The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“Sweetheart, if you would rather not—”

He sensed a hesitancy in her. He gently touched his fingers to her cheek, and she raised her eyes to him again. With a fierceness that made him forget his own name, she arched her back upward, letting the covers fall from her breasts, and pressed herself against his chest. She held to him tightly, her hands sweeping down his back. “Oh, yes, Julien, please, please. This is what I want. You’re what I want. No other man, just you, only you.”

Her voice was breathless, somehow unnatural, but now he was aware only of her and his nearly savage need for her. Impatiently he threw back the covers and gathered her to him. He swept his hands down through her hair to her hips and pressed her hard against him. She buried her face against his shoulder, and he felt an exquisite rippling of pleasure as she dug her fingers into his back.

“Dear God,” he whispered against her ear, “you don’t know. You can’t know. I’ve wanted you and wanted you for a very long time.” He buried his face in her hair, savoring the rich softness.

He felt her fingers, feather light, touch his hair. “Don’t you want me, Julien? You said you did, but you’re not doing anything. Can’t we just get it done? Truly, I want to very much.”

He smiled, cupping her chin in his hand so that he could gaze into her full face. “I think the answer to your question should be fairly obvious.” He grinned at her and moved gently on top of her.

She paled at the feel of him, pushing against her belly, moving down now so that his sex was hard against her woman’s flesh. Her hips lifted. But he didn’t move, just continued to hold her chin firmly. He kissed her lightly. “Don’t be so impatient, sweetheart. I would give you pleasure first. That’s the way of things, you know. I want to see your pleasure very badly.”

“Oh, no, please, Julien, don’t do that to me, please don’t. I would that you take—” Her voice trailed off, and he sensed again that something was very wrong.

“Hush, sweetheart.” His mouth closed over hers. He remembered her pleasure, oh, yes, remembered it all too well, the heat of her, the clenching of her muscles, her urgency. He drew up, and now his hands were on her breasts, kneading them very gently, for she was carrying his babe and surely her breasts were tender; perhaps they were even fuller but he couldn’t remember. He looked down to see other signs of her pregnancy. Her waist was still slender, but there was, he saw, a slight fullness to her belly. She lay perfectly quiet in the crook of his arm as his hand moved at will over her body. She stiffened against him only when he closed his lips over a soft pink nipple. He felt exquisite delight as the nipple grew taut at the touch of his probing tongue. He willed himself to go slowly with her. He had to do this right, he had to.

The quickness of her response surprised him, a long quiver that rippled the length of her body.

“Oh, no, Julien, no, please don’t.”

He looked into her eyes now, studying her. “Would you truly rather that I stopped?” She bit her lip and looked away. “Would you?”

“No.” That single word, so great in its significance, nearly made him a wild man.

The silence of the room was broken at first by a low moan of pleasure that she couldn’t keep buried. As she arched against him, her hands moving frantically over his shoulders and through his hair, she cried out once more and he thought he’d die with the pleasure of it. His fingers changed their rhythm, now stroking her soft flesh more quickly, more deeply. It was enough and too much, for she reached her climax in that instant, twisting beneath his hand, and he held her still, his hand on her belly. He gave her that instant, intensifying her pleasure to the fullest, before moving quickly astride her. His fingers parted her and he felt himself engulfed in the warmth of her body. He didn’t hurt her, for she was ready for him and it seemed she wanted more of him, and thus he pushed deep, closing his eyes against the pleasure, feeling her arms tighten around his back.