Be My Bride: The Right Mr Wrong / A Most Suitable Wife / Betrothed for the Baby. Natalie Anderson
on her body, but it was nothing on the glitter in her eyes.
She’d switched her lamp on to partially light the room. The beam from the bulb highlighted a patch on her thigh. He reckoned he’d start there.
‘Why do you want to tie me up?’ she asked as she offered her wrists for him to bind to the headboard of her bed. That she trusted him so implicitly gave him an immense kick of satisfaction. That she was so willing to be so physically intimate with him. Finally.
‘I want to explore you without distraction,’ he answered honestly. He wanted to caress every curve, every inch of her skin. ‘It’s hard to keep control when you have your hands on me.’
He wanted to give her pleasure again and again. To discover her body, her secrets. To understand what it was she liked. Never had he wanted to please a lover more. And that competitive part of him wanted to ensure he was the best she’d ever had.
She shifted—experimentally moving her legs. But she was smiling as he bent over her. ‘So I nearly won, then?’
If he was honest, she’d won everything.
‘You okay?’ He checked again long minutes later as he finally did as she was begging and worked his fingers into her, his thumb circling over her most sensitive spot until she came wet, hot, screaming.
‘I’m so doing this to you,’ she panted.
‘Soon.’ He was pushing her over the edge again first.
It was over an hour later when he let her tether his wrists. She smiled at him with such wicked intent he was hard again in a second.
She swept her hands over him, looking at him as if he were something she’d wanted to toy with—and devour— since for ever. She bent over his body—kissing, caressing every bit of him with her hands, her lips, her hair. When she licked her lips and her gaze zeroed in on his erection he knew he was in trouble.
‘Victoria.’ Part of him wanted her to do it so much, but he also wanted to come inside her again.
But in the end he had no choice. She sucked him so hard, her hands working in tandem, there was no way he could hold back. No way he could resist diving head-first into the generous, seductive attention she was gifting him.
She didn’t untie him after—even though he was as limp as a dishrag. Dazed, he lifted his head with a huge effort as she slipped away from the bed.
‘Victoria?’
A couple of minutes later she came back to him. She had a fountain pen in her hand.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked lazily.
‘You’re missing something all sailors have.’ She carefully touched the nib of the pen to his chest.
‘What’s that?’ He twitched at the tickling sensation.
‘A tattoo.’ She chuckled. ‘A heart with ‘mother’ or something across it.’
He flinched.
‘Perhaps not ‘mother’,’ she said quietly and lifted the pen from him.
‘It’d be okay,’ he said, feigning ease. ‘She died when I was very small.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ The pen tickled him some more.
‘Did your father find anyone else?’
‘No. He was a rough man. A stevedore who loaded and offloaded ships. He worked hard, drank hard. Frankly he stank. He didn’t have a lot about him to attract another woman.’ Except for the ones he paid for.
‘So what did you do?’
‘Found boats and sailed on them. As often as I could.’
He’d skipped school to sail. Until he’d become so good the schools had come to him wanting him to sail. Scholarships. Performance.
She ran a line down the side of his stomach. He flinched again because it tickled so much. She laughed softly as she dipped the pen in the well again and turned back to him. ‘Your abs are amazing.’
He grimaced. ‘I’m glad you appreciate them. They don’t come easy.’
‘Oh, I appreciate them.’ She blew, drying the ink.
‘Don’t put that any lower,’ he warned.
She laughed again. ‘You don’t want me to ink—’
‘No, I do not.’ He wondered what she’d written. But he wanted to feel her some more first. She clearly ached for more too, as suddenly she tossed the pen and straddled him.
‘Release me.’ He needed to hold her now—was desperate not just to cup her breasts and stroke her to ecstasy, but to embrace her. He wanted to hold her close. She still had gold leaf in spots over her skin and in her hair. His gilded, branded lover.
She slid off him and reached forward to untie the knots. On her way back down, she writhed her hips, teasing, freely expressing her enjoyment of him—of his touch, of his body. He shifted again—so his aching need was hard against her lush, wet heat. He arched up into her again and watched the burst of rapture on her face. He inhaled deeply, holding back the urge to dive into the mindless, exquisite release. Not yet.
She pushed on him, levering so she could ride him tighter. He rested his hands on her thighs, letting her. Until he felt her tiring—yet desperate.
‘Liam.’ Her call came, broken, needy.
He slid his hands higher, cupping her butt and supporting her as he thrust upwards, maintaining her tempo, then pushing it further, faster.
She cried out—pleasure bursting in brief phrases and then moans as words could no longer be formed. He watched the deepening flush and glow of her skin, the red, tight nipples, even redder plump lips and the wild, big eyes.
This was the Victoria he’d wanted—the one he’d caught a glimpse of all those years ago. The lusty, pleasure-bent, hungry woman who’d take what she wanted. Not aiming to please him—but taking pleasure, enjoying herself. Able to give so much—yes. But also able to receive. The woman made for loving.
It satisfied him immensely that she was open, receiving pleasure from him. He arched, his spine stiffening as he realised how much he wanted to give her. Passion rushed in his ears as a piercing cry broke from her. He saw it as she shuddered, bearing down on him as the convulsions racked through her body. And he felt it as she collapsed forward, lax in his arms, blanketing him with her soft warmth.
He wrapped both arms around her, gripping her shoulders hard, his forearms pressing down on her back so she was squashed even tighter against him as he finally allowed himself to come.
He found he liked the tiny bed after all. The only way for them to fit on it was if they were locked together, either side-by-side or with one on top of the other.
Mid-morning he fell asleep like that. Still inside her.
Sweat had smudged the ink—the words she’d drawn on him, mingled in a mess of blue on both their skins. Liam stood in the shower behind Victoria who had her eyes closed as she rinsed frothy shampoo from her hair. While she did, he scrubbed at the ink with the palm of his hand. He could still see the anchor on his hip.
Stupid to be so bugged by such a common, naval theme. A million guys out there had tattoos just like it. There was no underlying meaning in that symbol. Yet, impossibly, he felt bound—just by the play of last night.
He didn’t want to be weighed down. He didn’t want permanent ties. Nothing anchoring him—not any one place. Not any one person.
Suddenly a flannel-filled hand pushed his out of the way and tried to scour away the image.
‘It’s