All About Passion (Cynster 7)

Tipping back his head, he looked into her face. Not a single tremor disturbed the locked muscles of his arms-he was supporting her without effort.

She met his eyes. They were stormy, turbulent-intent.

After a moment, he spoke. “We’re married. This is our wedding night.”

A shiver slithered down her spine. Some age-old instinct warned her against replying, against uttering any contemptuous quip, any taunt. She needed to be on the ground, no longer his captive, to continue their battle. She waited, breathing rapidly. His gaze locked with hers, slowly, very slowly, he lowered her.

His hands were level with his chest, her hands had just touched his shoulders, her toes still a foot off the ground, when she felt his muscles bunch, his fingers grip.

He flung her back.

She fell full length in the middle of the huge bed. She caught her breath on a gasp and scrambled to sit up-

Gyles shrugged off his robe and went for her.

She clutched frantically but couldn’t gain purchase on the slippery satin. He drew her back down, tangling her legs with his. When she continued to struggle, he caught her hands, trapped them both in one of his and anchored them above her head, then lifted over her and lowered his body to hers.

His weight subdued her, trapped her beneath him. Propped on his forearms, he met her gaze-wary but still furious.

Her breasts rose and fell against his chest, her body lay firm and supple beneath his. He shut his senses to her distractions. In a minute, he’d indulge, but first… ”You were right the first time, when we first met, as to what I thought of you.”

Francesca held his gaze and tried to read his eyes; their dark turbulence defeated her. His expression was graven, one she didn’t recognize, yet some part of her did-some part of her responded. To the look in his eyes, to the harsh set of his lips, to the dark, gravelly rasp of his voice.

“I desired you-I still do.” His glance strayed to the ripe mounds of her breasts. He sank against her; she felt his erection rigid against her thigh.

“Whenever I see you, all I can think of is being inside you.” With his free hand, he traced the neckline of her gown, from her shoulder to the center front, where tiny buttons held it closed. One flick and the first button popped free. “Now we’re married, I’ll get to indulge that desire every day, every morning and every night.”

He continued to unbutton her gown.

There was no doubt in her mind which track he was on. She dragged in a short breath. “You don’t want me. You don’t need me.”

He raised his eyes and met hers. He inclined his head. “I don’t want you. I don’t need you. But by heaven I desire you.” He slid one finger beneath her gaping gown and traced her upper breast-they both felt the quiver that raced through her. “And you desire me.”

S

he knew what he intended, what he would do, knew she had no defense. But it was not what she wanted-not like this. “You don’t want me as your wife. You didn’t want to marry me.”

“No.” He shifted his weight, reaching for buttons lower down. “But I did.”

The last button slid free; her gown gaped to her waist, the silk less sumptuous than the skin it concealed. Gyles slid his hand beneath the gown’s edge, cupped her breast, and circled the peak with his thumb. “Which brings us to where we are.” He met her gaze. “To this.”

He circled her nipple again and felt her spine tense. Saw in her eyes, darkened and wide, the knowledge that she wouldn’t-couldn’t-win the prize she’d set her heart on. And understood why she’d been so disappointed. So very angry.

He bent over her. “Everything I promised, you will have.”

But nothing more.

The vow hung between them, unsaid but implicit.

She’d seen past his mask and had hopes that he would not, could not, fulfill. Passion and desire he would give her, but passion and desire were not love-none knew that better than he.

He lowered his head and felt her tense. A fraught second ensued-he waited, gave her the moment to gauge the situation, to make her decision. Then she eased beneath him, accepting, all resistance flowing from her.

He closed the last inch; his lips hovered over hers, and they parted.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispered the words against her lips, then covered them. He was sorry for disappointing her, sorry for his mistake. But not sorry that he had her, at last, beneath him.