“Sparrow!” She surged hard against his chest. A gasp escaped her as she saw that he had purposely goaded her to action, that pressing against him only served to accent all that was male and relentless, all that was hard and unyielding about him. Her fingers closed over his arms. As she felt the tension and size of the muscle there, she knew that she would never dislodge him. Despite herself she began to tremble. She moistened her lips to speak, but that was when he chose to kiss her at last. His tongue penetrated into the far recesses of her mouth, touching her as if he entered into her soul. Each movement was so slow, and so filling, and each robbed her of more breath, each made her tremble with a greater fever. His face rose above hers in the darkness, and he smiled, tracing his finger over the wetness of her lips. “So the hawk returns. You are never afraid, Amanda. Why fear me now?”
“I do not fear you,” she whispered.
“And you must not,” he told her. “I have not lied to you. Life is meant to be lived, to be enjoyed, my love, aye, even here! And I promise you, I will teach you that it is so.”
“If you would do this tonight, it will be rape, and I swear that I will never forgive you.”
“It will not be rape.”
“It will!” she cried in sudden panic, slamming a fist between them, seeking any way to fight his weight and strength. In a burst of desperate new energy she thrust against him with all her strength, her knee connecting with his masculine anatomy.
At first she didn’t comprehend what she had done.
He was suddenly still and taut, his features harsh, pained. At first all she realized was that he had eased his hold upon her. She slammed hard against him again, managing to escape his hold.
Before she could roll off the bed, she felt a hard tug upon her gown. The material ripped down her side as she cried out and tried to rise. She rolled and fell to the floor.
His foot landed hard upon her gown and she looked up into his face. He was furious. And he was reaching down for her. “Amanda, my love, you are a true bitch.”
“No,” she whispered. She didn’t know if she denied his words, or the things yet to come between them that night. “No!” she breathed again, frantically trying to tug her gown free. She could not endure him towering over her so, and she couldn’t cease her trembling. She realized then that she had really hurt him and she was suddenly afraid. She had been a fool. She should have continued to try to reason with him.
“I did not mean to hurt you!” she cried.
“Oh? Was that your idea of a gentle, wifely caress? Then, my dear, you are sorely in need of instruction.”
She did not like the look upon his face at all, he had not forgiven her. “Eric—”
“Get up, Amanda!” He reached down a hand to her.
She stared at it, and knew that she could never take it.
She ripped free from the patch of gown beneath his foot, rose, and tore across the room. She spun around to face him again with her back to the wall. With almost casual strides he pursued her, pausing there, not touching her, but imprisoning her by placing his hands upon the wall on either side of her head. He smiled. “We spoke of this. Nothing, nothing, my love, will change the course of this night. Be it whatever it shall be.”
She gasped, startled, and tried to strike out as he swiftly pulled her into his arms. She kicked and writhed, but he carried her back to the bed and cast her down upon it. She tried to rise, but he was on top of her, catching her wrists and holding them high above her head with one hand.
“We will be man and wife this night,” he promised her savagely.
Then he captured her cheek with his free hand, and he kissed her. Kissed her thoroughly, passionately, open-mouthed, stealing her breath and strength and reason, and shattering her will with the reckless plunder of his tongue. She did not know how long the kiss went on between them. When he took his lips from hers, his eyes were passionate, his words were harsh. “You’re my wife, Amanda. Your commitment to lie with me in this bed was made when you spoke your vows to me, and, lady, you may not now change your mind!”
She stared at him, knowing that she would fight him no matter what his words, yet wondering at the fierce new pounding in her heart. She hated him.
Yet…she might even want him.
He released her wrists, placed his palms over hers, and threaded her fingers with his own, holding them steady by the sides of her head. Her hair flamed out over their entwined fingers, radiantly red in the firelight. He smiled again as she stared at him, her eyes wide and emerald in that same haunting light.
He had never wanted her more, never needed her with such a frightening urgency. He had sworn to himself that he would go gently; he had not expected her to fight so viciously, nor had he expected the anger that would cause him to treat her so. Nor had he expected to feel a surge so strong within himself that it could not be denied. She had said that it would be rape.
Grimly he determined that it would not be so, and yet he knew that one way or another, he would have her. There was no way that he would let her go this night. No way that she would not sleep beside him, his wife in fact, his marriage consummated.
He spoke to her on a tense breath of air. “I will not take you, madame, until you give me leave. But you will not stop me from seeking that permission.”
Her fingers curled tightly against his. “I will never give my leave to you.”
“Be still, you are not to deny my kiss, my touch…”
A denial did form on her lips, but it never found voice. His mouth touched down upon hers, then wandered with abandon, effortlessly, slowly. His lips teased her flesh and her earlobes. She stared at the ceiling as his kisses covered her throat, hovering ever closer to the lace and gossamer of her gown where it fell low against her breasts. She felt his sex, engorged and hot against her thighs, and she ignored the heat and trembling within her own body and hoped that, pray God, it would be over swiftly.
But it was not. His own desires did not seem to affect his easy leisure, and as his hot breath swirled against the lobe of her ear, some sweet stirring took root and found life within her. She closed her eyes and gasped, for his hands were moving with the same lazy purpose as his lips. He lay his palm against her breast and his fingers closed over the mound, his thumb playing against the nipple. She twisted with the startling sensation, burying her face against his throat, a choking sound escaping her as his lips followed the movement of his hand upon her right breast, closing hotly about her nipple, teasing the swollen bud mercilessly. He repeated the evocative act upon her left breast, as if he would not leave that mound cold and forsaken. When he was done with the taunting play she was nearly limp against him, determined never to see his face again, for she was aware of the surge of her body against his. She felt his fingers upon her naked thigh, drawing her gown high above her hip. She twisted against him, trying to capture his hand, to prevent its wandering over her. The tear in the gown gave him such easy access to her flesh, and she felt the rough stroke of his palm so acutely upon her naked hip and belly. She writhed to free herself from him, but he did not seem to notice.
