"And gave you everything in return." His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel anything for me. That you don't think of me when we're apart. That your body doesn't ache for mine."
I try to look away, but he won't let me. The truth hovers on my tongue, desperate to be spoken, terrifying in its implications.
"I hate you," I whisper, but the words sound hollow, unconvincing.
"No." His thumbs stroke my cheekbones, his touch gentle despite the steel in his voice. "You hate that you want me. Youhate that your body responds to mine. You hate that I know exactly how to make you cry out in pleasure."
"Stop." The word is barely audible, a plea rather than a command.
"Tell me the truth, Fiona." His face lowers, his breath mingling with mine. "Tell me that when I touch you, you don't burn for me."
His lips brush mine, the barest suggestion of a kiss. My treacherous body sways toward him, seeking more.
"Tell me," he murmurs against my mouth.
"I can't," I finally admit, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside me. "I can't lie anymore. I want you. God help me, I want you."
The admission breaks something loose inside me, a dam of resistance crumbling under the weight of truth. I surge forward, my arms wrapping around his neck, my mouth seeking his with desperate hunger.
Lachlan responds immediately, his kiss brutal in its possession, his hands sliding down to lift me against him. My legs wrap around his waist, my body molding to his as if made for him.
"Mine," he growls against my mouth. "Say it again."
"I want you," I gasp as his lips trail fire down my throat. "I hate that I want you, but I do."
He carries me back through the kitchen, through darkened corridors lit only by the occasional wall torch, never breaking contact, his mouth devouring mine as if starved for the taste of me. We don't speak again, no more words needed as we reach our chambers.
The door has barely closed behind us before he's pressing me against it, his hands tearing at my gown with uncharacteristic roughness. I'm equally frantic, pulling at his clothing, needing to feel his skin against mine.
"Tell me again," he demands as we fall onto the bed, both half-dressed, bodies entwined.
I look up at him, at the man who conquered my kingdom and is dangerously close to conquering my heart. The truth burns in my throat, terrible and freeing.
"I want you," I whisper. "Only you."
His answering smile is triumphant, predatory, and achingly tender all at once. As he covers my body with his, as he claims me with a thoroughness that leaves no room for doubt or denial, I finally stop fighting.
For tonight, at least, I surrender completely.
eight
. . .
Lachlan
Her words echoin my mind like a battle cry, like victory bells, like the sweetest song ever sung. "I want you. Only you." Four simple words that change everything. Her body arches beneath mine, no longer resistant but eager, meeting my every touch with a hunger that matches my own. This isn't the reluctant surrender of our wedding night, the gradual yielding I've coaxed from her night after night. This is something else entirely—a dam breaking, a storm unleashed. She wants me. The confession I've been fighting to extract from her since the moment I claimed her as my wife. Yet now that I have it, I realize it's not enough. I don't just want her desire. I want her heart, her soul, her everything. The revelation is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
"Say it again," I command, needing to hear those words like I need air to breathe.
Fiona's hands clutch at my shoulders, her nails digging crescents into my skin. Her golden hair spreads across the pillows like spilled sunlight, her green eyes dark with desire.
"I want you," she whispers, the words no longer a reluctant confession but a demand of her own. "Show me I'm not wrong to want you."
The challenge in her voice, the implicit trust beneath her words, nearly undoes me. I've taken countless women to my bed over the years, experienced pleasure in a hundred different ways. But none of them have ever looked at me the way Fiona does now—with desire tangled with defiance, surrender mixed with strength.
I lower my head to capture her mouth, swallowing her gasp as my hands roam her body with newfound reverence. The urgency that drove us from the kitchen yard to our chambers hasn't diminished, but it's transformed into something deeper, something that demands more than just the frantic coupling of bodies.
"I'm going to taste every inch of you," I tell her, my voice rough with promise. "Until you forget there was ever a time you didn't want me."
