Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

But she couldn’t manage the long row of buttons. He pulled her to her feet, turned her about, and she felt his deft fingers quickly releasing her from the gown. She felt him pull the gown over her breasts.

“Please,” she said, “can you ... would you please douse the candles?”

“I want to see you,” he said shortly. “You may finish,” he said, and backed away from her.

It was too much. Her low-cut lace chemise barely covered her breasts. It was very nearly transparent and she saw his eyes roving over her. She grabbed her gown over her, quickly doused the candle, throwing the room into darkness, and made a dash toward the adjoining door.

He caught her in three strides. “All right,” he said, his anger overcoming all other emotions, “it will be as you demand.”

Hawk pulled her back to the bed, held her with one arm, and quickly stripped off her clothing. When she was naked, he picked her up and tossed her on the bed.

He had set himself a problem, he realized, his breathing coming quickly now. If he tried to light the candles, she would probably try to escape him again. He shrugged. He pulled off his dressing gown, and came down over her.

Her smooth, very soft body beneath him made his mind go blank with desire. Her breasts were heaving, full and soft against his chest.

There was no hope for it, Frances realized. She had been a fool. Such a fool. Had she really expected him to shrug and forget about her? An idiot, that’s what she was. She said, “I shall lie still. Do as you please. Just be done with it.”

She matched words to action.

Hawk was thoroughly enraged. She was limp beneath him, even had managed to slow her frantic breathing. “Very well, wife,” he said, and jerked her legs apart.

He realized quickly enough that he couldn’t enter her without hurting her. She deserved it, damn her! But he couldn’t. He frowned in the darkness, trying to remember what he’d done with the wretched jar of cream.

He rose and said very softly, “Do not move.”

She didn’t. When she felt his weight come onto the bed, she forced herself to lie very quietly.

“Inside you this time, Frances,” he said, and she felt him part her legs again. She lurched upward at the feel of his finger, slick with cream, entering her. She heard him suck in his breath.

He slid his finger slowly, gently, in and out.

He heard her catch her breath in sharp gasps, felt her quiver, but not with desire.

He cursed, reared over her, and drove into her.

Frances felt him deep within her. It didn’t hurt. It felt very tight, and she could feel her body stretching to accommodate him, but there was no pain. She lay perfectly still. He would finish with her soon. The few times he’d done

this to her, he had finished with her in minutes.

She heard his harsh breathing, felt him plunging deep, pulling away, then plunging again. Then he moaned, deep in his throat, and froze over her. Suddenly he began driving furiously in her. She felt the wetness of his seed bursting deep inside her.

Hawk rolled off her immediately and onto his back. His lust was gone, as was his rage. He felt nothing.

“Go to your room, Frances,” he said, his voice sounding dulled and weary.

She nearly leapt from the bed, and he heard her quick footsteps as she raced toward the adjoining door. She didn’t slam the door behind her, but closed it very softly.

“Damn,” he said aloud to the dark room. Ah, Amalie, I was a rutting bastard.

He felt guilt. He didn’t like it, and it made him feel very uncomfortable, it made him question himself and his actions. He raged silently. It was her fault too. She’d lied to him, pretended, played him for a fool. She did deserve whatever he meted out to her. Still ... He felt himself plunging into her small body, felt his mind turn into liquid mush, felt his lust and his anger driving him over the edge.

Frances scrubbed herself until she felt raw. She pulled a nightgown over her head and crept into her bed. I should have kept wearing my spectacles, my ugly caps, my shapeless gowns. Then, at least, he would have felt honor-bound to continue his kindness to me. Kindness of a strange sort, she amended silently to herself. Kindness tempered with condescension, distaste, and boredom.

She drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face into her soft pillow. He hadn’t touched her, not her. She was safe from him. If he wished to plant his seed in her there was nothing she could do about it. She’d been a fool to try to escape him. She should have accepted him as she’d done the other few times. She realized well enough that her behavior had infuriated him, and she supposed, logically, that what he had done was but to be expected. He hadn’t hurt her, after all. He’d gotten the cream. She shuddered at that, drawing her legs even closer to her chest. He’d put his finger inside her. Why had he done that? To humiliate her for having tried to escape him?

Frances shook her head against the pillow. He was a man, and men did as they pleased; men got their way. Her father always did. She found herself wondering, appalled at herself for even thinking it, if her father did that to Sophia, and Sophia bore it in silence and patience. The picture created in her mind made her extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed. Surely her father wouldn’t, not now, now that he was older. He already had a son, so there was no reason to continue doing such distasteful things.

Frances resolutely shut her husband out. She would deal with him, oh indeed she would. She even managed a small, smug laugh. She said aloud to her pillow, “I’ll see you to the devil before I allow you to touch me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Never,” she said softly. “Never will you touch me.”