Page 60 of Wickedly Yours
“I can do this all night, Bella. Who do you belong to?” His lips nipped at the curve of her neck again. “I will hear you say it.”
Her eyes filled with frustrated tears. She was wild with need and tugged back on the cloth around her wrists.
“Tell me, Bella. I want to make sure you understand.”
“You,” she whispered. “I belong only to you, Rowan. You came for me.”
Her reward was immediate. Fingers slid against her, lightly stroking before taking the nub between his fingers. He pinched slowly and deliberately, his head resting on her back.
Arabella cried out, as the orgasm crested through her body. She bucked, twisting as he held her in place. Spots appeared before her eyes and she became mindless as the pleasure coursed through her. She panted, trying to catch her breath as the tremors slowed and abated.
“Again,” Rowan whispered.
Already oversensitive, the merest touch of his fingers against her sex brought another wave of release. Over and over, Rowan coaxed her body to peak and shatter until she sobbed his name into the cushions of the couch.
A low growl sounded behind her as he wrapped one hand around her neck and finally entered her with one hard thrust. He took her ferociously, without mercy, pounding into her trembling body with a need no less fierce than her own. He was claiming her, possessing her as no other man ever would.
“Mine. No one else, Arabella. If you seek to take a lover, think again.” Another hard thrust. “Ours is not a marriage of convenience. Do I make myself clear?”
Her already tortured body could only accept and pull him in, inner muscles tightening like a vise around his length.
“Witch.” He breathed against her neck. The base of his palm pushed against the top of her oversensitive sex.
Another blinding climax shook her, and Arabella could barely summon a whimper.
Rowan slammed into her once more and stopped.
His breath fanned against her neck, then he abruptly stepped back and pulled up his trousers. He reached over to untie her but left the length of his neck-cloth dangling from one of her wrists. The hard length of his arousal tented his formal trousers.
“Rowan,” she whispered.
He said nothing, just picked her up by the waist, holding her against his side as if she were a bag of grain, and strode towards his room. She imagined this was how Vikings took their captive women.
He wasn’t done with her.
Arabella smiled to herself. She didn’t struggle.
34
As Rowan tossed Arabella on the bed taking in the scandalous chemise and tumble of dark hair, he realized two things simultaneously. One, he was behaving like a jealous barbarian. Two, he was in love with his wife.
At the moment, neither realization made him happy.
For years he’d watched Arabella at the few social events she’d attended. He would attempt to engage her in conversation only to receive a scathing remark or some other sarcastic observation for his efforts. It didn’t matter. He’d been drawn to her like a moth to a flame, wanting her no matter how much disdain she showed him. He would see her across a room and imagine her hair released from the tight braids she wore, the dark mass whirling about the pale mounds of her breasts like a seductive hurricane.
Much as she looked now.
No matter how Lady Cupps-Foster pleaded with him, had Rowan not wished to rescue Arabella from Corbett, he would have sent for a Bow Street runner. His desire for her had never been simple lust.
I have always wanted her. I welcomed our forced betrothal.
As he looked down at the beautiful woman laying like some pagan feast on his bed, he wondered if he should ever admit such a thing to her, fearing to give Arabella the upper hand, especially since he wasn’t certain of her feelings. Did she love him?
Lady Gwendolyn’s carefully dropped comments about Arabella had aroused his already heightened suspicions. Intentionally. Perhaps he’d misjudged Gwendolyn; after all, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But Gwendolyn was right about one thing. Arabellahadmanaged to garner male attention. Every man at Galspred’s had watched her, probably shocked at the changed appearance of the formerly sour, austere Lady Arabella. He’d reacted badly, allowing too much scotch to mix with Gwendolyn’s words until jealousy had clouded his vision.
She rolled over on the bed and crawled on all fours to the edge, sitting back on her heels. One delicate ripened berry of a nipple peeked out through a tear in her chemise winking with impudence. Arabella wasn’t the least put out with his behavior. Her features were soft and full of longing.
For him.
