To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(61)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

And she walked from the sitting room.

Chapter Fifteen

The princess shrank in fear, but though he knelt on one knee, Longsword did not flinch. He met the dragon’s charge with the steel of his blade. Once, twice, thrice, he swung his mighty sword, and when at last the dust had cleared and all was silent again, there lay the great dragon, dying at his feet. And as the beast died, its form changed until a horrid hag lay in its place, for it was the evil witch herself who had assumed the shape of a dragon.

Well! The princess was quite pleased, I can tell you. She rushed to release her father the king. When it was made known to him that Longsword had by himself defeated the evil witch, the king was happy indeed to give his only child as a reward.

And so it was that Longsword married a princess royal….

—from Longsword

It was well after midnight by the time Reynaud joined her in their bed. Beatrice lay still, feigning sleep. It was her wifely duty to let him make love to her if he so desired, but she certainly had no desire at the moment. Not when they’d argued. He probably hated her now for the blunt things she’d said, but she’d had to say them.

She’d married a man who thought only of himself.

So she stared into the darkness and breathed evenly and slowly, in and out, without hitch, as if she was deep in slumber. She listened as he undressed—the rustle of fabric, a soft mutter when he bumped into something—and she’d never felt so lonely in her life.

He blew out his candle, and the bed dipped and shook as he climbed in. The bedclothes tightened on her shoulder as he pulled them over himself, and then he lay still. She stared into darkness. The minutes ticked by, and for a bit she thought he might’ve fallen asleep.

But then he said, “Beatrice.”

She didn’t move.

He sighed. “Beatrice, I know you’re awake.”

She bit her lip. It seemed rather silly to continue to pretend sleep, but if she acknowledged him now, it would be an admittance that she’d pretended in the first place.

“I know I’ve disappointed you,” Reynaud said quietly. “I know I’m probably not the type of man you would’ve wanted for yourself, had you had the choice.”

She curled her fingers into the coverlet but still didn’t say a word.

“But I’m the man you have, and that’s final. You’ll just have to make the best of it.” He was quiet a moment. “And if you can’t be happy with me tonight, do you think you could at least come lie next to me? Dammit, I’ve grown used to holding you while I sleep.”

As olive branches went, it wasn’t the most eloquent she’d ever heard, but it tugged at her heart anyway. Besides, she’d been the one to start the argument earlier. She’d been the one who chose to marry a man she knew wasn’t perfect. By rights, it should be her extending her hand in peace. Beatrice rolled over and came to rest against him.

“That’s better.” He yawned and wrapped his arm about her, pulling her close. “You’re so soft and warm.” He was silent a moment, his breathing growing deeper; then he added sleepily, “And I like the smell of your hair.”

His breathing grew sonorous, and Beatrice knew he was asleep, but she was still awake. She listened to his heartbeat, slow and strong under her ear, and the reassuring sound of his breaths. And she knew, suddenly and completely, like the last brick sliding into a wall, that she loved him, this strange angry, exotic man. Was her love enough for the both of them?

She pondered the question for what seemed a long while, but she still had no answers when at last she fell asleep.

SHE WOKE TO the slide of warm hands on her back, strong and steady, moving down, reaching her bottom under her chemise. She lay on her side in the big bed, facing away from him, cocooned in the covers and him, still mostly asleep. She could feel his humid breath against her neck. One of his arms lay beneath her; the other stroked her bottom. All along her back, he was a large, hot presence, surrounding and protecting her. She was embraced by his heat and his scent.

In the world between dreams and waking, she felt him move against her, his hard erection insistent, demanding. She sighed a little, burrowing her face into the pillow. The room was gray with dawn’s advent, and she wanted him—needed him—even if he only desired her. The thought made her sad, and she pushed it aside, wanting to feel only him, to no longer think and worry.

He hooked his hands under her knees, curling them forward, parting her legs, and he moved into the space he’d created. He was larger now, his erection pressing against her bottom, hot and insistent. He slid forward and then his penis lay against her feminine flesh. She was wet, and he seemed just right there. Perfect, as if he’d always meant to be in that part of her. His cock glided through her folds, the head bumping her clitoris. She panted, suddenly overwhelmed by sensation. If only he loved her, too, this would be perfect.

But she would not think about that.

His hand caressed her hip and slid around to her front, petting her curling hair, pressing her just there. From behind, he withdrew his cock in a slow, sensuous caress and notched himself in her, intruding.

She moaned, threading her fingers with the hand that lay next to her cheek. It was suddenly too much, the sharpness of her desire mingled with the newfound knowledge of her love for him. Bittersweet tears pricked at her eyes.

He squeezed her fingers and thrust a little, his breadth shockingly large in this position. Her mouth opened in a soundless gasp, and she arched her back a little, tasting the salt of her tears on her tongue. He was slow but insistent, steadily pushing, filling her in gradual, devastating increments. She lifted her upper leg a bit, hooking it over his calf, and suddenly he was all the way in, his length stretching her. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back toward him in submission. He kissed her neck, openmouthed, still and large within her.

Then his hand moved, his fingers spreading to hold her femininity, and his middle finger pressed with exquisite accuracy on her sensitive bud.

Her hips arched into him. “Reynaud.”

“Hush,” he murmured against her neck.

He withdrew his cock, his flesh pulling against the walls of her core, and thrust hard. She had to push one hand against the bed to keep from sliding. He withdrew and thrust again and she moaned.

“Hush,” he whispered, seductive and invisible behind her. She felt the rough wet slide of his tongue on her neck.

He jolted into her again. Steady, relentless. Each movement shocking in its own way. She closed her eyes, biting her lip. She wanted to push back. Wanted to jerk against him and make him go faster until she exploded. She wanted to scream aloud her love. But that knowing hand buried in the juncture of her thighs held her, imprisoned her so that he might pleasure himself and her at his leisure.