“Cam?”
He didn’t turn, partly because he didn’t trust himself not to leap on her, whether she wanted him or not. “Sleep well, Pen.”
“Cam,” she said more urgently. “Wait.”
He frowned at the polished mahogany door before him. Did she know how near he was to breaking point? She played a dangerous game.
He heard a rustle behind him. The thick carpet in a pattern matching the delicate chinoiserie wallpaper muffled the soft pad of her feet.
Every hair on his skin rose at her approach. He deliberately hadn’t touched her since coming in, afraid that if he did, restraint would vanish. Also something about her watchfulness warned him that if he pushed too far too fast, he’d destroy all trust between them.
He’d cajoled her into marriage. For her sake. And for his. He couldn’t claim unselfishness. Now Pen, or malign fate, or demons from hell paid him out for his self-interest.
He clenched his fists at his sides and faced her. She stood a foot away. Every sense was alert to her. Her violet scent drifted toward him. “Do you need anything?”
As she inhaled, her breasts shifted against her transparent nightdress. Dear God, she tortured him.
“I think…” Another excruciating pause before her words tumbled out in a heated rush. “I think I need to sleep with my husband.”
Pen watched blazing excitement replace Cam’s resigned grimness. Despite her invitation, she was still nervous, but her heart gave a great swoop of anticipation as he swept her up against him. He swung her high and strode toward the bed.
“Are you sure?” She’d never heard that raw tone before, even in those fraught, incandescent moments on the Windhover.
Before she could answer, he bent his glossy dark head and kissed her hard and hungry, as if he starved. She kissed him back with despairing abandon. The rich flavor of brandy mixed with the even richer flavor of his mouth.
Cam had wanted her as a mistress, not as a wife. Cam desired her. Cam would never love her.
With his lips plundering hers and his arms lashing her close, she hardly remembered why any of that mattered. What mattered was that he touched her with mad desperation and he held her as if she was the only woman in creation.
She was doomed. But this was a doom of heated caresses and fevered moans and kisses that made her head swim with pleasure.
He’d kissed her like this on the Windhover before he’d broken her heart—yet again—with his insulting proposition. After those heady moments, the wild rush should feel familiar. It didn’t. She felt as if she’d never been kissed before.
The world dipped as he set her on the bed and lowered over her, shrugging off the crimson robe. She had a far too fleeting glimpse of his long, lean body before he caged her between his arms, his bare chest filling her view.
Dizzy with unprecedented, overwhelming excitement, she gasped as his weight descended. Automatically her legs parted to cradle his hips. She started up against him when she felt the insistent pressure against her belly. Huge. Demanding. Inescapable.
His mouth devoured hers, then nipped and licked her neck and shoulders. Roughly he shoved the frail batiste aside until he could kiss the ball of her shoulder and the line of her collarbone. He rushed her into a turbulent current of passion that permitted no pause. She flowed into his demands. She didn’t want to think. She just wanted to feel.
Her heart thundered so loudly that she hardly heard the sharp rip as he tore the nightdress away.
“Cam!” With her last modesty, she tried to cover her sex and her breasts. Everything happened so quickly. She hadn’t come to terms with one sensation before another crowded to replace it.
“Let me see you,” he groaned, staring down with glittering green eyes. “I’ve dreamed of
seeing you.”
She knew his dreams had involved passionate possession and nothing more. But she had no defenses against his pleading. Shaking with nerves, she lifted her hands away and buried them in the rumpled sheets.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, bending his head to her breasts.
When he suckled, she cried out at the heat rocketing through her. Arousal tightened and coiled, making her writhe. With unsteady hands, she grabbed his forearms, fingers digging into the taut muscles. Once before, he’d pushed her to the edge, but this time, her responses were stronger, deeper. She could hardly think. This was like living inside a furnace. He’d burn her to ashes. All the time he muttered words that she’d heard so often in her fantasies.
You’re so beautiful.
You’re like fire in my arms.
I’ve wanted you so long.