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She collected an armful of shirts and flung them onto the floor. “We have been wed scarcely three days,” she said. “You do not desert your new bride for your sapskull friends. You will not make a laughingstock of me. If you are unhappy with me, you say so, and we discuss it—or quarrel, if you prefer. But you do not—”
“You do not dictate to me,” he said levelly. “You do not tell me where I may and may not go—or when—or with whom. I do not explain and you do not question. And you do not come into my room and throw temper fits.”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “If you leave this house, I will shoot your horse out from under you.”
“Shoot my—”
“I will not permit you to desert me,” she said. “You will not take me for granted as Sherburne does his wife, and you will not make all the world laugh at me—or pity me—as they do her. If you cannot bear to miss your precious wrestling match, you can jolly well take me with you.”
“Take you?” His voice climbed. “I’ll bloody well take you, madam—straight to your room. And lock you in, if you can’t behave yourself.”
“I should like to see you tr—”
He lunged at her, and she dodged an instant too late. In the next instant, she was slung up under one brawny arm, and he was hauling her like a sack of rags to the door she’d entered.
It stood open. Luckily, it opened into the room, and only one of her arms was trapped against his body.
She pushed the door shut.
“Bloody hell!”
Swearing was all he could do about it. He had only one usable hand, which was occupied. He couldn’t move the door handle without letting go of her.
He swore again. Turning, he marched to the bed and dumped her there.
As she fell back onto the mattress, her dressing gown fell open.
Dain’s furious black gaze stormed over her. “Damn you, Jess. Curse and confound you.” His voice was choked. “You will not—you cannot—” He reached out to grab her hand, but she scrambled back.
“You’re not going to put me out,” she said, retreating to the center of the huge bed. “I’m not a child and I will not be locked in my room.”
He knelt on the edge of the mattress. “Don’t think, just because you’ve crippled me, I can’t teach you a lesson. Don’t make me chase you.” He dove at her, grabbing for her foot. She pulled away, and the black mule came off in his hand. He threw it across the room.
She snatched the other one off and threw it at him. He ducked, and the slipper hit the wall.
With a low growl, he flung himself at her. She rolled away to the opposite side of the bed, and he lost his balance. He fell face-first, sprawling across the lower half of the big mattress.
She could have leapt from the bed and escaped then, but she didn’t. She had come prepared for a battle royal, and she would fight this one to the bitter end.
He dragged himself up onto his knees. His shirt-front had fallen open, revealing a tautly muscled neck and the dark web of tantalizingly silky hair her fingers had played with the night before. His big chest rose and fell with his labored breathing. She had only to glance up at his eyes to understand that anger was but the smallest part of what worked on him at this moment.
“I’m not going to wrestle with you,” he said. “Or quarrel. You will go to your room. Now.”
She’d lost the sash of her dressing gown, and the top part had slid down to her elbows. She shrugged out of it, then sank down upon the pillows and gazed up at the canopy, her mouth set mulishly.
He moved closer, the mattress sagging under his weight. “Jess, I’m warning you.”
She wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t turn her head. She didn’t have to. That deadly tone of his wasn’t quite as ominous and intimidating as he wanted it to be. She didn’t have to look, either, to understand why he’d paused.
She knew he didn’t want to look at her, but he couldn’t help it. He was a man, and had to look, and what he saw could hardly fail to distract him. She was aware that one of the narrow ribbons holding up the bodice of her negligee had slipped down over her shoulder. She was aware that the gauzy skirt was tangled about her legs.
She heard his breath hitch.
“Damn you, Jess.”
She heard the indecision in the husky baritone. She waited, still fixed upon the black and gold dragons above her, leaving him to battle it out with himself.
A full minute and more he remained unmoving and silent, but for the harsh, unsteady breathing.
Then the mattress shifted and sank, and she felt his knees against her hip and heard his muffled moan of defeat. His hand fell upon her knee and slid upward, the silk whispering under his touch.
She lay still while he slowly stroked up over her hip, over her belly. The warmth of the caress stole under her skin and made her feverish.
He paused at her bodice, and traced the eyelet work over her breast. It tautened under his touch, her nipple hardening and thrusting up against the thin silk…yearning for more, as she did.
He pushed the fragile fabric down, and brushed his thumb over the hard, aching peak. Then he bent and took it in his mouth, and she had to clench her hands to keep from holding him there, and clench her jaw as well, to keep from crying out as she had done the night before: Yes…please…anything…don’t stop.
He had made her beg last night, yet he had not made her his. And today he thought he could turn his back and walk away, and do as he pleased. He thought he could desert her, leave her wretched and humiliated, a bride, but not a wife.
He didn’t want to want her, but he did. He wanted her to beg for his lovemaking, so that he could pretend he was in control.
But he wasn’t. His mouth was hot on her breast, her shoulder, her neck. His hand was shaking, his touch roughening, because he was feverish, too.
“Oh, Jess.” His voice was an anguished whisper as he sank down beside her. He pulled her to him, and dragged hot kisses over her face. “Baciami. Kiss me. Abbracciami. Hold me. Touch me. Please. I’m sorry.” Urgent, desperate, his voice, while he struggled with the narrow ribbon ties.
I’m sorry. He’d actually said it. But he didn’t know what he was saying, Jessica told herself. He was lost in simple animal hunger, as she had been, last night.
He wasn’t sorry, merely mindless with primitive male lust. His hand worked feverishly, pulling the gown down, moving over her back, her waist.
He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Don’t be angry. Touch me.” He pushed her hand under his shirt. “The way you did last night.”
His skin was on fire. Hot and smooth and hard…feathery masculine hair…muscles quivering under her fingers…his big body shuddering under her lightest touch.
She wanted to resist, to remain angry, but she wanted this more. She’d wanted to touch and kiss and hold him from the day she’d met him. She’d wanted him to burn for her, just as she’d wanted him to set her ablaze.
He was pulling the negligee down, over her hips.
She grasped the edges of his shirtfront and, with one fierce yank, tore it in half.
His hand fell from her hip. She tore the shirt cuff away, and rent the seam up to the shoulder. “I know you like to be undressed,” she said.
“Yes,” he gasped, and shifted back to give her access to the other, useless arm. She was no more gentle with that sleeve. She ripped it off.
He pulled her against him, pressing her bared breasts to the powerful chest she’d exposed. His heart beat next to hers, to the same frenetic rhythm. He grasped the back of her head and crushed her mouth to his, and drove out anger, pride, and thought in that long, devouring kiss.
The ragged remains of his shirt came away in her hands. He stripped away her negligee in the same frantic moment. Their hands became tangled, tearing at his trouser buttons. Wool ripped and buttons tore from the cloth.
He pushed her legs apart with his knee. She felt the hard shaft throbbing hotly against her thigh while her own heat pulsed against his questing hand. He found the
place where he’d tormented her last night, and sweetly tormented her again, until she cried out and her body spilled its feminine tears of desire.
She clung to him, shaking and desperate, and “Please,” she begged. “Please.”
