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Auctioned Virgin to Seduced Bride (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1.50)

Page 4

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‘Patrick?’

His muscles locked, cramped with the effort of holding himself off her soft body, keeping himself from thrusting into her. The whisper sounded frightened, as well it might. What had he done?

‘Shh.’ He rolled to the side, away from her. He’d get up, pull the covers over her, let her sleep until the early hours when they could creep out. His groin ached with unsatisfied desire, his head ached with the aftermath of his fear for her and that blistering row. She must be exhausted and frightened and confused by the sensual shock of his furious lovemaking.

As he landed on the mattress Laurel moved, coming onto her side, her eyes wide. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘Nothing!’ Her head jerked back at the sharpness of his response. ‘You did nothing wrong,’ Patrick said, more gently. ‘I came to my senses, that is all.’

‘I thought you wanted me.’ Laurel sat up, curling her legs under her, her body milky-pale against the rumpled dark blue silk coverlet.

‘I did.’ Where are my breeches? I must find her a robe…

‘You still do.’ She was looking at him in frank appraisal and his erection tightened as though the glance had caressed him intimately. ‘In Martinsdene, I dreamt of you.’ She dropped her eyes from his, blushing. ‘I tried to imagine what it would be like with you.’

‘And now you know. It must have been an unpleasant shock, not the sweet romantic idyll virgins dream of.’

‘What do you know of virgins?’ she asked, the faintest hint of a smile on the soft mouth his kisses had bruised. Still she did not meet his eyes as she sat there, curled like a sea nymph in her pool of blue.

‘Very little,’ Patrick admitted. ‘I steer clear of innocent women.’

‘Then perhaps you are not as observant as you think you are,’ she added, looking up. ‘That was not an unpleasant shock. It was overwhelming and surprising and wonderful and frightening—but not unpleasant. But you stopped.’

‘I remembered that you are a virgin, which, given the way you came here, I was very remiss to have lost sight of.’ He shifted, trying to ease the torment of his arousal and she looked down.

‘Does that hurt?’

‘It is not comfortable,’ he admitted. ‘It will subside in time if I pay it no attention.’

‘But that is not fair,’ she murmured, shifting so fast he was taken unawares. One moment he was leaning back, changing his position to climb off the high bed, the next his arms were full of warm woman, her arms curling around his neck as she pressed herself to him, bringing them both down amidst the pillows.

‘Laurel—stop it.’ The soft swell of her belly was pressed against his erection. Her breasts were crushed to his chest. He could hear her panting breaths, feel them stir his hair. She was clumsy in her innocence, rocking against him instinctively, sending shocks of sensation through him. With a groan he surrendered to the need for release: if he could just keep her safe from his own desires.

‘Yes,’ Laurel murmured, nuzzling her face into his neck, smelling the musk of arousal, feeling the gloss of sweat on his taut muscles. When it was him, those things were powerfully exciting. His body rocked against hers, the hard flesh pressing into her stomach, the thrust of his hips bringing pressure down on the mound between her thighs. The strange ache, a thousand times stronger than the feeling that had haunted her yearning dreams, built and built.

She should open her legs, she thought, then understood that he was not going to take her, only his own release. The sensation of Patrick’s body moving over hers was almost overwhelming. He was hard and urgent as he thrust, his breathing was tortured. Laurel tried to keep still, not to rock with him: the hard swollen erection must hurt, she thought, listening to his stifled groans.

I’m so ignorant, can’t I help him? Something snapped inside her and she abandoned the last shreds of shyness: she let her body go with his, wriggled one hand free, slid it between her own stomach and the flat, taut plane of his and curled her hand around him, tight. It felt wonderful, silken soft, hard as iron. Her shyness vanished in a wave of triumph that was purely feminine: for this moment Patrick was hers.

He shuddered, thrusting into her grip. ‘Laurel, no! Oh, yes. Oh, yes… Now.’

He moved again, violently, once, twice, then gave a shout of triumph and collapsed onto her.

Against her breast his heart thudded, against her belly she could feel sticky heat and the tremors that ran through his body as he lay crushing her. Her own body cried out in protest. I need you. I need something… Patrick, don’t stop… Her body calmed a little as she lay there holding him. Who would have guessed there was so much emotion, so much feeling in this act? She had understood that she desired Patrick Jago, almost as soon as she had seen him, but she had no idea that to lie with him would unleash this storm of sensation and complicated emotion.

She felt a little weepy, very happy, very confused. She felt tender toward him and yet awed by his strength and his mastery. She ached for him and she felt brazen and passionate and yet strangely shy, all at once.

‘Laurel.’ He stirred and then rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed as far from her as possible, his back turned. ‘I’m sorry.’

She sat up, too, blinking back the tears that had not fallen. Instinct told her to cover herself a little and she dragged the cool satin around her shoulders, clasping it to her breasts.

‘Patrick. Don’t be sorry. You saved me.’

He shook his head, and she kept her hands tight in the satin so as not to reach out and touch the paler nape of his neck. ‘I have ruined you.’

‘No, you haven’t,’ she contradicted. ‘No one knows.’

‘There is that mercy.’ He sounded hoarse. ‘There’s water behind that screen, I expect. You’ll want to wash. I’ll find a robe.’ Still not looking at her, he plucked a heavy silk robe from the chair and shrugged it on, then padded over to an armoire and opened the door.



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