Moonspun Magic (Magic Trilogy 3)

She felt a sort of pulsing sensation, insistent and wild, and she gasped with the power of it. “Rafael,” she said, her voice filled with surprise.

He heard the excitement in her voice, and trembled himself as he picked her up in his arms. “You don’t weigh much,” he said, and pulled her more closely to him. He felt her breasts, full against his chest, and nearly ran to the bed.

“Lord, Victoria, you’re driving me over the edge.”

“The edge of what?” she said, staring up at him as he gently eased her onto her back.

“I want you very much.” He forced himself not to touch her, not yet.

Victoria wasn’t at all certain what this wanting entailed, but she knew she wanted as well. Wanted to touch him, kiss him, feel the length of his body against hers. Unbeknownst to her, her eyes glittered with excitement, and something else he recognized—intense desire.

She was so eager for it.

He shook his head. Good Lord, he wanted his wife to desire him. He didn’t want her to fear his lovemaking. He straightened and stepped back from the bed, his eyes never leaving her face. Slowly he untied the sash around his waist and shrugged out of the dressing gown. “I know you’ve never seen a man before, Victoria. I want you to look at me, get used to me, and know I won’t hurt you.”

Victoria stared at him. His magnificent body was silhouetted by the flickering candlelight. Shadows played over the thick black hair on his chest and over the ridged muscles over his flat stomach. She felt her heartbeat increase, felt the spurting warmth intensify, just looking at him. Her eyes moved downward and widened at his sex, thick and heavy. Without conscious thought, her hips lifted, and her legs parted.

“Rafael,” she whispered, and she opened her arms to him.

He came to her then, lying beside her, propped up on his elbow. He looked down at her, his eyes as stormy a gray as the North Sea in the dead of winter. “You like what

you see, Victoria?”

“You’re beautiful,” she said, and kissed his throat. “I can’t imagine a man more beautiful than you.”

You are my imprint . . . that is why she married you. “Can you not?” he heard himself say in a distant voice. Then, furious at himself, he yanked at the ribbons of her nightgown. She began to tremble. When he pulled the silk apart, she felt the chill air on her breasts. He was staring down at her and it increased her own excitement to a near fever pitch. She couldn’t imagine feelings like these, but she didn’t question them. He was her husband. He lightly touched his hand to her breast and she gasped aloud. “Very nice,” he said, gently lifting her breast, feeling its weight in his palm. He could feel her pounding heartbeat against his hand. He heard himself say, “You’re not afraid, are you, Victoria? Of me touching you like this?”

Since she’d never felt anything like this in all her nearly nineteen years, she couldn’t think clearly enough for the moment to answer him. She closed her eyes, feeling him caressing her breast, making her want to scream with the sensations it created.

He lowered his head and nuzzled her breast, his warm breath caressing her.

“You’re perfect, Victoria,” He suckled her, and she arched upward, unable to help herself. “Yes,” he whispered, his breath hot against her flesh, “utterly perfect.”

His words brought her a moment of sanity. She wasn’t perfect, she was flawed. His hand was moving downward now and she knew that soon she would be naked and he would see her.

He pulled the nightgown aside. She heard him suck in his breath. His hand roved downward, coming to rest on her soft belly. She felt a nearly uncontrollable sensation, lower, just below his long fingers. She wanted him to touch her, wanted . . . His hand went instead to her right thigh, kneading the smooth flesh, the sleek muscles.

“Does that please you?”

She groaned, her head back. She felt his hand gently wedge between her thighs, his fingers coming nearer to where her need was becoming nearly unbearable.

“You’re soft, Victoria, and warm.” His fingers lightly touched her. “Hot,” he said, kissing her, even as his fingers found her. Suddenly his fingers left her, left the burning need, and she wanted to tell him not to stop, tell him . . . His hand neared her left thigh and her breath flattened, and she stiffened.

“Rafael, please, douse the candles.”

Even as the words burst from her mouth, she was pulling away from him.

“Why?” His own breathing was ragged, but he also felt strangely apart from her. “I want to see you, all of you. Don’t become missish on me now, Victoria.”

“No. Please, Rafael, there is something I must tell you. Please, wait.”

His hand left her thigh and came to rest on her soft belly, holding her there, holding her still. He felt an awful foreboding. “What is it?”

“Something I should have told you before we married,” she said, her voice coming in small, gasping breaths.

He felt sick, and his belly cramped. Damn her, he knew what she would say, and hated her, himself, and Damien. His desire died a swift merciless death. He watched her jerk the nightgown over her stomach and legs, covering his hand.

Dammit, no. She couldn’t be a wanton, a slut, his brother’s eager mistress. Not Victoria, his innocent, utterly guileless wife.