Marriage on the Rebound

IT TOOK Shaan a while to find Rafe because he wasn’t in any of the rooms downstairs, though she checked inside them all. Eventually her search took her upstairs to their private suite of rooms—where she found him reclining in one of the big armchairs by the fireplace with his bare feet resting on the low coffee table in front of him.

He had just taken a shower, she assumed by the dampness still clinging to his silky dark hair, and he was wearing nothing more than his white towelling bathrobe. A glass of what looked like his favourite whisky sat on the carpet by the chair—untouched by the look of it, because he seemed to have fallen fast asleep of all things!

Jet lag, she remembered, and felt her heart flip in sympathy because he looked so utterly weary, even in repose.

Being careful not to wake him, she tiptoed further into the room and quietly closed the door behind her, then just stood there, taking a moment to lovingly drink in the sight of him while he couldn’t know she was doing it.

This man loved her, she told herself warmly. This man loved her so much that he had gone to his own brother and begged him not to many her. This man loved her so dynamically that he had then taken her over, married her himself, possessed and devoured her in his quest to hold onto her.

He had wrapped her in luxury, cocooned her in the dark, disturbing heat of his powerful sensuality. He had fought for her, made a fool out of himself for her in the eyes of his peers, and finally, and perhaps most beautifully of all, he had put his pride on the line a second time by letting Piers expose the truth to her.

The truth.

Her arms went wrapping around herself so she could tightly hug that precious truth.

A truth that deserved truth back in return, she decided as she stood there simply drinking in the lovely sight of him.

And suddenly she was remembering the last time she had found him stretched out in that chair like this. Only he hadn’t been asleep then, just relaxing with a whisky.

It made her smile, because she could still hear the echo of her own teasing laughter as she’d strolled in here from the bedroom wearing nothing but his cast-off shirt, left hanging open on her own brazen nakedness, and with her hair in wild disarray over her shoulders because she had just been made wonderful love to. Which was why he’d been sitting in that chair, wearing a look of pure masculine gratification on his hard, handsome face.

‘You look as if you’ve just been ravished,’ she’d heard herself murmur teasingly.

‘There’s a wicked witch living in this house,’ had been his sardonic reply. ‘She’s sex-mad. I need sustenance.’ And ruefully he had lifted the whisky to his lips.

‘So does the witch,’ she’d responded, with so much sensual provocation that she felt her cheeks grow warm as in her mind she watched that wicked creature stroll over to him and straddle his outstretched legs before she took the whisky glass away from him and bent to replace it with her own hungry mouth.

How long ago had that been? Two—maybe three weeks? Yet she could still feel the electric contact of his hands closing on her naked hipbones so he could draw her down on top of him. Once again could feel him throbbing, deep, deep inside her, pulsing as he strove to give her all of himself.

All of himself.

Shaan hugged that thought to herself too, but with more meaning than ever wrapped in its warmly sensual glow now she knew what she did know.

All of himself…

The words had a magical taste to them that filled her with a sudden desire to recreate those special moments, and, creeping quietly across the room so as not to waken him, she disappeared into their bedroom.

He was beginning to stir by the time she came back, with her hair hanging loose about her shoulders the way he liked it and her freshly showered body wrapped in a white fluffy robe to match his.

Her heart was beating a little too fast, because it was taking a lot of courage to go over to him dressed like this, not knowing what mood he was in.

His eyes were still closed, but one long fingered hand was cradling the squat crystal whisky glass now.

‘Hi,’ she murmured shyly, unsure of her welcome.

His eyes were slow to drift lazily open. That face, that beautiful, lean, dark face was grimly implacable as he looked up at her. ‘Had your truth now?’ he questioned flatly.

‘Yes.’ She smiled softly.

‘And how was it?’ He took a sip of his drink.

‘Nice,’ she admitted.

Then, before he had a chance to protest, she straddled his thighs with her own silken ones, bent to take the glass from his fingers, discarded it and sat herself down on his lap.

‘So may I kiss you for it?’ she requested. ‘Or are you still too cross with me to want me to?’

He didn’t answer, that grimly implacable expression staying firmly in place as he merely closed his eyes again.