The Spaniard’s Stolen Bride, page 8
“I don’t know,” he said, looking up at her, his dark eyes filled with a wildness that she couldn’t quite guess at. “All I know is suddenly I wanted to lift you up. To put you up above me. I wish to gaze at you, just like this. To worship you.” He reached up, grabbing hold of the clasp on her bra and making quick work of it, dragging the insubstantial lace down and away from her body. Before she fully took on board the fact that she was topless in front of him, he was already dragging her panties down her thighs. He was eye level with... With her.
And then, he was moving, his large hands holding her steady as he pressed his mouth to the heart of her, tasting her deeply, his tongue sliding through her folds, the blunt tips of his fingers digging deep into her hips. She began to tremble, began to shake. She forgot to be shocked. Forgot to protest. Her entire world was focused on this moment. This man. So powerful, so ruthless. Ruthless enough to pull her out of her bedroom window at midnight, to steal his brother’s fiancée. To force her into a hasty marriage.
And yet, he was down below her, that dark head bent as he lavished her with pleasure. As he licked and sucked and kissed that most intimate part of her. Her thighs trembled, her knees turning to water, her entire body beginning to unravel beneath that expert mouth. And still, he kept on. Still, he ravished her.
She clung to his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his skin as pleasure crested over her like a wave, her orgasm out of her control and she was like a wholly new creation because of it.
Giving control of her body, her pleasure, to another person was...
Then, he looked up at her, and their eyes collided, and she felt something twist in her chest, shifting, turning on its side. She had the strangest suspicion that it might never right itself. That she might never be the same again.
He looked... Like a fallen angel. That wicked mouth was curved into a grin, that wicked mouth that she now knew could do indecent, obscene and delicious things. It had been so intimate, and yet, she wasn’t ashamed.
She found herself kneeling, her knees pressing into the mattress. And she leaned forward, kissing his lips, tasting her own desire there, the evidence of what had just happened between them. He growled, wrapping his arms around her and holding her, not so tightly as he typically did when their mouths met, but like she was a fragile thing that he was afraid he might break.
Then, she found herself being pushed backward, that large, muscular body looming over her as he gazed down. He kissed her neck, on down to her breast, sucking her nipple deep into his mouth, then tracing a circle around it with his tongue before turning his attention to the other. She became lost in a world of sensation. An erotic dance of Diego’s making. She could make no more comparisons between reality and fiction, because she could make no more comparisons at all. She could hardly form a thought. She could only feel.
By necessity she had been a cerebral creature for most of her life. Someone who observed life with a healthy dose of distance between the ivory tower her father had placed her in and the world around her.
But there was no distance here. It was raw and intense. Skin against skin, mingled breath and pounding heartbeats that tangled together. His tongue against hers, his fingers in her hair. His sweat-slicked chest rasping against her breasts as he held her close, as they kissed.
And somehow, by her own hands or his, she didn’t know, his underwear was gone, and she could feel the blazing hot length of him against her hip as they continued to kiss, as he pressed his hand between her thighs and tested her readiness with his fingers. First one, then another. She gasped slightly at the unfamiliar intrusion, but that gasp gave way to a moan as he slipped his thumb over that sensitized nub between her legs, as he drew a response from deep inside her body, echoes of the climax she’d had only moments before.
He removed his hand then, settling between her legs, murmuring something in Spanish against her lips. “I don’t...”
She had been about to tell him that she didn’t speak Spanish, but her breath caught in her throat when he pressed against the entrance to her body. He murmured something else, but she couldn’t understand. And then he was filling her, the pain blinding. She gritted her teeth, battling the urge to push him away. She wished, badly, that she could recapture the pleasure she’d found in him only a few moments before.
But then he was inside of her. He was breathing hard, his breath hot against her neck, and she became dimly aware of the fact that she was hanging on to his shoulders like a cat trying to claw its way far from danger. She forced herself to relax, to grow accustomed to the sensation of him being inside of her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I told you it might hurt.”
She was about to tell him that he had not told her that, except she realized it had been buried in that broken Spanish she hadn’t understood. She would tell him later that she didn’t speak Spanish. An absurd thought to have when a man was inside of you, probably.
Then he was kissing her again, and things began to feel a bit more pleasant. He shifted, sliding his hand down beneath her lower back, skimming over her bottom, down to her thigh as he lifted her leg, urging it around him as he withdrew slightly, then thrust back home.
It didn’t hurt that time. It felt...
By the time he did it again it almost felt good.
And then, he began to make magic inside of her yet again. That same, sensual veil that had been wrapped around them before was suddenly there again as she got lost in his kiss, the way his hands moved over her body, and that slick, deep glide of him inside of her. She felt full, but it was good now. Felt invaded, but she welcomed it. This was what it meant to be possessed. To be desired. If she could have taken him deeper, she would have. She would have taken more. Taken everything.
She clung to him, lifting her hips in time with each thrust, chasing the building release inside of her. In the end, it wasn’t even that delicious friction inside of her that did it. In the end, it was him. He began to shake, lowering his head, his movements becoming wild, his face buried in her neck. The sound that rumbled in his chest was feral, came from deep inside of him. He froze above her, looking as though he were in the most intense, wretched pain. And he looked at her. Those dark eyes unveiled for a moment. And in them she saw...
She didn’t even know what it was. A depth. A need. All she knew was that it called to her. That it reached inside of her and seemed to find a matching piece she hadn’t known was there. She clung to him as he shuddered out his release, and her own caught hold, dragging her right down with him.
They clung to each other in the aftermath, like shipwreck victims in the middle of the sea, storm tossed and broken. But together.
He tried to move away from her, but she held on to him. She didn’t know why. Didn’t know why she wasn’t showing a little bit more self-preservation. Why she wanted to hold on to him when really, it was the last thing she should want. But she didn’t know who he was. Not anymore. Any more than she knew who she was. Something had changed inside of her and she didn’t know if it would ever be right again. She didn’t know if she wanted it to be.
The outside world... Well, out there they made no sense. He was her kidnapper. More than ten years older. She was an overprotected heiress who shouldn’t exist outside of books or the nineteenth century. Individually, they were difficult enough, and together they were impossible. But somehow, on this island, secluded in this bedroom away from the rest of the world, it all seemed right.
She couldn’t explain why. Not if pressed. Not at all.
She only knew that it was.
And she wanted to prolong this moment, this one of peace and rightness, for as long as she possibly could.
Finally, he rolled away, dragging her with him, bringing her half on top of his body. She laid her head against his chest, against his raging heartbeat.
“I will get condoms,” he said.
She felt a slight pang at the realization they hadn’t used protection. But it wasn’t followed by any sense of panic. Which she couldn’t quite understand.
Her mother had died giving birth. And while she’d always expected to have children of her own, she had always felt connected to the danger of it. Even in the modern era.
But she’d made her peace with her desire to have children versus any potential danger years ago. And that wasn’t what she expected to scare her now.
It was the fact she would be linked to Diego forever.
She waited for the fear.
It didn’t come.
She suspected she might be linked to him forever already.
“Okay,” she said.
“It won’t take long.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t have them here already. Considering you took care of every other detail.”
“I intended to bring you here to make you my wife in a permanent sense,” he said, his voice betraying no hint that such a thing might be strange. “But, now things have changed. I suppose precaution should be taken.”
“Of course,” she said softly.
She didn’t want to think through what he’d said too deeply. So instead, she pushed it aside. And she clung to him. Marveling at how she felt. Altered. Changed. Closer to this man than she had ever felt to another human being.
“Diego,” she said. “Why did you want a wife?”
“My inheritance.”
“No. That’s why you needed to get married. Why did you want a wife...?”
“I’m Catholic,” he responded simply.
“Still. I would imagine you could make whatever deal you needed to make... From a religious standpoint... That it would be legal and not recognized by the church.”
“I imagine. But, I have never much seen the point in marriage if it wasn’t forever.”
“Do you...? Do you believe in love, Diego?”
She was afraid of his answer. Very much. Because she feared that she might believe in love, and she feared even more deeply that she might be falling into it with the last man on earth she should.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe in love.”
For a moment, relief washed over her. Then he continued.
“I believe there are soft, brilliant people in the world with a capacity for love that the rest of us don’t deserve. I believe in the power of love to heal, to change. But I also know that love can be twisted and turned, used as a weapon. That there are people who can never be reached with it. People who are beyond it. Love is a powerful force, but there are enemies it cannot defeat.”
“So you believe in love, but don’t believe that everyone can...feel it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen it,” he said. “It’s not a secret...” He cleared his throat. “It is not a secret that my father murdered my mother, tesoro.”
“What?”
“My father is a murderer.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DIEGO HAD NO idea why he was telling her this. Especially after what they had just shared. He should make it about pleasure. About spending the night exploring her beautiful body. He could be more careful the next time they made love. Could withdraw before he climaxed. Though, part of him rebelled at the idea. Still, when the subject of birth control had come up Liliana did not seem as horrified as he had imagined she might.
But they were not making love again. They were talking about his father instead.
“Tell me,” she said.
“My mother was a wonderful woman. I think we should start there. She was my introduction into the idea that there was good in the world. Believe me when I tell you there was little evidence of that elsewhere in my house. My brother and I were terrified of our father. He was a tyrant. If he had one emotion in his body beyond selfishness and rage, I would be surprised. He was like a black hole. Consuming and destroying everything in his path. And so, we did our very best to stay out of his path. Matías, he tried to be a good son. And for a while I did too. But then our mother had an accident. She was out riding and she... She fell from her horse. That was the story.”
He paused, looking away from Liliana. From her impossibly beautiful, innocent face that was so shocked to hear such a story. It was his reality. His childhood. He had never been shocked by it. He had been broken the day he’d found out his mother was dead. Had cried the last tears he had in him. Even as a man, when he had endured hideous loss, he hadn’t been able to weep. He had expended every last tear back then. But he had not been surprised.
What must it be like to not immediately assume the worst of people? She would. After this. After him. He had kidnapped her, for heaven’s sake. Had brought her here. Was holding her... Well, it wasn’t exactly against her will, not now. But... She would learn. She would learn at his hand. And this story would be part of it.
“She didn’t fall from her horse?”
“She did. But my father was in pursuit of her. He shot her. I do not believe that it killed her. But the horse was spooked and threw her. Her official cause of death was a broken neck.”
“Diego...”
“My father told me all of this in a drunken rage only two days later. I was eleven years old. And after that... After that I didn’t care, Liliana. I did not care if he killed me. I tempted it. I welcomed it. I found my matching darkness and I let it bleed free. He had a shop with classic cars inside. I lit it on fire.”
She was staring at him still, her blue eyes round.
“And I laughed as everything he cared about burned.”
You must learn to let go of things when they’re broken, Father.
He remembered saying those words back to the older man, defiant and filled with his own murderous rage.
“I really did think he would kill me that day,” Diego continued. “He beat me within an inch of it. But then, he laughed. He laughed, because he said he knew my anger. He said if I would only feed it, I would become just like him. Matías... He did not understand him. But me... I’m a chip off the block.”
“You aren’t,” she said ferociously.
“No. It’s true.” He would not go into Karina. He would not speak of her at all. It didn’t matter. Not now. Not now that this marriage was temporary. “And I did not tell you this story in order for you to talk me out of my vision of myself. But you asked what I think of love. Love is why my mother married my father. A misguided sense of love is why she stayed with him. And love is what killed her. It did not change him. It did not shine a light on his dark places. Instead, his darkness consumed her. They say that love redeems people, but there are those who are past redemption.”
“Didn’t you say you were Catholic? Shouldn’t you believe that too?”
“I’m into Catholicism mainly for the guilt.”
“Don’t you think you deserve something other than guilt?”
“No,” he said. “In fact, I cling to the guilt. That might be the one thing that separates me from my father. The fact that I have the capacity to feel it. Even if it is difficult.”
“Do you feel guilty for kidnapping me?”
A strange bleakness flooded him. “No,” he said honestly. “And that is a concern.”
“But, here we are.”
“Yes. Because whatever I feel, it’s not strong enough to make me want to give you back. You’re mine, tesoro.”
“Yes. You continually remind me of that.”
“Does it bother you? Do I scare you?”
She shook her head. “No. But you have to realize... If I’m yours... I believe that makes you mine.” She kissed him then. He should stop her. He should yell at her and ask her if she had heard the story at all. Tell her not to speak to him again of love. To not kiss him so tenderly when he was trying to make sure she understood that he was a monster.
But he didn’t.
He simply let her kiss him.
Let her drag them both to the edge of that place where nothing existed beyond pleasure and need. Where there was no him and no her. No light or dark. Just a brilliant blending of the two.
She had just asked him if he would let himself have something other than guilt.
Well, he would let himself have her.
So he did. All night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TWO WEEKS IN Diego’s house. Two weeks in his arms. Two weeks in his bed. Liliana hardly knew who she was, and she was all right with it. In fact, she liked this new version of herself better than the old her anyway. She laughed easier, for one. She felt bold.
The night before, at dinner, she had sat on his lap during the meal and fed him meat and cheese with her hands. Then, he had licked her fingers, put her up on the table and licked her everywhere else.
He was strange, her man. Complicated and, yes, filled with darkness. But there was something else too. He needed. He needed her to touch him. Periodically, during the day, she could sense restlessness falling over him, and when she placed her hand on him, she could almost instantly feel that unsettled energy leaving his body.
It always made her think of the boy he had been. The boy who had lit his father’s shop filled with cars on fire. The boy who hadn’t known another way to let his anger escape. The boy who had lost his mother. His softness. His reference point for love.
Diego believed in love because to not believe in it would be a dishonor to his mother’s memory. She understood that.
Just as she understood he thought that he was like his father.
Thought that there was something inside of him that meant love was not for him.
She wanted—more than anything—to change that.
She only wished she knew how.
So she touched him whenever she could. Held him at night while he slept. She was his, and she made sure that he knew he was hers.
Today he had been particularly moody, and she wasn’t sure why.
She was sitting in the library reading a book when he stormed in. He had that look on his face like he might throw her down and ravish her, and she was more than ready. But then he stopped, his posture rigid. “Pack a bag.”
