He stoked the fire to a blaze, then returned to the side of the bed. In one swift movement he dropped his breeches and stepped out of them. Now all he wore was a pair of fine cotton drawers. Through which she could see he was ready for her. More than ready.

As she was ready for him. He joined her on the bed, and she braced herself for him to pull up her skirt and make a swift entry.

Instead he pulled her hard against him and started kissing her again. Long, hot, drugging, glorious kisses. She returned them eagerly. She could never get enough of being kissed.

She rubbed her fingertips lightly over the smooth, hard curves of his shoulders, smoothing her palms over his chest, learning his texture, his taste, loving the feel of his firm flesh, the powerful muscles. His body was hard, cool skinned yet hot beneath, and she loved the feel of it, the feel of him.

His hands sought her breasts again, and as he teased, she ached and squirmed against him, wanting more. He rolled over a little, taking her with him. His knee edged between her thighs against the part of her that throbbed. She hugged her legs tightly around him, pressing his knee against her core and making tiny involuntary rocking movements against him. She was hungry, aching, needy—for what, she wasn’t sure. All she felt was that this was right . . . so right.

He kissed and nibbled his way down her neck, and she felt a draft as he peeled the top of her dress down, freeing her breasts to the cool hair.

“Beautiful,” he murmured and caressed them with big warm hands. She arched under his ministrations. She felt the faint brush of his unshaven jaw against the tender skin, scraping lightly over the aching tips in a delicious abrasion. She shivered in helpless bliss as he teased her tender nipples first with his tongue and then very lightly with his teeth, nipping gently, sucking and biting. Her thighs tightened, hugging him to her, her fingers buried in his thick hair, caressing him, clutching him almost frantically as the tension built within her.

His mouth closed around one aching peak. He sucked and she bucked, gasping as a jolt of fiery, sweet-hot lightning arced through her, leaving her breathless and wondering. Before she could gather her wits he’d transferred his attentions to the other breast. Vaguely she felt him pulling up her skirts. She was grateful for the cold air on her thighs; she was hot, so hot.

At the first touch of his hands, her thighs trembled with need, falling apart, as he stroked and caressed, moving ever closer to the part of her that ached most. He cupped her, pressing with the heel of his hand, and she pushed against it in jerky rhythmic movements, shamelessly begging for more.

He moved, and suddenly her breasts were cool and damp, still aching and tender from his ministrations. She groped for him, wanting him to keep going, and then her eyes flew open with a small scream of surprise as his thumbs parted her and his hot, eager, wicked mouth closed over her aching center.

She bucked and shuddered around him, thrashing as wave after wave of sensation crashed through her, as if she were possessed. She clutched at him with frantic fingers, wanting him to stop, wanting him never to stop, wanting . . .

The pressure inside her built and built. Her world narrowed . . . and blurred.

She heard, as if from a distance, someone scream . . . as her world splintered and shattered and was no more. . . .

“Our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
NORTHANGER ABBEY

"L
a petite mort
, the French call it,” Freddy murmured as her eyes fluttered open. “The little death.”

She blinked at him in adorable confusion. “What . . . ?”

Her first orgasm. He tried not to feel smug at the thought, but it was hard not to. She’d come apart so beautifully in his embrace. More than smug, he felt . . . proud, tender, possessive.

Possessive?
He took that thought out and examined it cautiously. When had he ever felt possessive of a woman? He tucked it away to consider later. First things first. He still had a raging cock-stand to deal with.

It had taken all his considerable self-control to keep himself in check. But when he entered her for the first time, he wanted her to know it, to be aware, to watch him with those big beautiful brown eyes as he took her.

And he wanted her naked. Skin to skin.

“Shall we get rid of this?” he murmured and began to remove her dress. She lay bonelessly, looking sated and a little like the cat who’d eaten the cream, making no particular attempt to help him as he pulled and tugged, stripping her of first her dress, then her corset and stockings, and then, last of all, her chemise.

She was slender, creamy and completely enticing, all silken curves and velvet shadows. “It’s a crime to cover such loveliness with clothes,” he murmured and bent to kiss her beautiful mouth, now reddened and a little swollen. It curved under his, smiling as he tasted her, her tongue curling around his in sensual play, her fingers sliding into his hair as she pulled him closer.

His fingers slid between her thighs and her eyes widened as he caressed and aroused her anew. He could feel the deep ripples starting within her again. He pressed his face between her breasts and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her, essence of relaxed, aroused female.

Almost relaxed. She pushed his seeking hand away. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” she said in a throaty murmur. She reached out a languid hand and tugged at his drawers. “Off.”

Impatiently he kicked them off, aware of the way she watched him, the gleam of female approval. He was hard and aching, trembling with the effort to retain control.

“Now,” he said, reaching between her thighs again. She was moist and slick and more than ready for him. He moved over her and positioned himself at her entrance.

She closed her eyes and braced herself. What the devil?

With an effort he held himself back.

“Look at me,” he growled.

Her eyes opened. The sleepy, aroused look had gone. She looked . . . determined. Somehow gritted.

“Trust me,” he murmured. He entered her slowly and felt her body ripple as she accommodated him. The gritted look faded from her eyes and they darkened. He stroked her where they were joined, and she gasped and jerked and started to move against him in a series of demanding little shoves.

That was it. All intentions of making this slow vanished as his control shattered, and he started to move then, thrusting into her, feeling her rise to meet him, again and again, their bodies moving as one in a frenzied rhythmic dance as old as time.

She moaned beneath him, thrashing against him, locking her legs around him, pulling him tighter, harder, embracing him, as he pumped and pumped and the tension rose and rose.

He heard himself shout, and at the same time she gave a thin high scream, as together, they shattered into oblivion.

And slept.

 • • • 

B
right morning sunshine streamed into the cottage. Damaris woke to find herself tucked firmly against a naked sleeping Freddy. She lay there a few moments, warm and sleepy and utterly contented, and watched him softly breathing. In sleep he seemed younger, softer, more vulnerable. The previous night he’d felt like a god. When she’d first met him he’d seemed wholly frivolous. So many masks. Not that it mattered. She loved the man behind them all.

She looked at his beautiful mouth and thought of what it had done and how it had made her feel. Even as she recalled it, tiny shivers passed through her, a faint echo of what had been.

Three times he’d taken her the night before. Each time different. She hadn’t known coupling could be like that, so . . . she didn’t know what. Extraordinary. Earthy. Sublime.

Languorous and sated, with a bubble of happiness lodged in her chest, she lay curled against him, her cheek resting on his chest, his arms around her, savoring the relaxed feel of his body against hers, feeling warm and safe and right, as she reflected on what had passed between them.

It bore no relation to anything she’d felt with the captain. Thank God.

Did other women feel like this, when they lay with their husbands?

Had Mama felt like this when she lay with Papa? Had she screamed and thrashed and shuddered? Had she shattered into oblivion, experiencing the little death? And later woken in languorous, sleepy bliss?

Had she been woken in the night and taken so slowly, so tenderly that feelings welled up in her till she could contain them no more? And tears spilled down, and were kissed quietly away? Had Papa ever held Mama the way Freddy held her close, possessive and protective, even in sleep?

Damaris couldn’t imagine it. She had no recollection of Mama even sleeping in the same room as Papa. She must have lain with him at least once; otherwise Damaris would never have been born. But she’d never seen them kiss or even touch.

She lay sleepily pondering the past, luxuriating in the feel of Freddy’s sleeping embrace, the weight of his arms around her, the scent of his skin, the steady sound of his breathing.

Mama
must
have felt something similar, she was suddenly sure of it.
This
was what Mama had missed when she’d lain in bed silently weeping all those nights;
this
was what she’d meant when she’d told Damaris,
Sometimes a woman just needs to be held.

So what had gone wrong?

It was so difficult. All she had were a child’s memories, but now she examined them with a woman’s perspective. A woman who now understood what could pass between a man and a woman.

Her bladder made its needs known, so reluctantly and carefully she untangled herself from Freddy’s embrace and slipped quietly out of the bed, trying not to disturb him.

The wintry chill hit her warm body and she shivered as she threw on her chemise, dress and stockings and grabbed the old woman’s shawl for extra warmth. She looked down at her sleeping lover—lover; she savored the word—and smoothed his hair gently back from his face. Then she slipped into the wooden clogs at the back door and braced herself to go out into the cold air to visit the privy.

Afterward, she stopped briefly to look out at the floodwaters. They were definitely retreating. She hurried back inside, shivering.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about leaving—there had been something magical about their time in this little cottage, a few days out of their normal world, away from the everyday pressures and expectations. She was reluctant to leave and half dreaded facing the world again.

She hoped there wouldn’t be any gossip about them, though since she had told him her story, and they had lain together, she felt much more sanguine about his insistence they marry. She would make him a good wife, she was determined on it. She loved him with all her heart.

She’d tried not to fall in love with him, but she’d known almost from the beginning it was a battle she would lose. She’d stop fighting it now.

She loved him.

He might not love her, but they were friends at least, and the bed-loving had been good. More than good. She still felt the effects.

Three times he’d taken her yesterday. Perhaps they could do it again this morning. With that thought in mind she hurried back to the cottage.

She entered as quietly as she could. Peeling off her hastily thrown-on clothing, she tiptoed to the bed. And froze.

He’d turned over in her absence and the upper part of his bare back was visible.

Horribly visible.

There were scratches on his back and shoulders, fresh scratches.

She glanced down at her hands, at her fingernails, buffed and innocent looking. Shame washed over her. She had scratched him
like an animal
.

Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, she stood by the bed, naked and shivering, staring at his mutilated back, and remembered how she’d screamed in ecstasy. And thrashed her legs and head. And wrapped her legs around his body, trapping him, holding him, squeezing him so tightly.

Horribly unladylike. Completely out of control. Like a vixen.

What would Freddy think when he realized she’d clawed and bitten him like a wild creature?

Shivering with cold and dread, she pulled her clothes back on, lacing her stays tightly, as if she could somehow lace in her rampant desires, cover them up, hide them from the world.

She understood now what had gone wrong between Mama and Papa. Papa had made no secret of the fact that Mama’s lustful nature disgusted him.

And Damaris had inherited Mama’s lustful nature.

Papa had suspected it. The captain had too, which was why he’d told her,
You were born for it,
as they carried her off to the brothel.

And soon, Freddy Monkton-Coombes would know it. He had the scratches to prove it.

She wanted to run, to flee from the look in his eyes when he woke, but there was no place to go, nowhere to hide.

She busied herself by building up the fire, which had fallen to embers while they’d slept. She looked in the pantry for the last of the vegetables. More soup, heavy on the barley, and maybe some pancakes or fritters, if the hens had laid. It was a good thing they’d be leaving soon, and not just because they were running out of food.

She wanted to get away as fast as she could.

Behind her she could hear him stirring. She wished she could just vanish.

“You’re up?” he said sleepily. “Cooking? And I see you’ve stoked the fire. What an industrious little thing you are.”

Slowly she turned around, bracing herself against the look she feared to see.

He sat up, bare chested, rumpled his hair and gave her a sleepy smile. “I don’t suppose you want to come back to bed, do you?”

And, oh, God, there was a bite mark just below his shoulder.

She felt sick, just looking at it. Further proof she’d behaved like an animal. She dragged her gaze off the livid mark and turned away. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

“I need to make this soup, or else we’ll be going hungry,” she said, trying to sound brisk and matter-of-fact, but it came out a little shaky. She turned back to the bench and started chopping a shriveled-looking carrot.

“I’m hungry right now,” he said in a plaintive voice. She forced herself to turn and found him smiling at her in a familiar, wicked way. He flipped back the bedclothes, patted the bed and gave her a suggestive look.

“Don’t,” she said in a choked voice.

His brow furrowed. “Damaris? What’s the matter?”

She stared at him, at the mark she’d made on his shoulder, and tried to think what to say.

In a flash he was out of bed and in three steps he’d crossed the room, stark naked and unashamed. He reached for her. She tried to step back but there was no room. The cold line of the bench pressed against her back and she was reminded of how this had all started, when he’d kissed her.

“What is it, Damaris? What’s the matter?”

She shook her head, unable to look at him, fighting tears.

But he wouldn’t let her avoid him. “What’s upsetting you? Tell me.” He cupped her face in his big, warm hands—another parody of that kiss—and gently forced her to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and troubled.

She tried to look away and saw a small, dark semicircular mark on his shoulder, half bruise, half bite, and knew it to be her mark. She
had
bitten him. Shame washed through her.

She tried to break away, but he held her fast. He glanced down at himself and frowned. “Is it this that’s worrying you?” He touched the bite mark.

She didn’t answer.

His grip on her tightened. “Tell me what’s upsetting you. Was it too much? Did I shock you? Upset you?” He waited, and when she didn’t reply, he said, “You climaxed several times, so it mustn’t have been too bad, surely?”

She couldn’t bring herself to speak.

“Damaris? Sweetheart?” His voice was deep and he sounded oddly uncertain, which cut her to the quick.

“I scratched you,” she whispered. “And I bit you too.”

“I know.” He sounded almost . . . proud?

Her head lifted and she stared at him. “You don’t understand. I behaved like an animal.”

He grinned. “We both did. Splendid, wasn’t it?”

She stared at him in silence for a long moment, then burst into tears.

 • • • 

“I
—I’m sorry,” she mumbled, scrubbing at the tears with her fists. “I don’t u-usually—I never c-c-cry over . . . over—” Her broken speech ended on a hiccup.

“Hush,” he murmured and, pushing her hands away, gently mopped up her tears with a large white handkerchief. Where he’d got it from she had no idea; he wasn’t wearing a stitch. She was, she abruptly realized, sitting fully dressed, on the lap of a naked man.

She ought to get off him. But if she did, he would be even more naked. And she knew who’d be more embarrassed in that situation, and it wouldn’t be Freddy Monkton-Coombes.

She stayed where she was, letting him hold her like a child—no, not at all like a child. Her emotions were in a turmoil, her position was quite scandalous, but she felt oddly comforted.

“Now, then, what’s all this about?” he said after a while, his voice deep and easy. “Do I understand that you’re upset because you scratched me a bit? And gave me a little love bite? Is that the problem?”

A love bite? Was that what he called it? Being
kind
.

“Don’t,” she said in a choked voice.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be
kind
about it. Your back is all scratched. By me.”