Their wedding night.
Shaking inside, needing to compose herself so as to save her pride, Daria wandered to the fireplace. Like a water loosed from a millrace, it all came rushing back, and the great torrent threatened to suck her under.
Daria gripped the mantel, hard and cold against her palms, steadying. From the time of her flight to now, he’d righted his appearance. Had freshly shaved. The strong scent of brandy lingered no more. The wet shine upon Gregory’s tidied hair leant those luxuriant strands an illusion of dark brown. He’d changed his wrinkled, stench-ridden garments for a silk blue robe that matched his chambers.
The material was not a garish crimson or kingly gold nor predictable black. Nor, for that matter, just any shade of blue, but the color he favored above others—Sardinian blue.
That intimate detail transformed him from guarded, manufactured rake into a, living, breathing man.
A man who could break her heart.
The column of Daria’s throat moved.
The soft sough of Gregory’s breath brushed her neck.
Daria’s shoulder came reflexively up. A breathy giggle escaped her and became a full, noisy laugh. She angled her head sideways to protect that sensitive spot.
Gregory’s low, rich chuckle filled the space between them. “Ah, my bewitching bride is ticklish.” He dropped a quick, regretful kiss upon her nape, pulling another giggle. “I will store that important detail away for a later time, little raven.”
Little Raven.
Emotion filled Daria’s chest.
Gregory, with capable fingers, loosened the satin fastenings of her wrapper. Effortlessly graceful and solicitous, he drew the material open. Slowly, he edged the white fabric back. Not as a man who anticipated rejection and exposed her body gingerly to not startle her off. No. her confident husband, a skillful lover, didn’t doubt her inevitable surrender.
What a humbling moment to discover she wasn’t different than all the women who’d fallen under his spell.
As he guided them around to face the mirror, she stared at the sight they made. Him tall, golden, sleek, muscular strength. And she, delicate, dark of hair, fair of skin. They were not matches in beauty. He, with the face, body, and build of Apollo. But against her back, she felt the ridge of his manhood, long, hard as steel.
A rush of warm wetness collected at her womanhood.
He wanted her.
Maybe this could be enough.
Isn’t that what she’d told not only herself, but Gregory?
Gregory touched his lips against her shoulder blade.
Daria squirmed and twisted, trying to alleviate sharp ache between her thighs.
“You are so responsive, Daria,” he praised, his voice thick with want. Want for her.
Her husband, with a sorcerer’s power, trailed a path of kisses along her shoulders. With every touch of his lips, his skilled fingers worked Daria’s shift down. The material sagged to her hips the same moment her husband sank to his knees behind her. Taking her by the hips, Gregory darted his tongue along the length of her spine. He alternated licking and kissing a trail as he went. The tip of his tongue struck the middle part of her spine, free of her shift, until she stood bare before him.
“Look at yourself, Daria,” he commanded raggedly.
He guided her chin, bringing Daria’s dazed eyes to the eight-foot-tall silver mirror positioned adjacent them.
And she looked, as he’d commanded.
She saw what he did, and felt how easily he made her body come alive.
In the mirror, she saw them. The sight of her, a sheen of sweat covering her body, her body flushed red with a shameful amount of want, the crazed eyes of the stranger she’d become to herself.
And in herself, she saw Gregory with another. Some woman who wouldn’t bother him with emotions outside of the carnal.
She clamped her eyes tight.
