Sylvia Day - The Stranger I Married

“I told you, you have my undivided attention.” His fingers plunged into her hair, loosening and then pulling out the pins that held it up, before tossing them to the floor. “There is no other person I would wish to be with more than you, female or otherwise. You make me laugh, you always have. You never allow me to become too full of myself. You see all of my faults and find most of them charming. I’ve no need of any other companions. In fact, you and I will remain in our rooms this evening.”

“Now who’s daft? Everyone will think we are up here having sex if we skip dinner.”

“And they will not be wrong,” he murmured, his lips to her forehead. “We are honeymooners, they should expect nothing less from us.”

Honeymoon. Just that one word brought back the dreams she’d once had of a passionate, monogamous marriage. How hopeful she had been then. How naïve. She should be too old to experience that kind of eager anticipation for the future.

Should be. But was finding the opposite was true.

“But we shall also take our meal together up here,” he continued, “and play chess. I will tell you of my-”

“You hate chess,” she reminded, pulling back to look at him.

“Actually, I have learned to enjoy it. And I am quite good. Be prepared to suffer defeat.”

Isabel stared up at him. So many times, she felt as if a stranger had returned to her. A man who looked very much like the man she married, but wasn’t. How much had he changed? He was so mercurial. Even now he seemed different from the man who had left her room just an hour before.

“Who are you?” she breathed, her hand reaching up to touch his face, to trace the arch of his brow. So much the same. So very different.

His smile faded. “I am your husband, Isabel.”

“No, you are not.” She pressed him back, sliding over him again. The texture of his hard body was so wonderful to her-the hard ridges and planes, the dusting of hair over his sun-darkened skin.

“How can you say that?” he asked, his voice turning husky as she moved upon him. “You stood next to me at the altar. You said the vows, and heard mine.”

Lowering her head, she took his mouth in a lush kiss, suddenly wanting him. Not because she was physically unable to resist the temptation he presented, but because she saw something in him she had failed to see before-commitment. He was committed to her, to learning about her and understanding her. The knowledge made her shiver, made her sink into his embrace, made her relish the feel of his strong arms encircling her back.

He turned his head, evading her questing mouth. Panting, he said, “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” She caressed the length of his torso, cupped his hip, shifted so she could reach between his legs.

“Don’t tell me I am not your husband and then silence me with sex. We will have this out, Pel. No more of this nonsense about mistresses and the like.”

She stroked his cock with a firm, sure hand. If anything proved that Gray had changed it was his resistance to lovemaking while seeking a deeper connection. Despite every bit of her brain that said her life experiences were correct in their dismissal of lasting marital affection, some tiny voice inside her urged her to believe otherwise.

He caught her wrist and bucked with a curse, taking the advantage. Looming over her, he pinned her arms to the bed. His face above her was hard as stone, his eyes glittering with the determination that was mirrored by his tense jaw.

“You’ve no wish to fuck me?” she asked innocently.

Growling, he said, “There is a heart and mind attached to the cock you enjoy so well. Altogether they form a man-your spouse. You cannot fragment the whole and take only the pieces you want.”

His declaration shook her, then decided her. Pelham…the Grayson she once knew…Neither would ever say such a thing. Whoever this man was above her, she desired to know him. To discover him, and the woman she felt like when she was with him.

“You are not the husband I said my vows to.” She saw him prepared to protest, and rushed ahead. “I did not want him, Gerard. You know that.”

The sound of his name sent a visible ripple through the length of his frame. His gaze narrowed. “What are you saying?”

She arched beneath him, stretching, enticing. Spreading her thighs, she welcomed him. Opened to him. “I want you.”

“Isabel…?” He pressed his damp forehead to hers, his hips settled against hers, his heavy cock finding her slick for him through no physical manipulation on his part. “Christ, you will be the death of me.”

Her head fell to the side as he entered her slowly. So slowly. Bare skin to bare skin. She had missed the feel of him this way, without a barrier between them.

The difference between this and their usual coupling was marked. When he’d first returned, he had been gentle, but the strain of that control had been obvious. Now, as he rocked deeper and deeper into her eager body, she knew he moved leisurely because this moment was one he wished to lengthen.

His mouth to her ear, he whispered, “Who do you want?”

Her voice came slurred with pleasure. “You…”

There were a thousand excuses for why Rhys was standing in the Hammond garden late in the evening. There was only one true reason. And she was presently moving toward him with a shy smile.

“I was hoping I would find you out here,” Abby said, holding out her bare hands.

He bit the tip of his gloved finger and yanked off his glove, so that when he caught her hands he could feel them. The simple, chaste contact flared heat across his skin, and he did the last thing a gentleman would do-he pulled her closer.

“Oh my,” she breathed, eyes wide. “I do enjoy it when you act the scoundrel.”

“I will do much more than act,” he warned, “if you continue to seek me out.”

“I thought it was you seeking me out.”

“You should stay away, Abby. I seem to have lost my senses where you are concerned.”

“And I am a woman who desperately enjoys, perhaps even needs, having a handsome man lose his senses over her. It never happens to me, you know.”

His conscience losing the battle, Rhys lifted his hand, cupped her nape and fitted his mouth to hers. She was so slight, so slender, but she lifted to her tiptoes and kissed him back with such sweet ardor that she nearly knocked him off his feet. The soft scent of her perfume mixed with the scents of evening flowers, and he longed to bask in it, roll around a bed in it.

She had dressed differently tonight, in beautiful golden silk that hugged her body perfectly. Understanding how hounded she was by fortune hunters, he appreciated her need to fade into the woodwork with ill-fitting, unattractive garments and hide in dark gardens.

Lifting his head, he murmured, “You are aware of where these meetings are leading?”

She nodded, her chest rising and falling against his with panting breaths.

“Are you also aware of where this cannot lead? There are limits imposed by my station. I should accept them gracefully and walk away, but I am weak-”

She silenced him with her fingers over his lips, her piquant face lit with a dazzling grin. “I do love that you have no wish at all to marry me. To me, that is not a weakness, but a strength.”

Rhys blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

“There is no doubt in my mind that you want me, and not my money. It is quite remarkable really.”

“Is it?” he choked out, his cock as hard as a poker. Why the devil this woman had such an effect on him he could not collect.

“Quite. Men who look like you never find anything at all appealing about women who look like me.”

“Fools, the lot of them.” The conviction in his voice was genuine.

Abby leaned her cheek against his chest with a soft laugh. “Of course. Why men like Lord Grayson are so taken with women who look like Lady Grayson when I am around is an absolute mystery.”

He stiffened, shocked at the undeniable flare of jealousy he felt. “You are attracted to Grayson?”

“What?” She pulled back. “I find him attractive, certainly. I doubt there is a woman alive who wouldn’t. But I am not attracted to him personally, no.”

“Oh…” He cleared his throat.

“How will you begin my ravishment?”

“Little one.” He shook his head, but could not restrain his indulgent smile. Brushing the back of his hand along the curve of her cheekbone, he admired the way the moon was reflected in her eyes. “Understand, I mean to have more than a few kisses and some improper fondling. I will bare your skin, spread your thighs, steal what should be a gift for your husband.”

“That sounds wicked,” she breathed, gazing up at him raptly.

“It will be. But I assure you, you will enjoy every moment.”

He, however, will probably wallow in guilt for the rest of his life, but he wanted her desperately enough to make that future torment worthwhile.

He pressed his lips very softly to hers, his hand at her waist slipping to cup what felt to be a fine derriere. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

“Yes. I have no doubts. I am seven and twenty. I have met hundreds of gentlemen over the course of my life and none of them have affected me as you have. What if no man ever will but you? I will regret forever that I did not enjoy what I could of your attentions.”

His heart clenched painfully. “Losing your virginity to a cad such as myself will make your wedding night very awkward.”

“No, it will not,” she assured him confidently. “If I do marry, it will be with a man who is smitten enough with me to skip dinner like Lord Grayson has done for Lady Grayson.”

“What Grayson feels is not ‘smitten,’ love,” he said dryly.