Heaven Sent the Wrong One Page 9

  "Relax," he murmured, catching her wrist and pinning it to her side.

  "You're embarrassing me!" she complained indignantly.

  Her umbrage seemed to have affected him, for he slowly rose and settled himself over her, fully clothed, with his arms resting on the bed on either side of her head.

  "I was just admiring you, my love," he tenderly kissed her on the mouth, making her insides quiver. "Let me worship your body," he murmured between kisses, pulling slightly away to look into her eyes, once again saying, "Trust me."

  Trust me.

  Two simple words that meant the world and stood for everything—complete submission, unquestioning faith in another—that only a woman in love could willingly bestow on her beloved.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  The spark of desire gleamed in his eyes. He kissed her—thoroughly—then stood up and brought the full-length mirror by the bed.

  "What is that for?" She sat up.

  He sat behind her on the bed and pulled her back against his chest, cradling her between his thighs. "Watch," he murmured in her ear, pulling her knees up to her shoulders and spreading her legs wide with her feet resting on the bed. "See how beautiful you are?"

  She met his gaze in the mirror. Oh Lord, she gulped, following the direction where his eyes had wandered to; he could see her privates all the way up to her womb!

  She attempted to hide her rapidly flaming face in his chest.

  "Anna, look in the mirror," he said softly.

  She peeked at her obscene reflection, gasping as he parted the soft folds of her sex further with his index and middle finger.

  "Stop that." She tried to clamp her legs together, but he simply held her in place.

  "Watch and feel, my love," he whispered over her shoulder. "I'm going to touch you here."

  Alexandra stared, mesmerized, as he made gentle circular motions on the tiny pink nub at the apex of her sex with his middle finger. The sensation was beyond anything she could have ever imagined. Pleasure and then more intense pleasure built up, until every nerve in her body vibrated, tingled, and burned. A warm pool of wetness flooded her core. Her lids drooped languorously with a moan. She leaned backwards against him, rocking and pressing her hips harder against his hand.

  "Look at me and tell me you want more," he said huskily, cupping her breast and rolling her nipple with his thumb in time with the caress of his finger on her sex.

  Alexandra's lids flew open. The sight of his hands exploring her most intimate regions as he watched her reaction in the mirror was incredibly erotic. She felt wanton and wicked, but also beautiful and desirable.

  "More," she replied in a breathless voice she barely recognized as her own.

  She saw the satisfied gleam in his eyes. He slid the hand cupping her breast downwards, stroking her woman's flesh in tandem with his other hand, rubbing the sensitive nub at the peak of her sex. Alexandra squirmed restlessly with a strangled sob. What he was doing to her was just too much. She wanted to writhe and scream as the pleasure and pain interspersed, but oh God,—she needed more; she did not want him to stop!

  "Andrew—please—" she cried and squeezed her eyes shut, as the maddening sensations occluded her bliss and suspended her in purgatory.

  "Open your eyes, my love," Andrew rasped in her ear.

  She did what he asked out of desperation and stared at their reflection in the mirror. They made a striking couple—with his fair hair and solid, muscular physique, in sharp contrast with her dark locks and willowy figure. He was fully attired down to his boots, while she was stark naked, her feminine folds swollen with arousal from the wicked ministration of his fingers.

  "This will make you feel better." He gently inserted one finger inside her, planting a reassuring kiss on her temple at her shocked gasp, before he assaulted her slickness with a titillating push-pull pattern.

  Alexandra moaned and arched her back. Yes, it made her feel better—oh, so much better—but it also made her feel worse. The pleasure he invoked had rapidly progressed into a state of constipated affliction, seeking immediate relief.

  "Please, Andrew," she tilted her head up, "I want you."

  "I know, love," he kissed her upturned lips. "Let me prepare you a little more so I won't hurt you too much."

  "Is that what you're doing?" she asked with a catch in her breath.

  "Yes—look." Another finger joined the first one and she moaned in delight at the heightened sensations it triggered. She felt a fresh flow of wetness saturate her sex.

  "Open a little more for me, my love," Andrew said hoarsely, carefully easing a third finger inside her. "Yes, that's it," he whispered, as she relaxed and whimpered blissfully, matching the movement of her hips with the rhythm of his hand.

  Alexandra peeked at the sexually explicit scene they created in the mirror through half-closed eyes. Andrew certainly knew how to pleasure a woman. He explored and tormented her so wickedly—not even the sensual books she had read could measure up.

  She writhed and sobbed in combined agony and rapture, as he increased the tempo of his fingers and stroked the inflamed nub of her sex with greater pressure. A sudden tension gripped her belly and escalated to an overwhelming crest, welling between her thighs like a dam of liquid heat waiting to burst out. She whimpered and stiffened, feeling the cramp course from her womb down to her sex, clenching and unclenching on his fingers. As the ripples of convulsions passed through her, she felt her walls give way with one last shudder, releasing a flood of warm infusion, leaving her thoroughly spent.

  ~

  "God, Anna," Allayne withdrew his fingers, stunned at the intensity of her passion. He shifted to let her lay boneless on the bed, hauling himself to his feet to undress.

  He had wanted to bring her pleasure, to show her how it was done. But he'd also intended to reveal his conduct in bed—the way he preferred to do things, in spite of the fact that she was inexperienced. His methods had always been unconventional—he was a man who liked erotica, a true epicurean who enjoyed uninhibited sex. It was important that his woman understood this and has an appetite to match his own.

  And he was relieved to know his Anna possessed the avidity to satisfy his desires.

  He dropped the last of his clothing on the floor and climbed next to her on the bed. "Feeling better?" He raised her chin and kissed her softly on the mouth.

  "Yes." She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  "But I'm not done with you yet," he trailed kisses along her jaw line to her throat.

  "Neither am I." Her breath hitched as he took her nipple in his mouth and suckled.

  "Good." He slid a finger in her slit as he suckled on her other breast, toying with her clitoris again, until her juices flowed, and she was begging him to make love to her.

  "Now, please," she pleaded, licking her lips as she stared at his erection.

  Her unrestrained sensuality excited him. He stood by the side of the elevated bed and pulled her towards him until her bottom peeked over the edge. "I want you to watch me enter you," he propped her back at an angle with some pillows, lifting her legs by the underside of her knees and spreading them far apart.

  Her eyes widened as he nudged his cock into her opening.

  "This is going to hurt," he paused, sweat beading on his brow. "Are you sure you want—"

  "Yes." She raised her hips against him, pushing the swollen head of his shaft inside her.

  "Christ, Anna," he exclaimed, holding her still. "Let me do this. I don't want to hurt you."

  "Then hurry up," she replied impatiently, "you talk too much."

  Allayne couldn't help but laugh at her retort. "Well then," he pressed his rod further into her, "let me expedite the situation." With one forceful thrust, he drove all the way into her tight sheath, pinning her with his torso as she cried in pain and tried to dislodge him.

  "I'm sorry, love," he rained kisses on her face a minute later.

  "That hurt, you oaf!" She punched him wearily on the arm.

  "I
t will go away soon, I promise," he held her in place, letting her body get used to his size. When she nodded begrudgingly, he lifted his weight off her, careful not to withdraw from her as he resumed his stance by the edge of the bed.

  He looked down to where their bodies joined and found himself extremely pleased to be her first. A renewed jolt of desire lanced through him and he rubbed his thumb against the sensitive nub of her sex. She began to squirm and moan, coating his cock with a fresh layer of warm, slick moisture.

  "You're ready for me to make love to you," he parted her legs wider and held her firmly against him on the edge of the mattress.

  She watched wide eyed as he withdrew and penetrated her repeatedly, rocking his hips back and forth slowly at first, then pumping faster and faster, until both of them cried out in release.

  Allayne collapsed on top of her, panting, covered in sweat.

  She wrapped her arms and legs around him, keeping him inside her until his breathing returned to normal and he had regained his strength.

  "That was wonderful," she brushed the damp hair off his brow and kissed the slight cleft on his chin. "You—are wonderful."

  "Come away with me," he said huskily, twining his fingers with hers. "Let me take care of you."

  Alexandra gaped at him in consternation. What exactly did he mean by that? Was he asking her to be his mistress? Was that what this was all about? So, he could have a resident trollop that he could fornicate with, whenever he wished?

  She abruptly pushed him off her and sat up.

  "What's the matter?" He bolted upwards and grabbed her wrist, as she eased herself off the bed on her feet.

  "How dare you!" She jerked her hand away from his grip, mortified to feel the sting of tears in her eyes.

  "Anna?" He caught her by the shoulders as she angrily marched off to retrieve her clothes and swiveled her to face him. "Why are you angry? What did I do?"

  "You despicable ass! You honestly don't know?" She slapped his hands off her shoulders. "How dare you insult me by asking me to be your mistress! I'm not your whore!" She parried his attempts to take her back into his arms. "Don't touch me!"

  "Anna, stop this!" He seized her by the waist and pulled her roughly to him, ignoring the pummeling she dealt on his hard chest. She was so furious, she wanted to break his perfect nose, and land a good-sized shiner on one of his pretty eyes.

  "That's enough," he growled, wrapping his massive arms tightly about her, trapping her against him, and rendering her immobile.

  She struggled to free herself, but he was too strong, holding her in a vise-like grip, crushing her against his muscular chest. Her frustration mounted at his dominance. "Let me go, you bastard!" She raged, her chest heaving with labored breath.

  "Never," he said, softly.

  His gentle, single-worded response touched her like a tender caress. Damn him—just like that, he sent her anger out the door. She stilled and stared at the faint bruise forming at the base of his collarbone. She had done that to him, she realized. He was so beautiful and she had hit him. Good God. A sudden stab of remorse sliced through her chest.

  She skimmed her fingers over the darkening contusion and lifted her eyes to his face.

  He met her gaze and held it—with not a word of reprisal, nor a look of reproach.

  Her heart skittered at the tenderness in his pretty eyes. Within that short precious moment, deep in her soul, she knew—no matter what he'd said to her, nothing had changed. She was still utterly, devastatingly, undeniably—very much in love with him.

  Even if he didn't reciprocate her feelings.

  She choked at the realization.

  Her brave façade crumbled into dust and she burst into tears.

  ~

  Allayne had no inkling at what had just happened. One minute they were making love and the next minute, she was calling him names, accusing him of coercing her to be his mistress and beating his chest into pulp. What was it about women? he wondered, perplexed beyond words as he cradled her head on his shoulder, and stroked her hair, allowing her to vent her frustration. Whatever it was, he needed to fix this misunderstanding. He did not plan their last day in Bath to end like this.

  "I'm sorry I upset you, my love," he said, as Anna finally collected her composure. "I should have made myself clear." He framed her face with his hands and wiped her tears with his thumbs.

  "I'm not daft," she sniffled, "I know what you—"

  "No—you don't understand," he swiftly cut in, gazing intently into her eyes. "I don't want you to be my mistress—I want you to be my wife."

  Chapter 11

  What Truly Matters

  Allayne watched Anna's face change from anger, to shock, to consternation, and then to utter disbelief. Of course, she would react in such a manner, he rationalized. He himself could hardly believe what had just spouted from his mouth—but there it was.

  "Y-you want me to be your wife?" Her eyes grew wide—wider than he thought anyone's eyes could go without falling out of their sockets.

  "As I recall saying—yes," he replied with a twinge of unease, thinking, hell—her reaction was the opposite of what he had expected. He had anticipated her to be surprised, and then, become elated with tears of happiness at his declaration, but judging from her facial expression, his cause seemed not to bode well at all.

  "That was the most awful proposal I've ever heard." Her fine dark brows puckered with such a look of disappointment that he began to wonder—how the devil does one propose to a woman anyway? He'd never done it before in his thirty-three years of blissful bachelorhood—so how in God's teeth was he supposed to know what to do? Didn't a man simply state what he wanted? What could possibly be wrong with that?

  "That's it, then? You have nothing else to say—or ask?" she prompted in annoyance with a tilt of her head.

  "Er—yes. That's about it," he replied, wondering what he had done wrong now, that had gotten her into a bigger snit. What else did she want him to say? He had informed her in the most elucidated fashion he could think of—he wanted her to be his wife. What could be the argument in that—when ladies all across England were practically tripping over each other to wrangle the deed out of him?

  She stared at him in disgust as if he had suddenly turned into an insect. "Well, then—I have nothing else to say to you either," she fairly spat the words out and bent to pick up her clothes, which gave him a somewhat delectable view of her bare behind.

  A sudden vision of how nice it would be to take her in that position materialized in his concupiscent brain—but first, he must make her see his point—not the one jutting between his legs—but the part where he wanted her to be his wife.

  "Anna—"

  "Don't talk to me." She proceeded to hastily snatch her clothes from where he had flung them on the carpeted floor earlier, without turning to look at him.

  Ah, she was mad. Very mad. Though for the life of him, he had no clue why she had gotten offended by what he'd said. He was giving her the honor of becoming his wife—and she was a lady's maid, for goodness sake—hardly suitable for a viscount's heir! Which reminded him—he ought to mention that particular detail—later.

  "Come now," he cajoled, tucking her hair behind her ear as she piled her clothes on top of the bed.

  She flinched and slapped his hand away, averting her face from him. "Leave me alone." She busied herself rummaging through her clothes, yanking her undergarments from the heap.

  "Is that what you want?" he asked softly, not wanting to provoke her ire any further by picking a fight. In his experience, women responded better to gentle urging and sweet caresses, than to yelling and bullying.

  She furiously ransacked through the remaining mound of clothing, completely ignoring him.

  Aha. Now this—he could figure out. The same was true for all females. If a woman avoided a man's gaze and gave him the silent treatment—it simply meant the odds were in his favor.

  He decided to step up his wheedling—he may not be any good at proposing, but
hell—he certainly was an expert when it came to charming the opposite sex. He moved behind her, circling an arm about her shoulders and wrapping his other arm around her waist, snuggling her backwards against his torso.

  She stiffened and tried to twist away, but with him behind her and the tall bed in front of her, her ability to move was conveniently limited.

  "Why are you angry, love?" He whispered in her ear and kissed her temple. "Don't you want to be my wife?"

  She turned her head the other way and did not answer.

  Allayne hid a smile. She did not yell at him to go to the devil and that was a good sign. Now, for the next step—the question that would tip the scale to his advantage.

  He nuzzled the side of her neck. "Don't you love me?"

  She swiveled her head over her shoulder and looked up at him with a stunned expression in her eyes.

  He waited for her to reply. But, when the moment stretched longer than he'd predicted and still, no response was forthcoming, he began to worry. Damnation. He'd been so confident that she would say yes, that he'd omitted to ponder on what he would do if she said no.

  Suddenly, he was desperate to hear it—those three little words he'd always thought too shallow and ridiculous. He had never once considered love as a necessary ingredient in a relationship. Love was a fool's sentiment—nothing more. Sex and compatibility in bed had always been at the top of his list. And for years, that worked for him. No romantic entanglements, no long-term commitments—only pure, mind-numbing sex was all he needed to give him a sense of fulfillment.

  However, looking into the eyes of the woman in his arms right now—his beautiful Anna—mere sex felt sadly inadequate. He wanted more from her—silly things like waking up in the mornings with her in his bed, cuddling and kissing by the fireplace and spending time together—forever.

  Forever—which was why, he'd given in to the impulse of apprising her that he wanted her to be his wife. And now, he had inadvertently discovered that he also wanted her love.

  Jesus Christ.