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"Mmm." His chest rumbled with the sound. He ground his hips against hers. Alex arched and reached behind her to grip the back of his neck. Gaelic tumbled from his lips and he finally slid a finger deep into her body.
"Oh, God," she sobbed into the dark.
"So hot," he whispered on a harsh sigh. "So slick for me, Alex."
"Yes." She angled her knee higher on his leg, spreading herself for him, and Collin shifted his hips and pressed his hard length between her legs. "Yes," she moaned, mad with the feel of him sliding over her folds.
His hand cupped her again, holding her as he slipped back and forth against her. Alex fought back a scream of frustration. She wanted him deep and hard and ruthless, but he seemed bent on torture, merciless in his patience.
The darkness of the room pressed against her skin. Alex waited for the moment when he moved forward, then she tilted her hips and felt him slide into her body. Just an inch, just the head of his cock.
"More," Alex panted. "More." He slid a little deeper, stretching her flesh. She dug her fingernails into his hip, trying to pull him in. She wanted him to fill her until the pleasure grew to pain, wanted to burn with it.
"You consume me, Alex." Collin's words floated like a ghost in the dark.
His fingers curled hard, almost hurting, and then he sank himself deep.
"Oh."
He slid out, then pushed harder in. Again and again, each thrust more brutal than the one before. Alex's body hovered on the edge of that sharp pleasure. Every stroke pushed a high moan past her lips. She dug her nails deep, urging, commanding him to be ruthless.
Collin obliged, finally. He wrapped his hand hard around her thigh and pulled her leg up and open. He drove into her. Alex threw her head back and pressed her own fingers between her legs. She'd barely touched herself when her spiraling pleasure broke open like a hot coal. Fire burned through her, sizzling over her nerves as she screamed and strained against him.
Collin thrust hard one last time, his cry echoing hers, sounds twisting together until they floated into the night.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. His breath cooled the sweat at her temple. "I'm sorry for what I said."
Alex didn't want to wake from her dream, so she only nodded and let the pillow catch her tears.
Chapter 19
"It is so lovely to meet such a beautiful new bride. Welcome to Scotland, Lady Westmore."
"Thank you, Mr. Nash."
New bride. Was she still a new bride? She did not feel like one. To think they had been married but two months. Was it supposed to get worse before it could get better? Lucy hadn't gone into specifics, but things were certainly not falling into place.
Her husband stood at her side amongst the bright gaiety, speaking comfortably, if not tersely, to those he knew. The Kirklands were more important socially than Alex had realized. Jeannie's father was not a lord, but his brother was an earl and the lot of them were rolling in money. The brother was not the only earl in attendance. The party would have been considered high ton even in London, for it was winter, after all, and not a time for idle travel.
The dancing had begun, but Alex did not move to join it. When she'd received the invitation, she'd thought of Collin's promise to learn to waltz but hadn't brought it up. She'd been afraid of his answer. If he'd said no, her feelings would be hurt and then she might lash out and break the fragile truce between them. So it had been for weeks—few words, uncomfortable silences. Whatever speech they exchanged was crouched in careful, polite phrasing. She felt they were circling each other and, when they finally drew close, she didn't know if they would embrace or strike.
Always aware of his presence, Alex felt his eyes on her and glanced up with a quick smile. He'd been lovely tonight, actually. His eyes had glowed at the sight of her in the dress she'd chosen so carefully. He'd swept the silver crepe with an appreciative look and had even come near to whisper compliments and kiss her neck. Alex shivered at the memory.
His lovemaking had not changed anyway. He still worshipped her with his hands and his mouth and all the rest of his wonderful body. But always in the dead of night. Always so late that she wondered if he slept at all. He would wake her with tenderness and need and speak Gaelic melodies into her ear as he slid his body into hers.
She had no idea what words he spoke, but they never failed to bring tears to her eyes. She'd asked Jeannie once, about one thing he whispered over and over again, though she'd blushed in horror of what it might be. Maith dhomh, he always murmured.
"Forgive me," Jeannie had translated for her, with a telling look, but Alex had said no more.
Forgive me, he offered her, in a language he knew she couldn't understand. What did it mean? She wanted to ask him, prayed that he wanted to try again at loving her. She had worked up her courage over the past few days, to talk to him during the long, private carriage ride to the Kirk-lands', but all that had changed this morning.
A youth she didn't know had come sneaking out of the trees to hand her a note as she walked Brinn along the edge of a forest. He'd handed her a slip of paper and, ignoring her questions, had slunk back into the firs.
Her stomach still clenched at the thought of it, and she glanced around as if she would see Damien St. Claire watching her from the edges of the crowd.
My Dear, he had written, You are sleeping with the enemy. How could you marry the very man who hunts your lover? I demand restitution for your inconstancy.
She would have scoffed at such a grievance a year ago, even a few weeks ago. If he had tried to blackmail her when she'd first come to Scotland, she would have gladly set him up again, participated in whatever trap her husband set to catch him. But not now. Oh God, not now. For he'd known exactly how to threaten her.
