Page 53 of Sins of Arrogance

Be­ing quiet and hold­ing back from peo­ple is a choice I de­lib­er­ately make. There’s less chance of los­ing some­one else I love when I don’t add any to the num­ber.

Now that I’m mar­ried, I have no op­tion but to get to know my hus­band. We’ll be liv­ing to­gether, sleep­ing in the same bed.

He kisses me right be­low my ear. “You’ll get used to me.”

Doubt­ful. I shiver, ev­ery­thing in­side me ul­tra fo­cused on the feel of his lips and how close they re­main to my skin.

His hands curl right over mine to cup and squeeze my breasts.

And I for­get how to breathe.

Wow! That’s…I don’t know what it is. Weird? Won­der­ful?

My nip­ples sud­denly ache. Like whoa. I press my palms harder against them. Oh, that’s good.

“That’s right, a stór.” He calls me trea­sure and my in­sides melt into a pud­dle of goo. “Like that.”

Mick’s hands guide mine into cir­cu­lar mo­tions, abrad­ing my tight peaks through my bodice.

It’s not enough.

An em­bar­rass­ing whim­per es­capes out of me.

“Fuck.” Mick nips the side of my neck.

The use of that sin­gle word sends a burst of plea­sure right to my core.

Mick usu­ally uses the more Irish and softer word, feck. Is he los­ing a tiny bit of his con­trol?

He starts tug­ging down­ward. “Let’s get this off.”

My arms stub­bornly stay up. He kisses down my neck, tak­ing my ear­lobe be­tween his teeth and tug­ging.

Gasp­ing at the burst of alien sen­sa­tion fizzing through me like the cham­pagne I didn’t get to drink, I lose my grip on the dress.

Mick tugs the satin down, leav­ing noth­ing be­tween my own palms and my sen­si­tive nip­ples.

I groan as the gown drops into a pile of bil­low­ing satin and crino­lines around my feet.

My gaze locks on the two of us to­gether in the mir­ror again. He’s still fully dressed in his wed­ding tuxedo. I’m only wear­ing a tiny pair of white lace panties, a garter belt and sheer silk stock­ings.

My breath catches and I bite my bot­tom lip, ex­cite­ment war­ring with vul­ner­a­bil­ity.

“Tá tú chomh álainn.” You are so beau­ti­ful.

Does he re­ally think that?

I’ve never felt beau­ti­ful. “I guess ev­ery bride is on her wed­ding night.”

He growls. Like re­ally growls at me. “You are the most beau­ti­ful woman I have ever had the priv­i­lege of see­ing naked.”

How can that be true? But the ex­pres­sion on his face in the mir­ror is fierce.

I swal­low. “Thank you.”

His fin­gers skim my arms, my waist and down my belly, slip­ping into my panties and brush­ing over my trimmed pubes.

Oh, gosh. I never knew the hair there could be sen­si­tive. Ev­ery fol­li­cle is hotwired to my cli­toris and it pulses with plea­sure.