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She tried to summon her anger. To rally it to her defence. But there was only sadness now. Grief and despondence at how much she had lost—and the minefield that lay before them.
‘I think you’re a horrible person,’ she said softly. ‘I think you’re capable of anything. And I hate you.’
‘You think I’d force you into my bed?’
‘You’ve forced me into this marriage,’ she whispered. ‘How is it any different?’
He spun away from her, stalking to the ta
ble and sipping his wine. She could see from the set of his shoulders, the straightness of his spine, that she had upset him. Good. Let him feel some of the darkness she was contending with.
‘You married me of your own free will,’ he said, without turning to face her. ‘You chose this life. I am simply holding you to that commitment.’
His logic was both undeniable and astounding all at once. ‘I chose a life that was based on lies...’
‘Yes, yes, so you’ve said. But when did I lie?’ He spun around, his eyes pinning her to the spot, his question raking her heart over steaming hot coals.
‘The whole time! You...’
‘Yes?’ he prompted. ‘What did I say to you that wasn’t true?’
Skye opened her mouth, staring at her husband, her mind drawing an absolute blank. ‘It was nothing you said, not specifically. It was everything you pretended to be.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Someone who loved me.’ She whispered the words, the hurt in her heart a weight she couldn’t dispense with. She was glad, in that moment, that she’d never told him the true grief of her upbringing, the loneliness that had lived inside her for as long as she could recall. A loneliness borne of being utterly unloved and unwanted that had only finally eased when she’d met Matteo.
For the first time in her life she’d felt special. Cossetted. Adored. Wanted for who she was, for all of herself.
What an easy target she’d been for him!
‘Did I say that?’ he queried, the words a simple question. He could have no concept of how cutting they were. Of how cold and cruel.
Skye nodded, but her mouth drew downwards.
Had he ever said those three little words? She had said them often, so often, and she had meant them each time. Had she thought she could love him enough for both of them? Had she thought it would mean something if she kept saying it? That it would make it true and right?
‘No.’ She whispered the word, grief bringing the sting of tears to her throat. ‘You never said it. But you must have known that I just presumed...that I thought you loved me.’
‘Love is irrelevant,’ he snapped impatiently. He’d been in love before and he hadn’t enjoyed the experience one bit.
‘Not to me! Loving you, wanting you, it was all tied up in one for me.’
He prowled closer, his eyes holding hers. He stopped right in front of her, so close that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body—a warmth that was at complete odds with the coldness of his heart. ‘There is no love here, cara. It is best that you accept that and take what I’m willing to offer.’
‘And what’s that?’ she muttered, her heart cracking irreparably.
‘A place in my bed. And a promise to pleasure you in all the ways I know you love...’
* * *
Matteo’s words, his stunningly arrogant ‘offer’, stayed lodged in Skye’s head, chasing itself around, burning through her blood, making her body super-charged with a desire that she resented fully.
The problem was that he had always been an incredible lover. Of course, she had no other point of reference, but she’d always found herself tipping over the edge of pleasure, time and time again. He had learned her body’s ways so quickly, supplicating her to him with insulting ease. He had been able to touch her breasts and bring her to orgasm; he had kissed her most private, sensitive parts and she’d fallen apart, piece by piece, until she was broken and rebuilt in an image of passion and need.
He had woken her by moving over her, pushing inside her, stirring her to wakefulness from within, his body commanding hers effortlessly. He’d taught her so much about desire, need and sensual heat.
He had been gentle when she’d needed it, and demanding and firm in a way that had raised every single goose-bump on her body. He had kissed every square inch of her flesh, branding himself on her in a million different ways.
