Queen's Winter Wedding Charade, page 10
The pleasure spread like wildfire as he wrapped his arms around her to bring her flush against him. She could feel the thrust of his erection against her belly. Hard and long, and more than a little overwhelming even through his shorts. She writhed against the thick ridge, suddenly desperate to relieve the aching pain emanating from her core.
His head rose suddenly, and he tore his mouth from hers.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.
His lips curved in a wry smile, which had her wariness resurfacing. Could he see what he did to her?
‘What for?’ he asked, his gravelly voice scraping the many sensitive parts he had exploited so easily.
Because I don’t know how to do this.
The words reverberated in her mind, too revealing to be said aloud.
‘I’m still not sure this is a good idea,’ she muttered.
He nodded. But the demand on his face remained as he cradled her cheek and dragged his thumb across her lips.
‘If you want to tell me where you like to be touched, we could see if I can change your mind,’ he said, the purpose in his gaze as intoxicating as the renewed throbbing in her sex.
Again, she should say no—she had no idea where she liked to be touched.
But her control was already in tatters, the aching desire consuming her, and another nod became inevitable when he skimmed his thumb under her bare breast—and shocking sensation arrowed down to her core.
He turned her around to face the mirror again. ‘How about we start there?’ he said, nuzzling the skin under her earlobe as he took her wrists to gently release the arms she had shielding her breasts.
Her harsh intake of breath echoed around the room as he cupped the heavy orbs.
‘Good?’ he asked as he circled the throbbing peaks while kissing the pulse in her neck.
She groaned. ‘Yes.’
He let out a raw chuckle, but continued to caress her, toying with the responsive peaks as she leaned against him, her legs becoming boneless.
‘So where next, Belle?’ he asked, the husky tone making her body quake anew.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she met his molten gaze in the glass. That he was letting her set the pace, dictate his moves, felt empowering somehow—and spurred the reckless excitement.
How could this be wrong? When it felt so right?
‘Just... Anywhere...’ she managed, her voice thick with the yearning she could no longer disguise.
‘Good choice,’ he said.
His hands left her breasts to wrap around her body, holding her against him, making her aware of his need as well as her own.
She gasped, the surge of pleasure so immense she could no longer resist it, or him.
Fireworks burst in the night sky outside to mark the end of their wedding day.
‘We missed the fireworks,’ she murmured, inanely.
His gaze roamed over her—the coloured lights reflected in his eyes. ‘No, we didn’t.’
He wasn’t wrong, she realised, because the thunder and pop from outside were nothing compared to the fire sparking across her nerve-endings as he held her close while his hands stroked and caressed, her breasts, her waist, her hips...
Her chest heaved as she stared at their reflection—her so small and needy, him so tall and commanding. He lifted her arm, draped it over his neck. She clung onto him, her breasts thrust out, the air trapped in her lungs as anticipation fired through her. Long strong fingers traced across her ribs, circling her belly button and finally delving into her panties, to locate the swollen folds of her sex.
‘You’re so wet for me, Belle,’ he growled, sending a fierce wave of validation and approval through her molten flesh.
She moaned, her body a mass of sensation, the guttural sound both plea and prayer as he skimmed over her centre at last—the bundle of nerves begging for his touch.
Her legs weakened, her knees trembling, her thighs tensing and releasing as he circled and delved, forcing her to focus on that one raw secret spot as the pleasure built, and twisted, and burned.
‘Please... I...’ She couldn’t talk, couldn’t really say what it was she wanted. She’d never felt so exposed or so needy before, her senses heightened beyond what she could bear.
‘I’ve got you, Belle, just relax.’
She tried to do as he asked as the tension gripped her body.
Then he eased one thick finger—with aching slowness—into her. She bucked, shocked by the intrusion, which triggered a bolt of pleasure so immense her desperation increased.
Then his thumb touched the very heart of her. The violent pleasure centred and crested—fierce and raw and unstoppable—shooting her over the edge, the vicious coil releasing in a rush.
She cried out as he worked her through the staggering sensations. She clung to his neck, bucking against his hand, as she rode that unending, unendurable wave of bliss to her limits and beyond.
The waves of orgasm weakened at last. Her whole body shook as he finally released her from the decadent torture. The glittering afterglow gave way to brutal reality as he clasped her waist and murmured against her neck.
‘Ready for round two?’
She opened her eyes to find him watching her intently, his gaze dark with yearning. The long column of flesh thrust against her back as his palm moved to cup her backside.
She lurched away from the possessive touch. ‘I... We can’t.’
‘No?’ The fog of desire cleared a little. ‘Why not?’ Her heart lurched in her chest as he bracketed her hips, the thick ridge cradled against her bottom. ‘It’s just sex.’
Except it’s not just sex to me.
She turned, folding shaky arms back over her breasts—which were still tender from his ministrations.
Why had she let it go this far?
She wanted to believe theirs was nothing more than a strong physical connection—as he did—and perhaps the culmination of denying this aspect of her life for far too long. But her heart continued to do somersaults in her chest, and she knew she felt something for him, something she had never felt for another man, or she would never have let him dismantle her defences so thoroughly.
‘I... I need to go to bed,’ she said, frantic now, as well as scared. ‘We have a long day tomorrow.’
One dark eyebrow hiked up his forehead. ‘For real?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She eased past him, the fear rioting now, the feel of those strong fingers on her, inside her, still humming in her sex. ‘I can’t...’
She glanced down, aware of the thick erection straining against the front of his shorts, the outline making the throbbing in her sex worse.
‘I’m not on any birth control...’ she lied, grasping at a way to extricate herself with some degree of dignity. And poise. And conceal from him how utterly he’d overwhelmed her.
‘I’ve got condoms,’ he offered.
‘But I can’t risk...’ she began.
‘It’s okay, Belle, we can always take a rain check,’ he said, the passion clearing from his eyes to be replaced by—well, nothing. She couldn’t tell if he was angry with her or not. ‘This isn’t a transaction,’ he murmured, his expression shuttered and unreadable.
Was he angry? Could he sense her distress?
‘Thank you, for being so understanding,’ she said, in a desperate attempt to distance herself again. But what else could she do? She’d let him see too much.
He’d given her something incredible, something she hadn’t really believed existed until this moment. But beneath the woman he had awakened was that little girl who could be hurt far too easily—if she let herself want too much.
She needed time to rebuild her defences. And to close down the aching vulnerability in her heart, which he would never understand.
‘Right,’ he said, the slight edge in his voice making her feel ashamed once again of her cowardice.
She dashed from the bathroom and locked the connecting door.
It took her hours to finally fall asleep, though, her body still humming from his caresses—as she listened to him showering and imagined him naked and aroused.
By the time she finally fell into a fitful sleep, she had examined and discarded every possible outcome of her foolish decision to become intimate with her fake husband...
And every one of them was a disaster, starting with how on earth she was going to survive ten nights in his home in Colorado with her dignity and her sense of self intact. Because he had a power over her now that wasn’t equal, or equitable. And she had already committed much more to this relationship than she could possibly afford to lose.
CHAPTER TEN
‘YOUR MAJESTY, LOOK this way! Can we see your smile? Are you looking forward to your first Christmas as a married woman?’
‘Travis, what’s it like to be a member of European royalty?’
‘How is your first day of married life going, Your Majesty?’
Travis wrapped his arm around Isabelle’s waist, tugging her closer, as the reporters and photographers fired questions, and the barrage of camera flashes blinded them both. They were supposed to be putting on a show here, for the world’s media. A show he hadn’t wanted any part of and wanted even less part of after the way last night had ended. Because touching her now—after watching her lose herself in his arms, then close herself off—was torture.
His frustration built, though, when she stiffened against him.
He tightened his hold on her. ‘Relax,’ he whispered in her ear as they stood together on the tarmac at the palace’s private airfield, his company jet fuelled and ready to take them away from this circus.
Last night had knocked him sideways. He’d never experienced foreplay like it before. She’d been so vibrant and responsive to his touch, despite the weird innocence that clung to her.
For a moment, as she’d writhed and groaned, her body flushed with pleasure, her inhibitions gone, he’d felt as if he’d achieved something rare and special—which was sentimental crap, of course, but, even so, his ego had taken a hit when he’d heard the door lock click.
He’d had to turn the shower temperature down to frigid—and take himself in hand like a teenager, which had been humiliating. But it wasn’t sexual frustration that had made it impossible for him to sleep afterwards.
He hadn’t lied to her. As far as he was concerned, sex was never a transaction. It was always a woman’s prerogative to say no. And he guessed the birth control thing was an issue—he certainly didn’t want to add any more complications to this relationship when it was already complicated enough. But he’d seen the lie in her eyes when she’d offered up that excuse. And the panic and regret as soon as the afterglow had faded. Which had forced him to ask the question, why had she freaked out?
Because the hollow ache when she’d run out on him had reminded him of when he was a twelve-year-old kid, at his first junior snowboarding championship, and his old man had showed up with his ‘real sons’ and stood in the crowd to cheer for them, instead of Travis.
That would be the needy kid he’d buried a long time ago.
He didn’t need anyone’s praise or approval any more, especially not from the woman standing next to him—who wasn’t even his real wife. So how had she made him feel like that dumb kid again?
‘Travis, can you tell us why you two left the festivities so early? And missed the fireworks? Was that planned? Or was it a spontaneous decision?’
Travis zeroed in on the young female reporter at the front of the pack who had shouted out the intrusive question. And was grinning at him now with deliberate innuendo.
Isabelle stiffened, but of course she didn’t respond. Her dignified silence, though, and the memory of exactly what they had been doing when those fireworks had gone off had the last of his patience with this crap snapping like a dry twig.
He’d been advised by the press secretary not to respond to the reporters—that they wouldn’t expect answers to their questions as it was all part of the protocol that the Queen didn’t react.
But no way was he letting that pass.
‘Why do you think we left early?’ he said. ‘We’re newly-weds. How about you take a wild guess...?’
He heard Isabelle gasp, just before the media horde exploded into a cacophony of sound—each shouted question cruder and more provocative than the last.
The palace press secretary looked as if he were going to have an aneurysm. The expressions on the faces of the members of Isabelle’s court and the representatives of the privy council—who had been assembled to see them off—had gone varying shades of shocked and appalled. While the palace guards had to use their decorative rifles to restrain the surging tide of tabloid hacks sensing an exclusive.
Isabelle went deathly still beside him—her cheeks stained a vivid scarlet, her emerald eyes glassy with shock.
To hell with this.
He grasped her hand. ‘We’re out of here.’
She didn’t object, didn’t utter a sound, probably because she couldn’t without making even more of a scene. But somehow her refusal to react only infuriated him more.
He didn’t break stride as he marched across the tarmac with her hand gripped firmly in his, then led her up the steps into the waiting plane.
The steward closed the plane door behind them, shutting out the media circus. But as he led Belle into the jet’s lounge, he could sense her disapproval, even as the regal mask—which had slipped spectacularly last night—remained firmly in place.
The volatile emotions hit critical mass and the hollow ache in his gut widened, just as it had on that day so long ago, when he’d aced every race, broken a ton of records taking stupid risks to impress a man who had looked right through him as if he didn’t exist.
‘Mr Lord, we’re cleared for take-off whenever you’re ready,’ the pilot said, greeting them in the gangway.
‘Great. We’re ready now,’ Travis replied. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
The pilot nodded and headed to the cockpit.
‘We’ll strap ourselves in, Bill,’ he said to the steward. ‘Give us some privacy.’
‘Absolutely, sir.’ If the guy was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘Just let me know if you want any refreshments once we reach our cruising altitude,’ he finished before disappearing into the service pantry.
Travis walked through to the lounge, so on edge now he was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of his ears. Isabelle had taken one of the leather armchairs and fastened her belt. Her face was still hot with embarrassment, but her expression remained impassive as she stared out of the window.
The tension tightened like a vice around his ribs.
He took the seat opposite her. The plane’s engines rumbled to life, drowning out the furore outside.
He held his tongue as the jet taxied down the runway, waiting for her to give him hell for the crude comment, which was probably slapped all over the Internet already.
But Isabelle remained calm and unmoved, her hands folded in her lap, the only sign she even had a pulse the staggered rise and fall of her breasts beneath the tailored silk blouse—those would be the breasts he’d had in his hands the night before and discovered were supremely sensitive.
When the jet reached its cruising altitude—and the pilot informed them over the public address system of their eleven-hour flight time to Denver International—she still hadn’t said a damn word. She hadn’t even made eye contact.
Was she giving him the silent treatment?
To hell with that.
Leaning forward, he grasped her chin and directed her gaze to his.
‘If you’ve got something to say to me, Belle, you best spit it out.’
She blinked, the mask of indifference collapsing to be replaced by something he liked even less... And recognised from the previous evening... Panic, and regret.
* * *
‘I apologise. For last night. I should not have let things become so...intimate...’ Isabelle murmured, both mortally embarrassed and out of her depth in the face of his anger—while also feeling like the worst kind of fraud. ‘It was wrong to leave you unsatisfied.’
She’d sensed Travis’s frustration, the impatience bristling under his skin, ever since she had met him in the chauffeur-driven car taking them both to the airstrip half an hour ago for the photo call before their flight. She had wanted to say something, anything, to defuse the tension and make amends for her selfishness, as she suspected it was not the done thing to enjoy a man’s touch with the fervour she had enjoyed his, and then leave him visibly erect without offering him some relief.
But what could she say? When she knew not one thing about the etiquette of sexual relationships. So, she had remained silent.
She had paid for her cowardice though. Because having to stand so close to him during the photoshoot, while trying not to react to the heavy weight of his palm resting possessively on her waist, and the brush of his breath against her ear when he told her to relax—exactly as he had done the night before—had been excruciating.
He let go of her chin and cursed.
She flinched. Had she said the wrong thing? He didn’t look pleased by her apology. If anything he looked even more frustrated. And appalled.
‘Don’t do that polite reserved crap with me, it drives me nuts. And don’t apologise for last night. What the hell does that even mean?’ He lifted his fingers to do sarcastic air quotes. ‘“It was wrong to leave you unsatisfied.”’
She looked away from him again, her face on fire. ‘It means I had an orgasm and you didn’t,’ she said, as calmly as she could while her hands were shaking. ‘And I suspect that sexual frustration—and more specifically anger with my selfishness last night—is the reason you were unable to control your temper with that reporter,’ she added, determined to acknowledge her part in this fiasco. ‘Which is why I felt an apology was appropriate.’
