Claiming His Wedding Night

‘Only because you don’t trust yourself.’

Holding up his hand, he pressed his palm against hers, and the longing inside her seemed to split her apart.

‘Why are you fighting this? You want me as much as I want you, Addie. Tell me you don’t. Tell me I’m wrong.’ In the depths of his eyes something flickered like the flare of a match—a small, bright flame of desire.

She knew she should speak, deny his claim. But she couldn’t find her voice—and even if she could have done she wouldn’t have been able to string her words together in any sensible order.

Heat was spilling over her skin like milk boiling over in a pan. And suddenly she wanted it to overwhelm her. To stop fighting and sink beneath the liquid warmth. His fingers were wrapping around hers, tugging her inexorably towards him, and she knew that they were going to kiss and she was glad...because sometimes kisses were less complicated than words.

Reaching up, she pressed her fingers against his lips, shivering as she saw his gaze darken with hunger. For a moment their eyes locked, and then she slid her hand up and over his jaw and into his dark silky hair, pulling his mouth feverishly onto hers.

At the touch of his lips she felt an ache—blissful, voluptuous—spreading out low from her pelvis, and then her hands splayed apart, her head spinning dizzily as he deepened the kiss.

Moaning, she arched her body towards him, her breath stuttering in her throat, a fissure opening up inside her as his tongue slid between her parted lips and his hands curved around her waist and thigh, pressing, probing.

‘Addie...’

She heard him murmur her name, felt his hand slide inexorably up over the soft skin of her thigh and then higher, beneath the hem of her dress to the pulse beating insistently between her legs.

Her skin felt hot and tight; inside she could feel herself melting. Gasping, she leaned against the hard muscles of his chest, the hot, salt scent of him coiling round her skin so that she was shaking with longing, her whole body clamouring for more. Shuddering, she pulled at his shirt, tugging at it where it was caught beneath his waistband, lost in the quickening of her breath and the lambent heat pooling low in her pelvis.

He groaned softly. ‘Stop, sweetheart...’

And then he said it more loudly, dragging his mouth from hers, lifting his hands away, and she stared up at him dazedly even as her disorientated brain began to absorb the full facts of the situation.

Her eyes opened and, face flaming, she stared in horror at her reflection in the window. How could she have let that happen? Was she out of her mind?

But blaming her mind for what had just happened was about as senseless as blaming the moon for turning the tide. However, any debate on the whys and wherefores of blame was going to have to wait.

Taking a quick breath, she looked up at him reluctantly. ‘That shouldn’t have happened,’ she said slowly.

Leaning back against the seat, he watched her smooth down the hem of dress. ‘And yet it did.’

Her cheeks grew hotter. ‘It was a mistake.’

‘And we learn from our mistakes?’ he said idly, reaching out to take her hand.

‘I have,’ she retorted. ‘I’ve learned that I shouldn’t accept lifts from strangers.’

She tried to twist her hand away from his but he tightened his grip, pulling her towards him so that her body was pressed against his.

‘But I’m not a stranger. I’m your husband.’

And, lowering his head, he kissed her again. She felt the same pull as before, the same ache, only stronger, more fervent, and she moaned softly.

‘Come away with me, Addie.’ His eyes were dark and fierce and compelling. ‘There’s things we need to talk about alone. Just the two of us. Please—say yes.’

She pressed her hand against her swimming head, staring at him helplessly, hazy with wanting him, with needing him, and then finally she nodded, for the sexual attraction between them was irrefutable, so why keep trying to suppress it?

‘Say it!’ His hands

captured her face. ‘I want to hear you say it.’

She hesitated. If she half closed her eyes and her mind to the tiny, nagging voices in her head, she could almost absolve herself from any responsibility for her actions.

Her breath tangled in her throat. But if she spoke, if she went into this now, agreed to this deal, then she would do so knowing that Malachi didn’t love her.

She shifted in her seat. Maybe it would be easier that way. There would be no more broken hearts and shattered dreams. In fact dreams would come true for the children who learned to trust and hope and believe again through music. The charity she had founded, which had brought passion and pride back to her life, would grow and prosper. And maybe she needed to own this decision unlike last time when she’d been dazzled and docile and always one step behind.