Page 48 of The Forbidden Bride He Stole

That it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real because he didn’t care about them. It wasn’t real because he didn’t want them. Because think distant thoughts or even take a pill designed to create physical arousal and perform and so what was happening didn’t mean anything. If he could go to a place in his mind where his body was off acting of its own accord, then it wasn’t real.

And perhaps, part of him had fought against making any of it real.

For so long that it was no longer an achievement. The achievement would be a connection.

And yet with her... It had been there. Even if it was still behind a layer of glass, because he had been...

Conscious of the fact that she had perhaps wanted Rocco and not him.

But not now. Not now. Her touch was tender, delicate, and yet it was close to pain. It burned his skin like fire and yet he wouldn’t have her abandon him. Because he wanted it. He wanted her. “Touch me,” he demanded, rough. He began to tear his own clothes off, impatient. For her hands against his skin. For all of it. Everything. She did, her breath coming in short, sharp pants, her movements jerky and uncertain, and he planted her hand against his bare chest and looked directly into her eyes. He knew that she had no idea what was happening. Between them. Inside of him.

He had a hard time understanding it and it was happening within him.

But she wouldn’t know. Of course. She knew nothing about him. Not anything real.

He would have to tell her. But not now. Because he wanted this. All of this first.

If that made him a selfish bastard then that’s what he was.

But he wanted this moment. She had seen him. In the church, she had come this close to seeing him as anyone ever had. Anyone besides Cameron.

She wanted him. Him. And it wasn’t about a cold, dead transaction that came down to lust. It was something deeper. And just for now, he wanted it. She had lost her virginity to him. And he wanted this for himself. This one time knowing she wanted him. Cared for him. He wanted to be there. All the way.

She wasn’t dressed as a seductress this time. Not wearing her white lace. She was dressed in a sweet sundress, one he had seen her in all day, and when she stripped it off she revealed simple pink cotton underwear beneath. She unhooked her bra and flung it off to the side, revealing pale pert breasts to his gaze. She was lovely. More than that. Beautiful. The kind that reached down deep and struck a chord in a hidden place inside of him. The kind that left nowhere for him to hide. And perhaps even more notably made it so he didn’t need to.

Then she was naked before him. He could feel the way that made her vulnerable. She looked soft. Lovely and untouched. In spite of the fact that he had touched her everywhere that first night they were together.

It was a mirror of his own soul. And he realized now why he’d tried so steadfastly to hide it. All that he was. All that he had ever been.

Because the stark truth of the two of them standing there, naked, regarding each other was almost too much to bear. And yet he must. He looked her in the eye, and moved toward her, taking her hand, as he had done on their wedding day. He squeezed her, and then moved to her, putting his hand on her cheek and lowering his head so that he could kiss her. She was glorious. Everything.

And when she kissed him it was that sweet promise of all the gentle things that he had never had in his life.

A taste of what normal might’ve been.

The anticipation of summer. The night before Christmas. Getting a new puppy. Knowing that when you went to bed that night someone would be there with you, holding you. All these things, these little things that he had never had. His mother had gambled with his childhood, but he had bartered all that he might have in adulthood for...

For all of this.

For this penthouse and this view. For the chance to own a house on a street he’d never even bought a house on the end. Because later he hadn’t remembered. Later it hadn’t mattered. But the street was still there. And so was St. Patrick’s. And there was something strange in that that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

As if all the chances weren’t spent. As if he could still go back.

But all of his thoughts were eradicated when the kiss between them became deeper. Harder. And he did not retreat to a deep place inside of him, rather he was lost in the moment. The heat and fire between them. The slick ride of her tongue against his.

She might not be experienced, but she was enthusiastic. And she more than made up for any inexperience with that.

He put his arms around her and crushed the infinitely lovely creature to him. Hannah. Who was all passion and fire and familiarity.

He picked her up, and carried her determinedly into his room. He wanted her on a bed. He wanted to do this properly. He wanted to do this like he hadn’t before.

He brought her into his bedroom and laid her down across the bed, her gloriously lovely body on display for him. He growled as he regarded her. She was simply stunning. Unlike anything he had ever seen. Art living and breathing before him. And he told her so. In all of his languages, to try and make up for his inability to speak earlier. To try and make up for everything. Because he was a miserable guardian. He was the worst man for the job, it turned out. Because the biggest monster out there that he should’ve protected her from was him. And here he was glorying in her. Taking from her to satisfy this beast inside of him. This needy, desperate part of himself that could no more turn back now than quit breathing.

But he kissed her. Her lips, her neck, down her breasts, and then between her legs. He pleasured her until she cried out. Until her fingernails dug into his shoulders. Until their passion created a new space inside of him. Not to hide in, but to glory in.

This was raw and real. There was nothing between them. Their skin was hot and slick with sweat, their hearts beating hard. She was Hannah, who he had known for half her life. And he was Apollo, who she knew as a friend of his father’s. She knew in this strange, broken form he had fashioned for himself.

They had lived separate lives. Served separate purposes. And it was almost a miracle that they came together like this. Primal and urgent and filled with need. Miraculous, even. The way he was desperate to taste her, touch her. The way her cries of pleasure fed something inside of him. The way her own needs surpassed his own.

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