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‘There,’ she admitted when his hand moved to her lower spine.
He probed with those long fingers and she lay there, eyes closed, but not relaxed to his touch.
‘Does that help?’
‘A bit.’
He pressed his fingers harder, and then massaged her with the ball of his palm.
‘Doesthathelp?’
She could barely breathe enough to answer, so she gave a tense nod and then clamped her jaw closed when his mouth came down on her shoulder.
But she did not tell him to stop.
His breathing was harsh as his other arm hooked under her, and she closed her eyes to the bliss of his hand on her breast, dusting over one aching nipple and then rolling it softly.
She could feel the nudge of his erection.
‘Merida...’
His voice was low and she could feel him, primed and male behind her. She turned her face to him and his lips brushed her cheek. The scratch of his jaw had her eyes closing as his hand moved from behind her to her front.
Holding back her want was like trying to hold back the tide, and yet she fought with every fibre in her body—from her hands, which yearned to touch him, to her throat, which closed on a sob because she wanted to scream for his touch.
She just wanted to shed the pretence like a skin, to turn her mouth to his.
‘I read something else,’ he said, as his hand slid past her bump and down to her heat.
‘What?’
‘That for some women pregnancy makes them more turned on than they’ve ever been.’
Merida swallowed as his fingers stroked her intimately. He took her right to the edge, kissing her hard, and brought her to a space where she fought not to scream as he slipped in.
It was a deep, sensual bliss. He stroked her as he rocked inside, and buried his face in her hair, and then he started to thrust harder, and she realised she had almost forgotten the power of him.
How he could take her away from herself to a place where heat was the fire they made.
How he could turn her into a frenzied ball of want even when she loathed what they had become.
And how he knew, absolutelyknew, as he thrust deep inside her, that she was fighting not to come.
‘Merida...’ he growled, because he could not hold on.
But she would not let go.
Nowhe got the martyred sex he had expected on their wedding night—but he would not complete until she did.
He turned her.
As the sun rose over the city behind the curtains he brought her to her knees, and she held onto the bed rail as he took her with aching slowness from behind.
And she sobbed and she moaned and she fought to hold on.
‘Come, Merida,’ he told her. ‘You can get back to hating me in the morning.’
She shattered with his permission.
