“My feet are fine,” I protested. He smelled too good, being this close to him. Even with the bullet wound in his arm,he loped easily up the stairs to the second-story hallway. The hall stretched down to another massive bank of windows overlooking the ocean.
“I’ve not yet carried you over the threshold,” he said, “certain traditions must be observed.”
I could feel myself softening, and my arm crept around his shoulders. His intent was obvious. Shouldn’t I be melting down right now?
Nothing felt like a trigger. It was all new, the feel of his arms under me, the perfume from a thousand flowers scenting the air, that it was only the two of us.
The bedroom he carries me to is beautiful, the windows and French doors are open, the sheer white curtains moving with the ocean breeze. The bed is enormous, you could fit ten people on that mattress and he probably has. The realization makes me shift uneasily in his arms.
What am I thinking here? That this will be a happy ending? I’m a PTSD agoraphobic virgin.
“You’re not agoraphobic.” His voice so close to my ear makes me jump.
“Ach. Tell me I dinna say that out loud,” I moan.
“You did.” He places me on the bed on my knees. “And you are not. You went to the fundraiser with me without a single sign of distress, even though it was rather a tense event. You also went to the courthouse without panicking. Your only fear was that I was selling you.”
He leans down so that we’re eye to eye.
“No matter how much I despise your family, I will never sell you. I will never share you. I will never raise my hand to you. Do you understand?”
“What if this is just another cage?” I whisper.
His dark eyes soften, just slightly. “Sometimes in this life, we don’t get what we deserve, darling. We get what we need. And you need me.”
I don’t know if it’s his reminders of when I didn’t panic, or that he’s decent enough to be truthful, but my heart rate slows down again. His gaze drops to my cleavage and very gently, he puts his hand over my left breast, his long fingers over my heart. When he strokes his thumb over my nipple, I suck in my breath so fast that I nearly choke.
My nipple tightens under his thumb and I fight back a moan. No one has ever touched me like this. His hands are enormous and I know they have committed a considerable amount of violence; he could crush my head between them. But he’s circling my stiff nipple lightly, and I’m leaning into his hand without realizing it.
“So pretty, this perfect little body,” he says, his voice is deeper, raspy and it sends a bolt of heat down my spine to my center. This stiff, emotionless Brit wants me.
His other hand goes behind me, slowly unzipping my dress. He pauses for a moment with his hand at the base of my spine, raising a brow, he just… looks at me. It takes me a minute to realize he’s communicating that he’s not a rapist bastard and he’s waiting for me to say yes.
Can I? He locked me in my room, for fuck’s sake! He wouldn’t say my name!
He’s never hurt you,Stubborn Sorcha reminds me.He didn’t touch you until now when he could have taken you at any time.
When I twitch my shoulder and the dress strap slides down my arm, I feel like I’m stepping off a cliff without looking down.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In which Alastair may be an infuriating bastard, but the man is spectacular in bed.
Sorcha…
Alastair doesn’t move, though his gaze drops.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. It gives me the courage to slide the strap off my other shoulder and I’m bare before him. His hands start at my shoulders and slowly trace over my breasts, my waist and settle on my hips, pushing the dress the rest of the way down to my knees. I’m only wearing a skimpy pair of knickers and I flush with embarrassment.
His hands move to my arse, squeezing it before lifting me easily to slide the dress and my undies off. It’s the first time I’ve been naked in front of a man and his gaze is deeply appreciative. His gaze makes my skin prickle, I’m not sure if it should be a flush of shame or the heat of arousal.
Lifting my hands to his silk tie, I wait for his nod because after all, he waited for mine. The tie comes off easily and each tattoo appears as I loosen the buttonholes free from the studs on his tuxedo shirt. I see the dagger inked over the stab wound that he said my brother made and I pull my gaze away, unbuttoning faster. I don’t want to think about it.
When my hands make it to his belt, I hesitate.
“Let me,” my husband says, rapidly shedding his shirt and pants. When he stands up in front of me again, I trace the dragon's face on his chest with a fingertip. His chest is beautiful, and I can see every carved muscle made into stone, covered by his golden skin.
Does he have a tan line? Does he come here to his island getaway and stroll around naked?
