"And the truth?"
"He didn't make me wish to lie with him as you do."
"I turn you on?" He was dumbfounded.
She frowned. "I am not an electrical switch."
"You want to lie with me?" he rephrased. The sun shone bright overhead, but this was the most surreal conversation he'd ever had.
"I have just said that." Her brow knit. "Why do you make me repeat it? Have you lost your desire for me?"
Couldn't she see exactly how much desire he felt? Then he caught himself. No. She'd kept her eyes firmly above the waist--shy innocence or a beautiful woman playing with a scarred man's mind? At the end of his patience, he walked closer. Her cheeks bloomed with a delicate blush at his nearness, but she didn't back away.
"You don't want me," he stated, his voice hard.
He wasn't going to allow some pampered little princess to make fun of him. Not again. Never again. Memories of being humiliated by Lydia Barnsworthy, daughter of Trevor Barnsworthy III, shoved their way to the surface of his mind. He'd been good enough to clean her car, cut the grass and do other menial chores, and over a summer of flirting, she'd made him believe he was good enough to date her.
When he'd finally asked her out to a school dance, she'd said yes. Using some of his hard-earned cash to rent a tux and buy a corsage, he'd shown up at the doorstep. The maid had informed him that Lydia had gone to the dance with someone else, leaving him only a message. "It was just a bit of fun. I never thought you'd actually think I might go with you. Sorry."
That was all the apology he'd received, and he'd known it was meaningless. She'd intended to do this from the first. Fuming, he'd gone to the dance and seen her laughing at him from the arm of the school's star quarterback. In spite of working so many jobs, Marc had managed to be picked for the baseball team. He'd played not because he loved it but because he'd known it would get him through college on a scholarship, allowing him to pursue what he really wanted to do.
But being a sporting hero hadn't been enough to touch the perfect tennis-toned body of Lydia Barnsworthy; he had to have the money and the pedigree, too. As he'd watched her dance, he'd found a new maturity born out of cold rage. To her clear disappointment, he hadn't caused a disturbance. What he'd learned that night was that a beautiful woman was worth nothing if her heart was cruel. Unfortunately, the two seemed to go together.
His wife gave him a fiery look, shattering the memories. Lydia was a hag compared to the woman he'd married. Yet, as he'd already discovered, Hira's beauty wasn't enough. If she'd remained the ice queen he'd met on his wedding night, he would've ignored her and eventually annulled their marriage. He'd had enough coldness and pain in his lifetime. But she'd kept him on the verge of hope with those fleeting moments of vulnerability that teased him with hints of the woman beneath the ice, the woman he'd seen on that moonlit balcony.
"Why should I lie to you?" She put her hands on her hips and moved closer. They were both in bare feet and she had to tip her head back a little to meet his gaze. He wondered if she realized her breasts were pressing against his sweaty chest. "I do not lie...perhaps sometimes I try to lie, but then I always tell the truth!"
What the hell, Marc thought, bracing himself for a blow. The worst she could do was reject him. Perhaps then he'd finally accept that the hope had been a mirage, an illusion sent to torture the vulnerable part of his heart, the part that held the soul of the bayou boy used to surviving unbearable hurt.
He clamped his hands on the exposed skin above her skirt. Smooth and warm under his touch, her body invited him to satiate himself in any way he wished. The hunter in him growled that she was his mate, his to do with as he wished. The civilized man barely managed to keep the instinctive reaction in check.
She shivered under his touch, a smooth whisper of soft skin against callused flesh. "That is odd."
"Odd?"
Those exotic eyes looked at him in accusation. "Why do your hands make parts of me burn that you don't touch?"
Marc moved his hands up and down the curve of her waist, still not certain of her desire, trying to scare her off with his nearness and undeniable masculine arousal. Instead of backing off, her lips parted and she put her hands on his shoulders, pressing close.
He wasn't convinced. Not when she hid her face in the curve of his neck. Calling on every ounce of control he possessed, he ran his hands up her torso and boldly cupped her breasts. She jerked at the accelerated intimacy.
"Husband," she whispered against his skin. "What...do you do to me?" Her voice shook, but when he went to remove his hands, she moved just the tiniest bit closer, as if not wanting to lose his caress.
"Do you like this?" he asked in her ear, letting her continue to hide her face because he could feel the pebbled hardness of her nipples.
Her hands clenched on his shoulders. "Yes."
If she really was a virgin, there was no way she could be faking the needy ache in her voice. "How's this?" His voice was a husky whisper as he released her breasts and moved down to gently squeeze her bottom.
Fingers digging into his shoulders, she pulled away, eyes big and worried. "Husband, these things shouldn't be done outside."
"There's no one to see." And he wanted to take her under the cerulean-blue sky, because he'd just figured out that she was telling the truth. His bride wanted him. There was a shocked innocence in her eyes that couldn't be fabricated. He knew that in his desire to test her, he'd touched her far too boldly, but he intended to make up for it by pleasuring her any way, every way she wanted.
She drew her head away. "Please." For a moment he saw such deep vulnerability in those tawny mountain-cat eyes that he was shocked. Never had he imagined that his sophisticated princess had a heart so very soft. What else was she hiding behind that hauteur of hers?
His interest in her multiplied again. At the same time, an almost painful tenderness took root in his heart, barely a bud but powerful despite it. "All right, cher."
He kissed her once, lingering at the mysterious taste of her, at the sweetness of her tentative response. When he asked for entrance into her mouth, she hesitated. "It's okay, baby," he whispered, his tone gone rough and low, "let me in."
Her body shivered under his hands as her lips softened, giving him what he sought. Fighting the urge to conquer, he tasted her just enough to have him craving more. When they parted, she was staring up at him, roses blooming on both cheeks. No woman on Earth could've counterfeited the passion clouding those magnificent eyes. "Let's go inside. I need to shower, anyway."
"I will help bathe you." Her voice was soft, almost lost on the whispering bayou breeze.
His arousal became excruciating. "What?" Maybe he was still asleep and this was one hell of an erotic dream, because only there would a maiden wife make a suggestion like that.
"In my clan, it's the oldest of traditions that wives help their husbands bathe." She was biting her lower lip, her guilt obvious in the way her body had gone tense. "I've been shirking my duty because I knew you didn't know of it."
And, he guessed, because she was a virgin. How could he have expected an untutored girl to understand the barbarian hunger she'd probably seen in his eyes last night? Tenderness that he hadn't known he could feel made him move his hands up and down her back, gentling her.
"Would it be such a chore?" he whispered. Despite a lifetime of confidence, he found himself waiting for her response, armoring his heart against pain.
Her cheeks tinted again with that rosy shade that made her golden skin glow. "No." It was the softest of murmurs. Her lashes drifted down to hide her eyes from him, but he continued to feel her arousal in the way her nipples pressed against his chest. "You make me wish to touch you," she confessed, mouth almost on the skin of his chest.
"What about the scars?" he asked bluntly. Painful truth was better than a fantasy like the one he'd built around Lydia. The eventual shattering of fantasies tended to wound a man far more than honesty.
She ran a slim finger across one of
the ragged scars on his chest. "In Zulheil, desert chieftains participate in a ceremony to show their loyalty to our sheik." Her fingers floated down to trace the faint lines that ran across his abdomen. "They mark their bodies with pride. You are a hunter like them and these are your scars of battle." She pressed a kiss to the jagged scar that cut across his collarbone.
He shivered. "I suppose they could be considered battle scars." His childhood had been a battleground and he'd come up against his father's belt and his mother's fist more times than he cared to count. His hand stroked the bare skin of her hip. To his surprise, she cuddled closer. There was a softness to her body that spoke of true welcome.
"They make you...sexy to me." Her voice was almost indiscernible. "I see the men in your advertising and they are too pretty. Who would wish for a husband who couldn't protect them?"
Once again, he was reminded that his wife was a woman from another land, a land that for all its sophistication, had a primitive core that lay very close to the surface. "And you think I could?"
She tipped up her head. "Despite your civilized front, you're a hunter at heart." Her hand trailed up his chest, the languid stroking fuel to the slow burn of desire within him. "You see me as your property, and you'd never let anything hurt what is yours."
Her intuition startled him. Whatever the state of their marriage, in saying vows, he'd made her his and he would die protecting her if it came to that. Clenching his fist in her abundant hair, he tilted her head. "How do you like being my property?"
Mountain-cat eyes narrowed. "I am no man's property. I simply said that that is how you view me."
His lips quirked. "A subtle distinction."
"A distinction nonetheless. But, I will accept this--as your wife, I belong to you." Then she did something totally unexpected. She gripped the curling hairs on his chest with one hand, making him wince. "And, husband, if we lie together, you become mine."
Well, well, well, Marc thought, at once amused and intrigued by the possessive interest in his wife's eyes. "The princess doesn't want to share?"
She pulled at the hairs in her grasp. Hard. "The princess will never share. Decide."
He untangled her hand, fighting his grin. "My tigress." He had no intention of cheating. If he couldn't keep it in his pants, he would've never taken a wife. His father might have been an abusive tyrant but even he'd never sunk that low.
*
Ten minutes later Marc decided he was insane. Why wasn't he inside his wife's tight little body right now? Because she was naked, wet and slippery, and slowly soaping his thighs. His arousal was blatant, but she avoided looking at that part of him, the possessive tigress suddenly turning shy. It was the reminder he needed that he was the experienced party. She'd only go so far before halting in confusion.
"Enough. I'm clean. Your turn." He took the soap from her, desperate enough to be completely unsophisticated.
Her eyes went wide. "That is not custom!"
"It is in America." He turned her away from him so he could soap her back. "I, too, have been shirking my duty."
Her body was so lovely that he thought he was dreaming. The slender waist he'd savored outside, flared into womanly hips that would cradle him deliciously when he drove into her. Those long legs of hers could make a man beg for mercy. Thankfully she didn't appear to like wearing shorts or she'd cause traffic accidents.
"This wasn't told to me in my lessons on American culture." She threw him a suspicious glance over one wet shoulder, water-darkened lashes delineating her tawny eyes even more sharply.
He grazed her skin with his teeth, deciding he liked the taste of his wife. Later, after she was more at ease with him, he intended to take his own sweet time tasting all the secret places of her body. "It's for a husband to teach his wife, not for everyone to know."
"Oh." She wouldn't look at him, but he let her face the glass wall. The hunger in his eyes was likely to scare her.
He'd kept his mouth shut when she'd shyly undressed before following him into the shower, though he'd wanted to swallow his tongue at seeing her naked for the first time. Even after her maddening "help," he wasn't going to push her to do something she wasn't ready for, and it had been obvious that getting into the shower with him had taken every ounce of courage she had.
When he hadn't forced anything on her, letting her become used to his body and his strength, she'd begun to relax. But she was still far from giving him the welcome he needed if he was going to take her to his bed. As he'd told her, an unwilling woman held no joy for him. However, he had no intention of letting her do all the work in this mutual seduction.
With her hair pinned atop her head, the vulnerable line of her nape was bared. He pressed a kiss to the tender skin, giving her the gentleness she'd accused him of lacking and had the pleasure of feeling her tremble against his hands and lips.
"Will I truly be your only lover?" he whispered close to her ear, his palms flat on the shower walls on either side of her head. She was enclosed but in walls that would break the moment she displayed any resistance. It was his way of teaching her not to fear either his passion-rough voice or his desire-taut body.
"Yes." Her murmur was as soft as the feel of her skin.
Taking a chance, he slid a hand down the front of her body and cupped one heavy breast. She gasped, her body going taut. He squeezed gently, his mind whirling at the feel of her, the sensual weight of her in his palm. The things he was intending to do to her sweet flesh would probably curl her toes. "Princess, if we do this, no more separate bedrooms."
Silence.
"What? Don't like the terms?" He kept his hand on her breast, proprietary as hell. She'd given herself to him. Now she had to take all of him. No playing by arbitrary rules. Either they were husband and wife or they weren't. "If you don't, we stop right now. Right here." Reining in the possessiveness driving him, he gentled his demanding tone. "This is enough for today, if you're not ready."
The only urgency lay in the desire that had a stranglehold on his body. And that he could control if Hira was unwilling. She'd shown such courage in coming to him despite his anger that he'd grant her all the time she needed.
"I...My parents never...Is this acceptable?" It was a hesitant question.
The flaring possessiveness within him calmed at the innocent explanation. His wife had led a sheltered life, her only example of marriage being what she'd seen between her parents. It was becoming very clear to him that he'd have to fight those memories to claim her as his own.
Only then did he realize that he'd decided to fight for more than a marriage based on desire and practicality. He wanted the real thing. "I'm your husband and I say it is. Do you doubt me?" Smiling, he kissed the side of her neck.
A short pause. "No." But she didn't sound utterly convinced by his dominance in the relationship. He didn't want her to be. A wife who always agreed with him would be no fun at all. A real marriage included disagreements as much as it did loving, laughter and loyalty.
Grinning against her, he released her breast and soaped up his hands before putting the soap in the holder. A question shimmered into his mind. "Should I get protection, sweetheart?"
He felt her blush heat up her skin. "No. I visited a doctor before our marriage."
Delighted at not having to halt his exploration, he took a step back and ran his hands from her shoulders to the tops of her thighs. Her buttocks tightened under his touch and he stroked up to rub the soap in circles, blocking the spray with his body so that she remained soapy for his pleasure.
She made a tiny, woman sound. "Am I very dirty?"
He was fascinated by her smooth bottom, very aware of the heat and silky pleasure that awaited him below the curve he was caressing. Voracious and impatient, the rush of need was almost savage, but he controlled it with ruthless force. This time was about teaching his princess that she now belonged to the American she'd married. Without compromise.
"Filthy," he whispered against her neck. "The front of you is going to need ex
tra attention."
She shook her head in desperation. "No, I'll do it."
"Uh-uh," he disagreed. "My privilege."
"Husband, what you make me feel may drive me crazy. You do not wish for a crazy wife."
Her panicked words made him want to tease her some more. Wrapping his arms around her body, he closed his hands over her breasts and then pressed his body flush against her back. In an effort to escape, she squeezed herself against the glass wall of the shower. He followed. His erection lay between them, hot and throbbing.
"Husband, please." The husky plea asked for mercy...not for an end to this highly charged game of pleasure but for completion.
"Don't you like this, cher?" She wiggled her body in response, settling him even more snugly against her.
"Stop that, unless you want me inside you right here, right now."
"Okay." She nodded vigorously. "I'm not afraid. You have been very careful of me. I'm ready. Truly, I am."
He chuckled. "You're not getting away that easily."
"Why do you torture me?"
"Maybe I'm taking revenge for all the bad things you've done to me." He nipped at her neck again, aware that she reacted each time he indulged himself that way. She was a quiet lover, but he was a man who'd grown up with the whispers of the bayou. He knew how to listen for the softest of his wife's sighs, how to read the sweet tension in her feminine muscles, how to smell the scent of her desire. Hira was telling him what she liked, and he was paying damn close attention.
"I have not done such things!" She pushed back in rage but he was far stronger.
Fighting an urge to laugh in delight, he moved his hands until her nipples were between his fingers. At the same time, he nudged one leg between her thighs. She gasped. "Are you wet for me, Hira?" He pinched her nipples gently.
"I..." Her whole body trembled.
"Maybe I should check." He slid one hand from her breast down her damp stomach to the curls at the juncture of her thighs. Because his thigh was between hers, she couldn't close her legs even if she'd wanted to. He went slowly, watching for any sign that she wanted him to stop, even going so far as to start to slide his thigh out. She squeezed her legs together, not to halt his hand, but his withdrawal. His mouth dry with anticipation, he thrust his hair-roughened thigh between her smooth ones once more, his hand resting below her navel.