Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

Caro’s lungs seized; her heart leapt to her throat. The time had finally come; her question hovered, about to be answered. Unequivocally.

Her senses locked, focusing on the soft flesh between her thighs, feeling it throb as he reached down between them, with his fingers stroked, then probed, then parted her folds.

The broad head of his erection touched her, pressed against her, then eased in a fraction.

She nearly cried out; hips lifting in wordless entreaty, she closed her eyes, bit her lip, willing him to enter her. Every particle of her being strained, held poised on an emotional edge higher than any she’d previously climbed, acutely aware of the drop below her, of the ocean of disappointment that waited to swallow her if he didn’t…

Spreading her hands over his back, she held him to her, pressed her hips nearer, urged him on.

Beneath her hands, the long planes of his back flexed. With one slow, powerful thrust, he joined them.

Eyes closed, savoring every inch of her scalding sheath as it stretched, took him in, and enclosed him, Michael noticed the tightness, then the constriction as he thrust through it; caught in her sensual web, he might not have understood if it hadn’t been for the pained gasp she tried unsuccessfully to smother, and the telltale tensing that gripped her, held her.

Stunned, dazed, opening his eyes he looked down at her, into her eyes, molten silver looking back at him. Understood in that moment all she’d hidden, all she’d never told, him or anyone else.

Finally understood the truth of her past, the true reality of her marriage.

She was waiting, breathless… tense, nervous… he suddenly understood what she was waiting for.

Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew a fraction, then reseated himself fully within her.

Saw her eyes flare—with wonder, with a joy so profound he felt his own heart turn over. But this was no time for words or explanations. Bending his head, he covered her lips with his, and spun them both into the fire.

Into the intimate dance they both craved.

He didn’t spare her, didn’t try to be gentle, realized that that, assuredly, was not what she wanted, more, was very definitely not what she needed. He sank into her body, drove deep, then withdrew until he was almost free of her clinging heat and her fingernails had sunk into his skin, desperately holding him to her, before thrusting into her again, slowly, inexorably, so she could feel every inch of his throbbing erection as he buried himself inside her once more.

She pulled back from the kiss. Her sobbing gasp, echoing with relief, with pure happiness, urged him on.

He took her mouth again, pulled her ruthlessly back to him, back into the kiss, let his weight pin her, then sent one hand sliding down, around over her hip to cup her bottom, gripping, anchoring her at just the right angle beneath him, then he settled to ride her, to let his body plunder hers as he and she both wished. Let the driving rhythm take over, binding their heated bodies in an orgy of elemental lust, driven by desire, by the passion that swirled about them, unleashed and almost tangible.

She met him, matched him; not at any moment did he doubt that she wanted this. Every bit as much as he did.

It might be her first time, yet she was no wilting virgin; quite the opposite. She was a quick study; as their tongues tangled and their bodies strove, within minutes she’d learned how to meet his thrusts, how to most effectively ride them, how to clasp him within her body and drive him wild… he dimly realized that for her, this was a long-sought-after release—a freeing of all she’d held within her, trapped inside, denied outlet for so long.

A catharsis of passion, of desire, of the simple need for the intimacy of human mating.

He gave her all she needed, took all he wanted in return, conscious she surrendered it—all he wished to take—gladly.

It was certainly not his first time—he’d had more women than he could truly remember, all of them experienced ladies if not outright courtesans—yet as he sank into her body, into her mouth, plundered and gloried in her open welcome, there was something new, something different in the act.

Perhaps it was the simplicity—they knew each other so well, so completely in so many other ways, understood each other so instinctively that knowing each other in this way, skin to skin, hands search-ing, gripping, mouth to greedy mouth, tongues tangling, gasping, loins to heated loins, plunging, driving… all seemed so natural.

Meant to be. Without any veils or masks to disguise it.

Power, fueled by their joint passion, welled up, spilled through them both and took them.

Captured them, swept them into a sea of whirling, greedy need that suddenly, abruptly, coalesed.

Their skin was alive, nerves tense and tight; their bodies fused, driven by primal urgency. She pulled back from the kiss, gasped, eyes closed as she struggled to breathe.

He pushed her faster, harder; she strained upward, and with a cry touched the sun. Clutched, held tight to him as she shattered, then melted, pulsing around him.

Her release called on his own; he followed her quickly, drove deeper, harder, emptying himself into her, with a long groan finally collapsing atop her, sated to his toes.

Caro lay beneath Michael and exulted. His hard body, his heavy muscles and even heavier bones, pressed her into the bed; she didn’t think she’d ever felt so comfortable, so… simply happy.

So connected, physically and otherwise, to any other person in her life.

Tremors of excitement still racked her; aftershocks of glory still slid through her veins, leaving an indescribable sense of joy in their wake.

This, then, was intimacy. Something far more profound than she’d imagined it to be. Also a great deal more… primitive was the word that leapt to mind.

She smiled; she wasn’t about to complain.

For long minutes, they simply lay entwined, trapped in each other’s arms, both aware the other was awake, yet both needing to catch their breath, mental as well as physical. Slowly, the realization that he had guessed her secret, knew and understood it, intruded.

Staring up at the ceiling, she searched for words, for the right thing to say, in the end simply said what she felt. His head lay across her shoulder. Gently, almost tentatively, for such tender touching was still new to her, she riffled her fingers through his hair. “Thank you.”

He dragged in a breath, his chest crushing her breasts, then shifted his head and kissed her shoulder. “For what? Having the best time of my life?”

So he was a politician even in bed. She smiled, wryly cynical. “You don’t have to pretend. I know I’m not particularly…” Words failed her; she gestured vaguely.

He lifted his shoulders, caught her waving hand, then pushed back enough so he could meet her eyes. He looked into them, then drew her hand to his lips. Turned it and placed a scorching kiss in her palm— caught her gaze as he did, then gently bit the mound at the base of her thumb.

She jerked. Realized he was still hard and solid within her… no… was again hard and solid within her. Puzzled, not quite sure, she refocused on his eyes.

His smile wasn’t humorous, more forbearing. “I don’t know what Camden’s problem was, but as you can feel, I patently don’t suffer from it.”

The more she thought about it, the more obvious that last became.

As if to further demonstrate, he moved a little, rocking rather than thrusting. Nerves that a minute ago had seemed dead with exhaustion sizzled back to life.

He shifted over her again, settling on his forearms, one on either side of her. “Remember”—he kept the gently rocking motion going— “what I said earlier about taking two hours?”

Somewhat stunned, her mouth drying anew as, to her considerable astonishment, her body responded—ardently, eagerly—to his, to the promise in that gently repetitive motion and the rock-hard reality riding within her, she licked her lips, focused on his eyes. “Yes?”

His lips twisted; he lowered them to hers. “I thought I should warn you—I plan on taking three.”

He did. For three bliss-filled hours he held her captive in his bed, until they’d reduced the originally neat covers to a froth of silk and linen, a sensual battlefield.

On resuming their play, he spent the next half hour ensuring she understood that once was very definitely not enough—not enough to sate him, or her. While outside, the pulsing heat of afternoon forced even insects to drowsing silence, inside his bedchamber, intimately entwined with him on his bed, heat of a different sort drew gasps, moans, and passionate cries from her.

Until she tumbled headlong into glorious oblivion and he swiftly joined her.

He had no interest in any passive submission; when he stirred her a third time, the engagement extended into a journey of intimate exploration and discovery—for them both. He not only blatantly encouraged her to be as wanton as she felt, in her wildest dreams desired, but teased, even taunted her to go further, to forget any restriction she might have imagined might apply and respond to him as primitively as he did to her.

Not once did he seek to conceal his desire for her, not once did he fail to impress on her his hunger, the power of his lust, his driving need to slake it by joining his body with hers.

When at the last she convulsed in his arms, held tight against him as he knelt on the bed, her thighs spread wide over his, him sunk to the hilt within her, she had finally learned what mating was—a sharing of passions, a mutual giving and taking, a melding that went far beyond the physical, touching deeper things.