The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

When Ryder pulled her nightgown over her head, leaving her as naked as he was, she drew back, hunching over, unable to stop herself. He lightly touched his fingertips to her ribs. "No more bruises. Have you had any more pain?"

She shook her head. "Good," he said and brought her against him again.

For the first time he held her naked against him. His heart was pounding in deep, fast strokes. He wanted to come inside her this very instant and bury himself in her, his wife. He wanted to hold very still, to feel her around his sex, to feel the gen­tle tensing movements of her inner muscles. But he wasn't stupid. She needed every bit of his expertise. Ah, that was the rub. She was making it a damned serious business. Ryder had always laughed before, for to him making love was a grand pastime filled with mirth and smacking kisses and shared moans and sighs. He wasn't laughing now; he didn't have a single jest in his head. It was going to be a grim business.

It would be enough, this expertise of his. He'd never failed with a woman before, never. He caressed her mouth, nibbled on her ear, found that very sensitive place in the hollow of her throat that made every woman he'd ever known squirm and moan when he'd caressed there with his tongue.

He told her how beautiful she was as he stroked his hands over her breasts, told her how much she pleased him, how much he wanted to touch her everywhere, with his hands and with his mouth. Her nipples were a dark pink and when he took one in his mouth he thought he'd spill his seed. The taste of her, her texture, were nothing he'd ever experienced before, which was surely false, but it seemed true to him now. He frowned even as he let the feelings settle deep within him.

He clasped his hands beneath her hips and lifted her onto her back on the bed. He came down over her, kissing her breasts, caressing and lifting them, wanting her desperately, more and more as each instant passed.

He slid his left hand over her belly, stilling a moment when he remembered the ugly bruises. God, he'd never forget them or the soul-deep rage he'd felt. She'd been hurt so badly. He slowed his hand, easing his fingers lower, until he was cupping her and he felt the stiffness of her body, despite her soft­ness, and he pressed his fingers between her thighs. He found her woman's flesh and gently probed. He wanted to come into her now, this moment, for his need for her was so great that he trembled with it. Unlike the Ryder Sherbrooke before he'd met Sophie, he didn't want to lose his control. But it had been so very long that he'd wanted her, so very long that he'd been celibate, that he simply didn't know if he could hold himself under control.

Perhaps, he thought, staring down at her, just perhaps this was why he'd wanted to marry her. Perhaps he'd known that she would do this to him, that she would be like no other woman in his life. He closed his eyes as he eased his middle finger inside her. His breath hitched with the effort to keep control of himself. The feel of her around his finger, the softness of her, the heat of her, made him grit his teeth. She made a soft keening sound and he took it for burgeoning passion. It had to be. Sweet God, it had to be passion. How could she not want him when he was edging toward madness with need for her?

She was tight, her muscles squeezing his finger. He knew it would be over for him soon. He eased deeper until he touched her maidenhead. He smiled; he realized now he'd known he would find it. He widened her as best he could for he didn't want to hurt her too much.

He pulled her thighs wide and came down between them. He looked at her face. "Sophie, I'm coming inside you now. No, open your eyes. Remember, there's no reason for you to be embarrassed. We've already done this. There is nothing new here. Believe me. If you could try to relax, you just might enjoy it."

She looked at him as if he were mad. She closed her eyes against the urgency of his expression, then opened them again. No, she would bear all that he did to her. It wouldn't be bad. It would be over soon enough.

That damnable lie. He had believed it would help her to relax with him. It hadn't appeared to do any­thing of the sort. He knew he couldn't wait. He guided himself slowly inside her. He promised him­self he would only come into her for a very short time and then he would ease out of her and give her his mouth. Yes, just a bit more, just until he knew she accepted him, for he wanted her to experience hav­ing him inside her before he brought her to pleasure. He said as he came deeper, "You are my wife," and there was wonder and satisfaction in his voice. "It is very odd for me, you know. I've never had a wife before, never thought to have one, but you are here with me and we are in my bed and I'm coming inside you. Please accept me, Sophie."

Accept him, she thought, holding herself as still as possible. She had no choice but to accept him. She waited, afraid, willing it to be over, willing him to make those ugly grunting noises the men made, the noises that soon mea

nt they would be through, their sex shriveled, and shortly asleep and snoring.

She was a virgin and she was his wife and she would be his now. When his sex butted her maid­enhead, he pushed forward as gently as he could. It held. He cursed, knowing he should withdraw from her. He tried, he really did, but he couldn't make himself pull out of her. He looked down at himself inside her. He shook and tried to pull away again. He couldn't. He leaned down and kissed her instead. His tongue was deep in her mouth when he groaned and thrust deep, tearing through her maidenhead until he was touching her womb and then it was simply too much. Even as he became aware that she was struggling against him, even as he tasted her tears in his mouth, he groaned again, feeling such swirling, utterly wild feelings, that he jerked frantically at the intensity of his release.

He stilled. She lay quiet beneath him. He was heavy on top of her, his breath still deep and fast, his body damp with sweat, his face on the pillow beside hers.

She hadn't expected the pain. Dahlia had never complained of pain, not that Sophie had ever asked her, but, on the other hand, Dahlia gave her opin­ions on everything with lazy abandon, comparing the men down to such details as the noises they made during their release. Sophie couldn't imagine that Dahlia would suffer pain willingly or in silence. Thus, this pain did surprise her and she burned deep inside with the stinging of it, and the alien fullness of him. She knew about a man's seed and knew it was in her as was the pain he'd inflicted upon her. How could a woman possibly enjoy this if it hurt so badly?

She'd known all about intimacies, known all about six men and their bodies and their needs, but she'd never realized that his sex entering her joined them in such a way. He was deep inside her still and she could feel him, feel every slick bit of him. If was as if he were trying to be a part of her but she wouldn't allow it. No, he was the different one and soon he would separate himself from her. She pressed her hips deeper into the mattress. She sucked in her breath, wishing he would just be done with her and leave her.

Ryder managed to balance himself on his elbows above her. He was actually smiling, a tender smile that confused her. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I won't hurt you ever again."

"Why did you hurt me this time?"

No more lies or evasions, he thought, and said simply, "This was your first time. You were a virgin just as I finally realized you would be. I had to get through your maidenhead. That's what hurt you."

She stared up at him, her eyes darkening as she finally understood. A lie, it had all been a lie, him taking her at the cottage, her possible pregnancy. "You bastard!" She heaved upward, trying to buck him off her.

"I know. I'm sorry for it." He clasped her wrists and pulled her arms over her head. He was heavy on top of her and she felt him growing inside her. It couldn't be, not this soon, no, she wouldn't allow it. She wanted, quite simply, to kill him.

"I am sorry I lied to you, Sophie. At first I meant it as simple punishment for what you'd done to me. Not very nice of me, I'll admit, but then again, what you and your uncle did to me wasn't any better. It gave me a power over you to have matched you at your same game. After, when I decided I would marry you, I used it against you. And I won."

"How can you believe that marrying me is win­ning? That is errant nonsense. I am nothing, less than nothing. I have no dowry, no reputation, no—"

"Damn you, you will be quiet."

Her eyes went a very dark gray at the anger in his voice; her face was as pale as the white sheets. "No matter your anger, you can't change what I have been, what I am. You haven't won a thing, Ryder."

"I will always win with you, Sophie. It's best you remember that."

Without warning, without any sound at all, she jerked her right arm free of his hold, and smashed her fist into his jaw. He saw the flash of movement but he wasn't fast enough, simply because he'd been laughing and bragging and telling her how omnipo­tent he was, in short, her master, the one man who would handle her always to his satisfaction.

Her fist hit him hard and he jerked back with the surprise and the flash of pain. She shoved at him, her legs striking him hard on his back, and he went over the side of the bed and landed with a loud thud on the wooden floor.