Читать книгу Modern Romance January Books 1-4 - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 24

IT HAD BEEN shocking to see his brother and Liliana in the crowd at the wedding.

Matías had a feeling that shock had been Diego’s intent.

Matías had made it his mission to keep his older brother away from Camilla through the entirety of the reception, and during the farewells that evening.

Though he had a feeling that if Diego had intended to approach her at any point, he would have done so. But he had not, which was actually no less unsettling.

Liliana, for her part, had looked beautiful, but pale. Drawn.

Her face adorned with no makeup, as she had often done, her long hair left loose, her curves highlighted by the flowing, lavender gown that she was wearing.

Diego never took his hands off her, his dark eyes sharp every time he looked at her.

It was a strange dynamic, and one that surprised Matías. Because he had imagined his brother would care nothing at all for his new wife. Had imagined that he had simply seduced her away from Matías in order to win at this ridiculous game they were playing to gain their grandfather’s possessions. But there was something there. Something dark and tense. He commented as much when he and Camilla were finally alone. Headed back to his penthouse in Barcelona for their wedding night.

“She loves him,” Camilla said softly.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Matías asked. “Don’t you think that by now she has seen what manner of man he is?”

“Unfortunately, I think she knew from the beginning. I...I had a conversation with Diego before the wedding,” she said, twisting her hands together.

“Were you going to tell me if I had not brought him up?”

“Possibly not. The whole thing made me nervous. He was clearly trying to intimidate me. Trying to scare me away. But he has never met me. So he did not know that was a losing proposition.”

“I almost feel sorry for him,” Matías said. “What did he say to you?”

“He confirmed that he did kidnap Liliana. Their marriage, however, is legal, so whatever happened after that, she consented to it. He talked her into it, he says. I imagine there was blackmail involved. But... I see the way she looks at him. I spent a good portion of the ceremony looking. I don’t think she wants to be rescued,” Camilla said softly. “Though I’m not entirely certain she’s happy.”

“How could she be happy with a sociopath? How could she love him?”

“Oftentimes these things don’t make sense,” Camilla said, her voice hard. “And why do you care? Just for her happiness? Or are you wishing that you had married her today?”

Frustration roared through him and he growled, pinning Camilla up against the wall in the penthouse. “I don’t give a damn about Liliana. At least, not beyond her safety. Of course I don’t want my brother holding her against her will, but as she traveled with him, and obviously married him, and has not fled him, I think it’s safe to say that’s not what’s happening. I don’t want her. I want you.”

“Well, you seem awfully concerned about her.”

“And you seem jealous,” he said, taking a step back.

“I am,” she confirmed.

He looked at his wife, standing there in the flowing white gown. His wife. She was his. Legally. A binding agreement. And suddenly, he wanted, more than anything, to hold her to that. To hold her to him. Wanted to do what Diego had done. To take her away, to hold her captive. To make her his, however that looked, whatever that might mean. Suddenly, being right, being good, didn’t seem half so important as it had before.

Only having her.

And he could see just how thin that line that separated himself from Diego, Diego from his father, and his father from their grandfather, really was.

It was in his DNA, whether he wanted it to be or not.

“I married you,” he said, his voice hard.

“Yes,” she hissed. “And the inescapable truth is that if Liliana had been available you would have married her.”

“Why do you want a fight?” he asked, moving nearer to her, closing the distance between them and wrapping his arm around her waist. “I can think of much better uses of our time.”

He consumed her then, capturing her mouth with his own and pouring all of his frustrations, all of the intense, crushing feelings in his chest, out onto her. His pulse was pounding angrily, mirroring the heat and fire moving through his veins, the hardness, the desire coursing through his groin.

He wanted her, but that was not all.

No, it was not all. He was not a stranger to sexual desire, but this was entirely foreign to him. This was sexual desire mingled with something else. A need so fierce, so ferocious, that he thought it might destroy them both.

If he acted on it, certainly they would both go up completely in the conflagration. But if he did not act on it, he didn’t think he would survive it.

He was all out of control. That control that he prided himself on, that he was so convinced made him a good man. A better man than his brother, better man than his father.

All of his certainty was gone. Every last bit. All that remained was need. Need for Camilla, for his wife. His bride. The woman he had spoken vows to, in front of his townspeople, in front of his grandfather.

They might have an understanding. They might have an agreement that was supposed to make things clear, that was supposed to make them easy, but right now it felt anything but.

Again, in this moment, they were nothing more than Camilla and Matías. The world outside them didn’t exist.

Here, in his penthouse, this place that was his and his alone, she belonged to him only. Here, he had his bride on his wedding night. And whatever the future held for them, whatever the reasons for this marriage, he intended to claim this night for them. For himself.

Suddenly, he could wait no longer, his patience growing thin. He grabbed hold of the flimsy fabric of the bodice of her dress and tore it wide, letting the material fall loose around her waist.

She sucked in a shocked breath. “That was a beautiful dress,” she said, faintly admonishing, but she did not pull away from him, neither did she look as scandalized as she was attempting to sound.

No, her eyes were dark, filled with desire. He could see that she was as tested for control as he was. That she was as hungry for this as he was.

That he was not alone in his desire.

And that only made the monster inside him growl even louder.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It was a pretty dress. But your body, mi tesoro, is the most beautiful prize of all. Anything that gets in the way of that... I’m afraid I cannot allow it to be.”

As if to prove his point he grabbed hold of the lacy bra that covered her breasts, concealed them from his view, and he tore it away from her body, as well, leaving those high, perfect breasts exposed to him.

He lowered his head, taking one perfect nipple between his lips and sucking hard. He was starving for her. And it did not matter that he had been with her every night that week. It did not matter that he had sated himself on her whenever he desired since that first night he’d had her. It was as if it had been years. As if he had been kept from her.

Perhaps it was simply that she was his wife now. No matter that neither of them intended for it to be permanent. Perhaps it had changed things somehow. Made him more possessive. Made all of this somehow more.

It seemed impossible, and yet, with all that heat and fire pounding through his body, he wondered. If somehow, she truly had become part of his flesh as they had spoken those words to one another at that altar. If somehow, there was a sacred bond here that could not be manipulated, that could not be fooled.

He dismissed those thoughts as he ripped the dress the rest of the way from her body, and took her panties with it, leaving her beautiful, golden form entirely exposed to him.

He examined those slim, perfect curves, her taut, toned belly, her womanly hips and shapely thighs. That glorious thatch of dark curls between them.

She was beautiful. A work of art. And she was his. All his.

He was still fully dressed, still wearing the suit he had worn to the wedding, and he quite liked that. This woman, completely naked before him while he remained fully clothed. It made him feel powerful. Gave him some semblance of control in the moment.

And it also made him hungry for more. To expose her to an even greater degree, to exert that power.

To do something to deal with that yawning, endless ache in his chest, and the rest of his body.

“You are mine,” he said, words coming out on a growl. He picked her up, her lithe form soft and warm in his arms. “You are mine, and no other man’s. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” she said, the word hushed. For the moment at least, he seemed to have tamed her. He was not sure how to feel about that.

“And if my brother were to come in trying to carry you off, I would chase him to the ends of the earth before I let him keep you. I hope that is clear.” He gripped her chin, holding her face steady, looking into her eyes. “I would chase that bastard to hell to bring you back to me. Do you understand? He would not be allowed to lay one finger on you, and if he did, it would be the last thing he did. He would lose that hand, and then he would lose everything else dear to him. Everything.”

Honesty. Always with her it was that damned, unguarded honesty and he did not possess the strength to fight it on any level. Not now.

She shivered in his arms, and he wondered if perhaps he had gone too far, and then he decided he didn’t care. Not at all. Not in the least.

If he was possessive, then so be it. If he was untamed, then so be it. If he was no better than any of the other men in his family, then he supposed he would have to accept that, not fight it. Not anymore. Not with her.

It simply was.

Suddenly, he understood the nature of that violence that coursed through Diego’s veins. He understood that rage in his father. Because he felt it now all the same. It wasn’t anger. It was something different. It was big. And it was hot, and it was something that owned him, body and soul. A possessiveness that he could not fight.

Possessiveness he would not fight, here and now.

He set her down on his couch, positioning her toward the back of it as he knelt on the cushions, spreading her thighs wide. And then he examined her femininity, all of that gleaming beauty, and the pearl that was the center of all her pleasure. “Beautiful,” he growled, stroking his fingertips over her sensitive and responsive flesh. “And all for me.”

“I am not the one who was supposed to marry someone else today,” she panted. “I am not the one who deserves to be caught up in such a fit of possessiveness.”

He tightened his hold on her thighs. “This is not about what either of us deserves,” he said, his voice rough. “This is about what is. About what I’m going to take. I will have all of you, my bride. I hope you understand that.”

“And you need to know, my husband,” she returned, “that it is understood that if there is any doubt in your mind as to what you would do if Liliana came in here tonight and said that she wished to leave Diego, that you will keep your hands off me, that you will stand up and walk away from me now. Because you are not the only one who is possessive.”

“If she came in here, what would you do?” he asked.

“I would fight her for you,” she returned, that stubborn chin tilting upward. “Because I fight for what’s mine. You know that I do. If I have to cut my hair off and change my identity, I will do it. But I fight for what’s mine.”

If she had been another woman it might have been tempting to be offended to be compared to her horses, to have that same sort of possessiveness given over to him. But it was not another woman. It was Camilla. And knowing the fierce possessiveness with which she regarded those animals, he did not think he deserved more. But rather, he suspected he deserved a lot less.

“And if she were to come in here,” he said, “I would scarcely notice, because she is not the woman that I want. You are the woman that I want.”

Understanding that when he said that, he knew there was a cost to it. Because if things had gone as planned, he would have full ownership over the Navarro family estate. If Diego had not taken Liliana, then all of it would be his. He would be in the clear.

But then he would not have Camilla.

Somewhere in the depths of his mind he was reminded of words that felt similar. A Bible story. A king offering his queen whatever she desired, even if it was half of his kingdom. And he realized then that if given the choice now, that was the trade he would make. It was the trade that had been made through no choice of his own, but it was what he would do if the need presented itself. If the choice were on offer again.

Half of his kingdom. With no hesitation.

“I have no desire for anyone but you,” he reiterated, leaning forward, drawing his tongue across that sensitive bundle of nerves, wringing from her as much pleasure as possible with his lips, his tongue, his fingers. Working her body until she was boneless, breathless and spent, until the last vestiges of her release began to dissipate.

Then he picked up her boneless body and carried her into his bedroom.

“Mine,” he growled, pressing a kiss to her lips. “My wife.”

He pressed her down into the mattress, settling between her thighs. Typically, Camilla preferred to be the one doing the writhing. At least, that was how she preferred to begin their encounters. But not tonight. Tonight the possession was his. Tonight he was in control. Utterly and completely.

She also enjoyed pleasuring him, something that he was not averse to. Usually.

But again, tonight, he would not allow that. Tonight he would not surrender that to her. Tonight he would extract all of the control, all of the pleasure from her that he could.

He slid his hand beneath her hips, cupped her soft, perfect rear and lifted her up off the bed, angling her just so, so that he could thrust into the hilt.

He growled, realizing a moment later that he was bare, that he had not put a condom on. He was tempted, so tempted to press that. To keep doing this with nothing between their bodies. To spill himself inside her when he found his release, and damn the consequences.

It was that same, feral part of him that wanted to possess her completely.

But he would not. He would not do that to her. She wanted her freedom when all this was over. And it was that, that knowledge, that slowed his hand. That helped him hold on to his sanity. And only that.

“I must protect you,” he said thickly, withdrawing from her body and making his way to the nightstand, grabbing a condom and sheathing himself quickly. “I’m sorry.”

He thrust back into her, not bothering to clarify whether or not he was sorry he had entered her without protection in the first place, or whether he was just sorry that he had to get it.

He wasn’t sure which thing made him sorrier, frankly.

Likely that he had to get a condom and he would rather feel her, all that silky heat, surrounding him.

He gritted his teeth, trying to maintain his control as he rocked his hips backward, then thrust home, pleasure almost blinding him as he did so.

He closed his eyes tight, sparks bursting behind them as he lost himself completely inside her.

There had never been anyone like this. There had never been anything like this.

She didn’t just make him feel pleasure, she made him feel pain. Didn’t simply satisfy him, she opened up on the heels of that satisfaction. Made him want in ways he hadn’t expected to ever want before.

The build of his release was almost violent, was deadly, far too intense. And when it captured him, it didn’t just send a burst of pleasure through him, it wrenched his chest open. He gritted his teeth, growling as his orgasm rocked him, pressing his forehead to hers and kissing her, deeply, fiercely, begging her, in Spanish and in English, to come along with him. It was the first time he had not ensured that she was satisfied more than once before he found his own release, but he had not had the control tonight. He had not possessed that kind of restraint.

He rolled his hips, grinding himself against her, and then finally, she gave him her pleasure. She pulsed around him, squeezing his arousal, pulling a few more spasms of pleasure from him as her own orgasm rocked her.

And when it was done, she clung to his shoulders, shaking, crying.

Her tears hit him with all the violence of a closed fist. Because his Camilla did not cry. She was strong, and she was lovely. That warrior goddess of his fantasies. She was weeping now, weeping like a child, because of something he had done.

“Camilla,” he said, gripping her face, holding it steady, looking into those luminous dark eyes, gazing at her tearstained face. “Have I hurt you? What have I done?”

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “You haven’t hurt me at all.”

“Why are you crying?”

She sobbed, her entire body shaking. “Because,” she said. “You didn’t hurt me, you bastard. You made me fall in love with you.”

“What?” he asked, drawing back.

“I’m in love with you, Matías. Oh, how I love you.”