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‘Can we?’ His lips formed a grim smile. ‘Is that what you want?’
He scanned her face, not waiting for an answer.
‘Or have you been thinking of me this week as I have you? Have you been tortured each night, wanting me to kiss you, to touch you? Have you touched yourself, imagining it was me?’
Heat exploded in her cheeks. She looked away from him, even as her body leaned forward, traitorous, needy body. Her nipples tingled, silently begging for his touch, and, as though they were connected in some way, he lifted his hands, cupping them, catching their weight and brushing his thumbs over her nipples. She tilted her head back, stars dancing against her eyelids.
It was madness, but a madness she had wanted all week, a touch she needed, even when she hated herself for that.
‘We are not marrying for love, but that doesn’t mean our marriage need be empty.’
She blinked, his words like a hammer against ice, so she straightened, staring at him, but he moved quickly, kneeling before her, catching the hem of her skirt in his hands and pushing it up as his eyes met hers, taunting her, teasing her, challenging her to reject him. But she didn’t—she couldn’t. She was spellbound, desire throbbing in her belly. He drew her underpants down slowly, the feel of his palms on her legs sending shock waves of need through her, so she tilted her head back again.
When he kissed her sex, she cried out, the touch so personal and perfect, so unlike anything she’d ever known, that she almost couldn’t bear it. Her fingers drove into his hair, tightening around its lengths, a whimper in the base of her throat as his tongue lashed her most sensitive cluster of nerves until she was tumbling into an abyss of delight, her cries ringing out in the room, loud and fast, her hands wrenching his hair until the waves of torturous release eased and she could breathe once more. He stood, something like satisfaction glinting in his eyes, and then he scooped her up, carrying her through the enormous suite and into the bedroom.
‘This was real,’ he said, and it made no sense, but she didn’t have time to question him, because he was undressing, staring at her, as though she were a puzzle he needed to understand. A moment later, his knee separated her legs and his arousal was pushing into her warm, moist core. She arched her back, calling his name out, the taste of it in her mouth perfection, everything about this moment perfection.
His body played hers like a maestro. His mouth tormented her nipples as he thrust into her, hard and fast, then slowly, pulling her pleasure back so that it built to an ultimate, unruly crescendo, each time such pleasure pain in the nearness of her release. He was prolonging their mutual release, and frustration at his mastery clipped through India, so suddenly she pushed at his chest, rolling him onto his back. His eyes caught hers for a moment, surprise obvious, and she grinned as she straddled him, moaning at the delight of it, moving her hips to her own tempo, moving her hands over her breasts as the wave built and built and she rode it towards the crest. His hands dug into her hips, moving her faster, holding her lower, and he bucked as she moved, so their bodies morphed and exploded as one, their cries mingled, the air in the room explosive with the pleasure they felt.
India could barely think afterwards. She stayed where she was, focussing on her breathing, on the tingling that ran through her body, the throbbing between her legs, the beauty of the man beneath her, the rightness of what they’d just done, even when everything else was such an abject mess, and she realised she didn’t feel the regret she had thought she might. She was sure it would come, but for now she wanted to glory in being with him, with the fact she’d taken control and driven him over the edge, with how perfectly their bodies worked together.
‘See, India? Whatever else happens in our marriage, we have this. It is enough.’
She wished he wouldn’t talk. Their bodies spoke fine for both of them; words ruined everything.
But he had spoken and her brain had clicked back into gear, so she had no choice but to respond. ‘Is it? I always thought marriages were about love and respect.’
‘A childish fantasy,’ he murmured, indolently running a hand over her breast, his eyes following the gesture with possessive intent.
‘How can you say that?’ She shook her head, thinking of her parents’ marriage, or everything she knew to be true. ‘Haven’t you ever been in love?’
‘That’s irrelevant. We are not in love, and never will be, but it doesn’t matter.’
She opened her mouth to argue with that, but his finger brushed the flesh between her legs, sparking a bolt of lightning in her belly. She stared at him, and he moved his fingers again, his gaze locked to hers.
Damn it, he knew exactly how to pleasure her, and he did so now, stirring her to fever pitch all over again, before rolling her onto her back, kissing her as he moved his fingers, so when she crested over the wave this time, she was breathless and exhausted, and totally absorbed by sensual pleasure.
She looked like a woman who’d been made love to so thoroughly she could barely speak. He stood, scanning her beautiful body, stepping away from the bed with regret. He’d thought sleeping with her would ease the ache in his gut, the ever-present need, but having opened the floodgates, he simply wanted more of her. He wanted to shower with her, to run the sponge over her body, feeling her soapy and wet beneath his hands, to kiss her, naked, as water ran over them both...
‘There is an event tonight. I usually take a date. Come with me.’
She flipped her head to face him, a frown on her lips. He moved towards her, kissing her quickly, so the frown disappeared. ‘It’s a formal affair. I’ll send a stylist to help you prepare.’
He dressed, watching her, waiting for the inevitable argument, because India so often liked to find a flaw in his plans. But she stayed silent, her eyes on him, for so long that it didn’t make sense.
‘Okay?’
She nodded, but something was clearly wrong.
‘What is it?’
Tightness began to coil in his gut. Guilt. They’d both wanted—needed—the release of their coming together, but was she regretting it now? It was a doubt he’d never felt with a woman before.
‘It makes sense,’ she said eventually, her eyes latching to his. ‘If we’re going to marry in a few weeks, it will be less...dramatic...if there’s some evidence that we actually knew one another prior to the wedding. A date is a good idea.’
‘I’m glad you agree.’ Even when he’d half been looking forward to convincing her a little more...
‘And in private,’ he said, moving closer to the bed, his whole body craving her, wanting to lie at her back and hold her close, to simply feel her pressed against him. ‘At night, you will be mine, India. We’d be fools to ignore the one good thing this marriage has going for it.’
