“Cleo,” he gasped, biting down gently on her earlobe.
She arched beneath him, pressing her br**sts into his sweat-slick chest. He followed his bite with a kiss, his tongue licking and laving.
She let go then, surrendered, muscles squeezing and tightening in a blinding flash of pleasure and pain.
Her vision grayed at the corners and she wondered if she had perhaps died, the feelings shuddering through her too great, too powerful . . . too much.
Her muscles eased, body liquefying into a puddle as he moved a last time inside her and then removed himself suddenly, spilling himself elsewhere. Her head lolled to the side as a great lethargy stole over her. Even in that moment with her thoughts muddled, she understood what he was doing . . . that he cared about what she wanted enough to take such precautions for her.
The bed eased from his weight and he was gone. Frowning, she lifted her head and searched for his shape, smiling when he soon returned. He settled back down beside her, spooning his body to hers.
She lay utterly still as her body’s pleasure ebbed. But still a lingering pleasure remained with his warm chest aligned to her back. Her husband.
It felt right. Everything about this felt right. He brushed the hair from her shoulder. His chest lifted with a deep inhalation behind her. He’d be asleep soon.
Slowly, Cleo returned to herself. It had come to pass. She’d surrendered to her passions. Although somehow this didn’t frighten her anymore. She wasn’t repeating her mother’s mistakes. She looked down at his darker hand splayed against her stomach, deciding it was a sight she could grow accustomed to seeing.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Cleo woke sprawled in the middle of an empty bed. Her cheeks warmed and she couldn’t help wondering if she’d been in this position all night, n**ed and tangled up with Logan.
He was missing now, but the bed beside her still radiated his warmth. He couldn’t have been gone long. She rolled onto her back. A slow smile curved her mouth as she relived the night. Pleasurable heat suffused her. There was no regret. Only an anxious eagerness to do it again.
The pale light of dawn crept through the crack in the heavy tapestry drapes. In the back of her mind, she mused that those needed updating. Perhaps a lighter color and in damask.
Eager to see Logan again, she hopped from the bed and made short work of dressing herself. Accustomed to doing such things for herself—and her many siblings—she arranged her hair in a loose chignon. Satisfied that she was presentable enough to emerge and face the world, she stepped from the room into the chilly corridor with a buoyancy of spirit she hadn’t felt in years. Perhaps ever.
Striding down the corridor, she passed a servant who looked decidedly nervous when she caught sight of Cleo. The woman’s gaze skittered from Cleo down to her feet. Cleo hoped she didn’t look that intimidating. Certainly in time the household staff would warm to her.
Still focused on her feet, the maid practically raced the last few steps to get past Cleo. Frowning at her odd behavior, Cleo continued down the hall.
The sound of low voices reached her ears just as she rounded the corner. Everything slowed then.
As if she were moving underwater, she stilled, her feet sliding to a stop on the worn-thin runner. Her gaze fastened on her husband standing practically nose-to-nose with the maid, Mary. Each of his large hands gripped her shoulders.
The girl was weeping. Again. With Logan’s hands on her, the sight did nothing to stir Cleo’s pity. Tears were often used in order to manipulate. If that was Mary’s game, it was working. Logan’s face was sympathetic, perhaps even apologetic as he murmured words to her. Words of comfort? Regret? She couldn’t hear. Perhaps he was making promises to her? Promises that their relationship wouldn’t change simply because he’d married.
An ugly feeling swept over her. Anger but something else, something more. A myriad of emotions too deep and complicated to sort.
Mary stroked Logan’s cheek as if she had every right to touch another woman’s husband. And Logan allowed it. Allowed her fingers to caress his face so tenderly.
Cold rage washed over her. Humiliation so deep and aching she wanted to lash out. At him. At her. He was what she had been running from, after all—the very man she’d wanted to protect herself from. Someone who took what he wanted and then stomped all over her as she were dirt to be trod upon.
He was the type of pain she’d wished to avoid. And still he had found her. The moment she trusted him. The moment she gave herself to him, it had happened. He crushed her.
She pressed the back of her hand to her feverish cheek and inhaled. She’d never be so foolish again. He could have whatever village girl he wanted. He could have every single one of them for all she cared.
But he’d never have her again.
As if to solidify this decision, Cleo held her ground, forcing herself to watch as Mary stood on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.
Despite her vow not to care, she gasped—too loudly to remain undetected.
Logan jerked and pushed Mary’s lush figure away. He whirled around, his gaze zeroing in on Cleo, his gray eyes alert as a hawk, intent and alive in that way that always curled her toes and melted her resolve. Now it only left a sour taste in her mouth.
Mary brightened, her tears vanishing as she settled her hands on her curvaceous h*ps and swayed where she stood, her eyes flashing with triumph as she assessed Cleo.
Logan took a step in her direction, reaching for her. “Cleo—”
She shook her head and stepped back swiftly. “No.”
It was just a word but she put everything into it, conveyed all her anger, all her hurt and disappointment with the single utterance.
His eyes flickered with something, an emotion she couldn’t identify, and she knew he understood. Whatever they’d had, however close they’d come to something special . . . it was lost.
Turning, she raced back to her bedchamber. He was there, after her before she could consider a better place to flee. Not that any part of this castle belonged to her. Not that she could escape him or his world.
He caught the door before she could slam it shut. She hurried to the center of the room, hoping to put distance between them. Whirling around, she faced him, feeling as wild and desperate as a cornered animal.
He held up two hands in the air as though to placate her. “It isn’t what it looks like—”
“Said the husband to the wife,” she mocked bitterly.
“Cleo—”
“No.” She swiped a hand through the air. “And you claimed you didn’t want everyone to think our union was contentious?” She laughed harshly, dizzy from her furious thoughts. “What an idiot I am! You can’t even wait a day before you begin your dalliances. And after last night?” She squared her shoulders. “I want my own room. Either this one or another. I care not. I refuse to share a bed with you again.”
His face tightened with frustration . . . and something else she’d never seen before. Something that made her feel a stab of discomfort. As though something were slipping away here, dying for good.
“Cleo, it doesn’t have to be—”
“What? As long as I turn a blind eye to your dalliances we can continue our farce of a marriage? I can continue repeating last night with no shame or regret?” She motioned to the bed, her face heating as she recalled everything she’d done last night. The memory mortified her.
“It wasn’t like that . . . Mary is an old friend—”
“Stop!” She held up both hands and squeezed her eyes in a tight blink. “Please spare me the details. I don’t want to hear about your sordid history.”
He grabbed her hands and pulled them down, stepping close, encroaching on her space. “I suppose I should feel flattered you’re so jealous.”
“Jealous?” She winced at the shrill quality to her voice. Swallowing, she tried again, her tone much more even and controlled as she said, “Hardly that, I can assure you!”
He angled his head and stared down at her, his expression stark. “Don’t let this destroy us before we’ve even had a chance.”
“We never had a chance. I see that now.”
His face hardened, his eyes darkening so much that they didn’t even look gray any more but black instead. “That’s what you think?”
She nodded, a painful lump rising in her throat.
Turning, he marched for the door. “Perhaps you’re right then.”
She flinched as he yanked open the door. She pressed her lips into a thin line, almost as though she didn’t trust herself not to call him back. What a terrible contrary creature she was . . . her body in constant battle with her head.
His chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “If we never had a chance, it’s because you decided that from the start.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but managed only a small squeak when he slammed the door shut again and charged toward her.
She backed up several steps until she collided with one of the bedposts.
“You’re a prisoner of your fears. I’m not your father. I’m not your stepfather.” His hands came up to seize her arms. “And you’re not your mother.”
His words flayed her. Tears burned her eyes. Her voice shook unconvincingly. “You don’t know . . .”
“I’ve got a better grasp on what’s real than you do.” His eyes sparked like shards of ice. “And I know this.” Before she could react, he forced a punishing kiss on her, trapping her hands between them. She balled her hands into fists, desperate to strike him, but could not free them.
He came up for air, growling against her mouth, “You know that I didn’t betray you out in that corridor . . . not hours after I spent loving you in this bed. You’re looking for a reason to run, and I won’t let you.”
“I know no such thing.”
“Stubborn,” he rasped and then kissed her again. This time less punishing, but no less consuming.
Heat blossomed where their mouths fused. She didn’t know the moment everything changed but it did. Her hands loosened, palms turning outward to splay against his chest. Her mouth softened and opened to him. She kissed him back, her anger releasing itself in this. In passion.
Now she knew what to do. She’d had a taste, a sample, and she couldn’t resist what her body craved, needed like air.
He picked her up off her feet and dropped her down on the bed. They came at each other hastily. His hands dove beneath her skirts as he settled between her thighs. She reached for the front of his trousers, fumbling to free him.
Their lips never severed. They kissed hotly, tongues mating. She gasped into his mouth as the hard length of him sprang into her hand, silk on steel, thick and pulsing hard. She wrapped her fingers around him and squeezed. A shudder racked his body.
And then he was there, shoving inside her with one smooth thrust. Her body took him, eager and ready. He moved fast and hard, every stroke slick with their desire.
His fingers dug into her hips, gripping her for his sensual assault. She cried out, whimpering as he increased his pace. He lifted her higher off the bed, and the position did something to her—each plunging thrust ignited her, struck some unidentifiable spot in her clenching core. Sensation ripped through her, sparking each nerve ending.
She arched her spine, anxious to accommodate. The delicious friction grew, became unbearable. She fisted the bed at her sides, a boneless, quivering mass as he worked over her. It was close . . . that place where she’d exploded into a million tiny particles before. She kissed him harder, bit down on his lips.
He moaned and slammed into her, flinging them both over the edge. Cleo shouted, bursting from the inside out. Shivers rippled over her. He came over her, his weight covering her even as he remained lodged inside her.
For a long moment, she reveled in it. The delicious weight of him. His pulsing member inside her. And then horror arrived in full force.