by Sylvia Day
“I know this marriage is not what either of us would have chosen,” he said, blithely unaware that his words were like a bucket of freezing water over the fire inside her. “But we are man and wife now and I would rather we live in harmony.”
Jo nodded dumbly, grateful he was at least oblivious to the explosion of pain his words had detonated inside her. What had she expected? A declaration of undying love?
“I would like to make a go of our marriage—Josephine. May I call you Josephine—when we are alone or among family, of course?”
Why bother telling him that nobody had ever called her Josephine? What was he supposed to call her? A pet name like Jo or Josie?
He paused, and Jo knew he was waiting for a response. It wasn’t love he was offering, but at least it wasn’t dislike. Wasn’t that good? Why did his words twist like a knife?
“And of course you must call me Beaumont,” he went on when she said nothing.
Beaumont. Not Beau, as his friends called him—as Victoria had called him—but Beaumont.
Jo squeezed her eyes shut; could she not keep that horrid woman out of her thoughts even on her wedding night?
“Don’t be frightened, Josephine.”
Her eyes snapped open. “I’m not frightened.”
His mouth pulled up slightly at one corner. “Liar,” he said, with something that looked like desire flaring in his eyes.
That was impossible; she was imagining things. Jo turned back to his feet, which were far easier to read—at least correctly.
“Look at me, Josephine.”
She tried to lift her head, but her neck wasn’t obeying.
To her surprise, he chuckled and took her chin, gently but firmly tilting her face up, making her meet his knowing gaze. Her duke was a consummate aristocrat: a powerful, masculine man born to command and bred to expect obedience as his due. His faint, sensual smile told her more clearly than words that her puny efforts at resistance amused him. They both knew the truth: her body, like all her other possessions, belonged to him, to do with as he pleased. The knowledge terrified her, but it also—thrillingly—freed her. It freed her to stop struggling, stop fighting; there was no point in opposing him: she was his.
As suddenly as he’d taken her face in his hand, he released her, the absence of his touch leaving her breathless with relief and yearning.
“I will pour us some wine. It will help relax you.”
Jo could have told him it would take more than wine to relax the coil of need, want, and fear that was knotted inside her.
But she didn’t. Instead, she took her glass with a murmured, “Thank you.”
“Come, let’s sit in front of the fire.” He took her hand and led her to a worn and faded settee, then sat down beside her.
Her father would never have possessed a piece of furniture so threadbare and battered in his house. But somehow this ragged old sofa looked more sophisticated than all the expensive, sparkling items with which he’d filled his brand-new mansion.
Poor Papa, he never could understand—
“You look so serious,” the duke said. “What are you thinking?”
“Why? So you can tell me to think something else?” Jo squeezed her eyes shut and cursed her big, impulsive mouth.
“Look at me, Josephine.”
Jo opened her eyes to find him regarding her with amusement rather than wrath.
“Can we call a cease-fire for tonight?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’m just accustomed to—”
“Getting your own way?” he suggested gently.
A surprised laugh escaped her. “Yes,” she agreed. “I blame it on my father, who indulges me terribly.”
“Ah, but that is what daughters are for.” He took a sip of wine, his eyes wandering over her, not with disgust or disappointment, but rather with . . . interest? “I have to confess I am accustomed to getting my own way, as well,” he said.
“I hadn’t noticed,” she retorted before she could stop herself.
He threw back his head and gave a shout of rich, masculine laughter. It was so shocking—laughter from a man who never seemed even to remember how to smile—that Jo could only stare.
His eyes were still shining when he looked back down at her. “You aren’t the only one to have noticed. My mother’s last letter used the words draconian and dictatorial.”
Jo couldn’t help smiling. “I daresay you are accustomed to having hundreds of men obey your bidding.”
“Yes, well, I suppose it might take me a little practice to learn you are not like my soldiers. Are you willing to bear with me?” he asked with a teasing look that sucked the breath from her lungs.
“Perhaps,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the feverish quaver in her voice.
He brushed her jaw with the backs of his fingers, the intimate gesture freezing the breath in her chest. “We will be together until one of us dies, Josephine. I do not want to look ahead and see years of strife.” His fingers continued their intoxicating caressing. “I want you to be my companion and my lover.”
Jo swallowed—or at least tried to—and made a sound somewhere between a choke and a gasp.
One corner of his ridiculously shapely mouth pulled up and his hand went to the base of her neck, his finger stroking lightly over her thudding pulse.
“It is natural to be nervous. I suppose you have been warned—probably by Lady Constance—that what happens tonight is something to be endured, a business that should be conducted swiftly and under cover of darkness.”
Jo nodded. Yes, that was certainly what Lady Constance—the only woman ever to speak of such matters to her—had told her yesterday.
“That is not how it will be with us, Josephine,” he murmured, his fingers continuing their distracting exploration of her jaw, throat, collarbone. “We can give each other a great deal of pleasure—if you are receptive.”
Jo wondered what he would say if he knew he’d already shown her that—five years ago.
Fortunately, he didn’t appear to need her to say anything. “I want our marriage bed to be used for loving—no arguments or disagreements should be allowed to creep in between us. We have plenty of other places to discuss such matters.”
His words did something to her vision and the room shifted around her; he wanted to keep a place for loving—with her?
“You should see your expression.”
“Why?” she blurted.
“You look stunned that I would suggest such things.”
“I am. I mean, I agree,” she amended hastily.
His lips curved into a full-blown smile that threatened to make her eyes cross: here was the Beaumont Halliwell of five years ago.
“So agreeable,” he murmured. “What have you done with my feisty wife?” His big, warm hand cupped her jaw, the gesture making her feel cherished and precious.
He stood and extended his hand. “Come to bed,” he said. “And breathe,” he added with a glint of humor in his eyes. “I don’t want an unconscious bride on my wedding night.”
Jo followed him on numb, clumsy feet to her bed, a large four-poster with hangings as old and faded as everything else in the room. Everything except her husband. Beau, she mentally corrected. In her mind, at least, she would take the liberty of calling him Beau.
“I want this off,” he said, his large fingers remarkably deft as he unfastened the row of tiny buttons and then slid his hand beneath the silk dressing gown and pushed it from her shoulders. A low hum emanated from his chest and his eyelids lowered as he took in her body. “You are small, but exquisite,” he said, almost to himself.
He turned her around without any assistance from her, which was just as well, as her mind was still grappling with the word exquisite, when applied to her.
While his fingers worked, his mouth lowered to her neck and he trailed hot kisses from her nape down the nobs of her spine. “I want you to tell me if I frighten or hurt you, Josephine,” he murmured, his breath hot on her ear. “There will be s
ome pain for a moment—that can’t be helped. But I want the rest to please you—make you forget yourself.”
He sucked the lobe into his mouth and rolled and nibbled, tugging with his lips before releasing her and returning to her throat, which he proceeded to bite and suck and lick, sending hot sparks of pleasure up and down her body.
His hands slid beneath the lace and Jo trembled when he stroked her sides, from breasts to hips, back and forth, his touch firm but soft. He lowered his mouth to where her neck met her shoulder, taking a mouthful of skin between his lips and sucking.
Jo let her head tip back, her neck boneless. She didn’t realize he’d pushed the gown from her body until she felt the silk and lace puddled around her feet.
“Turn around,” he murmured against her throat. “I want to look at you.”
“W-why?”
His lips curved against her skin. “Because you are mine.” He trailed kisses up her neck. “And because I want you.”
“Uh.” That was all she had; the rest of her brain needed to move her feet.
His jaw flexed as his flame-blue eyes roamed over her naked body. “You’re lovely,” he said thickly, as if he was actually . . . aroused.
Jo’s head became so light she worried she would faint if he kept looking at her that way, so she dropped her eyes to the sash of his robe and encountered visible proof of his desire.
Her head jerked up. He was smiling, one eyebrow cocked in challenge.
Well.
Never one to shy from a dare, Jo fixed her eyes at chest level and tugged on the silken sash, staring as the two sides fluttered open. Just as he’d done, she slid her shaking hands beneath the silk, her damp palms skimming one of his stiff nipples and making him hiss in a breath.
His skin was warm and infinitely softer than the silk of his robe, the light dusting of golden hair springy beneath her fingers. Her entire body was trembling as she pushed her hands over hot, sculpted muscle, her fingers discerning an imperfection that her lust-soaked mind took a moment to decipher: a battle scar.
Jo stood on her toes and shoved the robe off his shoulders, her eyes widening at the feast before her.
“A bit banged up, aren’t I?” he murmured, his hand sliding around her jaw and pulling her forward. His mouth captured hers with a softness she’d not expected, his lips dropping light kisses, gently coaxing and stroking until she was open, his tongue seducing hers until she was inside him, exploring the silken heat.
Jo closed her lips around the tip of his tongue and sucked.
He groaned and slanted his mouth, plunging deeper, his free hand sliding up to cup her breast, palming the round curve while she threaded her fingers into his short, curly hair.
She shoved her body against his and shuddered when she felt the hot brand of his shaft against the softness of her belly.
“My God, you feel delicious,” he whispered, his teeth grazing her jaw while his thumb brushed her erect nipple, again and again and—
He made an impatient grunt and slid his arms beneath her shoulders and legs, lifting her onto the bed, which was when Jo saw the lower half of his body for the first time in five years—at least outside of her dreams.
He was larger than she remembered, thick and ruddy and extending an alarming distance from his lean, powerful hips.
As Jo stared, he grasped the shaft and Jo’s head jerked up. His lids were heavy and his lips slightly parted, the powerful muscles of his biceps flexing and bulging as he gave himself several quick strokes and then paused.
“Yes, touch me, Josephine,” he said, which was when Jo noticed her hand was halfway to his body.
He released himself and Jo replaced his hand with hers.
He hissed as if her touch burned, his hips thrusting toward her. He felt just the way he looked, silky hot skin sliding over a hard ridge that actually pulsed when she moved her hand.
The crown had a fascinating slit that was weeping, a drop of slippery liquid, sticky and—
“None of that,” he murmured, taking her by the wrist and carefully removing himself from her grasp before grabbing her hips and tossing her farther up the bed.
Jo yelped at the sudden powerful gesture, aroused by how effortlessly he handled her body.
He climbed up onto the bed, towering above her on his knees, giving her a vista she would not be forgetting in her lifetime—acres of pale skin, stretched over corded, ridged, living steel.
“Clasp your hands behind your head,” he ordered.
Jo hesitated.
“You will like it,” he assured her.
Of course he was right. The action not only lifted her breasts high, their stiff peaks jutting, but also left her feeling wickedly exposed.
He lowered himself to his hands, his body caging hers.
Jo cried out when the wet heat of his mouth closed on an aching bud and he sucked and tongued her to hardness, alternating breasts until she was squirming with pleasure. He propped himself on one arm and his free hand reached between them to skim the sharp bones of her pelvis on the way to her belly, where he began to caress her. He swirled in ever-increasing circles, until the tips of his fingers brushed the tangle of brown curls, making her jump.
“Shhh,” he whispered, his mouth fastening on to a nipple and sucking hard enough to draw a low moan out of her. All the while his wicked hand was moving until he settled over her mound and cupped her, his middle finger stroking up and down the seam of her lower lips, stroking and stroking and—
“Open for me,” he whispered, his knee pressing at the juncture of her tightly clenched thighs.
His second knee joined the first and he nudged her legs wider and wider—
“Yes, just like that,” he praised when she could spread no farther.
He sat back on his heels, his hands caressing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs from her knees to her sex, consuming her with his eyes. Never had she felt so exposed, so stripped bare, so naked, and she started to lower her hands.
“No, keep them there. I like the way you look,” he said, moving from her thighs to her nipples, pulling and stretching the hard little buds until her entire body hummed, her back arching off the bed. “I wish you could see yourself, Josephine—you are so very desirable laid out before me.”
His face was intense and stern, every bit of his attention focused on her as his eyes followed his hand’s progress from her breast over her ribs and trembling stomach, across the thin skin of her pelvis toward—
Jo’s entire body tightened as his finger slid between her swollen lips, brushing that part of her that sometimes woke her in the middle of the night.
“So wet,” he said in a husky and reverent voice. His finger caressed from her core to her body’s entrance, and when he breached her with the tip of his finger Jo jerked in surprise.
“Shhh, sweet,” he murmured, “I’m going to relax you—prepare you to take my body.” His strokes were rhythmic, each a little harder, probing her a little deeper with every pass, until his thick finger slid all the way inside, his hand beginning to pump in slow, deep thrusts. Jo’s muscles eased around him and her body relaxed, her hips tentatively pulsing to meet each thrust.
“Yes, Josephine, take what you want—use me,” he whispered as a second finger joined the first, the uncomfortable burn only momentary before the friction was pleasurable, the motion hypnotic.
Jo hadn’t even noticed he’d lowered his body over hers until she felt the puff of hot air on her sex. Before she could move or close her legs or do anything, his tongue pushed between her folds and his lips closed around her throbbing peak. Jo sobbed as he sucked, his hand still moving in controlled thrusts, until her hips began to buck wildly.
He gave a breathless laugh and pulled away just as a wave of pleasure slammed into her. And then again and again.
Beau loomed over her once more. “Take me in your hand, Josephine, and put me at your entrance.”
He was harder and wetter now and his hips jerked when she dragged her hand up and down,
her thumb discovering more slickness on the fat crown and swirling it around.
He made a sound that was half moan and half laugh. “I want to be inside you.”
Jo stared up into pupils so huge there was barely a corona of blue. She lifted her hips and pressed him against her entrance.
And then he began to enter her, far larger than two fingers.
Jo squirmed and dug her fingers into his shoulders as he pushed deep inside. She bit her lip to keep back the whimpers at the burn and stretch, her hips bucking, this time to get away as he sank deep and then held her full.
“It will only hurt for a moment, sweet,” he promised, lowering his mouth over hers, invading her with deep, languorous strokes of his tongue that mimicked what was to come.
Jo stopped squirming when she noticed she was no longer hurting—just full and . . . his.
Her body clenched at the thought and he jerked inside her.
“God, that feels good, Josephine.”
Jo shuddered at the way her name sounded on his tongue; how was it possible? All this passion—for her?
“Am I hurting you?” he asked tightly, his voice tense.
“No,” she whispered, only lying a little. The fullness in her pelvis was odd—even a bit uncomfortable—but it was also so delicious.
“You’re small—so tight,” he purred, his hips beginning to pulse, only lightly at first. “I want to fill every part of you,” he hissed, his thrusts smooth and strong. “Tilt your hips, Josephine—take me deeper, as deep as you can.”
Jo did as he bade and he groaned, his hips beginning to drum.
Jo clenched her teeth but reveled in the signs he was losing control—his movements less precise, his breath coming in harsh gasps, and the part of him that was inside her was so very hard. This was all her doing; she was the reason he looked less and less like a cool aristocrat and more like a feral, earthy, primitive savage. Jo was stripping this powerful, beautiful man of his rigid control and making him become something fierce and hers.
“Yes,” he grunted, his muscles stiffening beneath her fingers as his movements turned brutal, the bed shaking alarmingly beneath them.
He gave a hoarse shout and buried himself to the hilt, holding her pinned while his body shook with the force of his climax.