Nalini Singh - Craving Beauty

Marc moved his hands up and down the curve of her waist, still not certain of her desire, trying to scare her off with his nearness and undeniable masculine arousal. Instead of backing off, her lips parted and she put her hands on his shoulders, pressing close.

He wasn't convinced. Not when she hid her face in the curve of his neck. Calling on every ounce of control he possessed, he ran his hands up her torso and boldly cupped her breasts. She jerked at the accelerated intimacy.

"Husband," she whispered against his skin. "What. . . do you do to me?" Her voice shook, but when he went to remove his hands, she moved just the tiniest bit closer, as if not wanting to lose his caress.

"Do you like this?" he asked in her ear, letting her continue to hide her face because he could feel the peb­bled hardness of her nipples.

Her hands clenched on his shoulders. "Yes."

If she really was a virgin, there was no way she could be faking the needy ache in her voice. "How's this?" His voice was a husky whisper as he released her breasts and moved down to gently squeeze her bottom.

Fingers digging into his shoulders, she pulled away, eyes big and worried. "Husband, these things shouldn't be done outside."

"There's no one to see." And he wanted to take her under the cerulean-blue sky, because he'd just figured out that she was telling the truth. His bride wanted him. There was a shocked innocence in her eyes that couldn't be fabricated. He knew that in his desire to test her, he'd touched her far too boldly, but he intended to make up for it by pleasuring her any way, every way she wanted.

She drew her head away. "Please." For a moment he saw such deep vulnerability in those tawny mountain-cat eyes that he was shocked. Never had he imagined that his sophisticated princess had a heart so very soft. What else was she hiding behind that hauteur of hers?

His interest in her multiplied again. At the same time, an almost painful tenderness took root in his heart, barely a bud but powerful despite it "All right, cher,"

He kissed her once, lingering at the mysterious taste of her, at the sweetness of her tentative response. When he asked for entrance into her mouth, she hesitated. "It's okay, baby," he whispered, his tone gone rough and low, "let me in."

Her body shivered under his hands as her lips soft­ened, giving him what he sought. Fighting the urge to conquer, he tasted her just enough to have him craving more. When they parted, she was staring up at him, roses blooming on both cheeks. No woman on Earth could've counterfeited the passion clouding those mag­nificent eyes. "Let's go inside. I need to shower, any­way."

"I will help bathe you." Her voice was soft, almost lost on the whispering bayou breeze.

His arousal became excruciating. "What?" Maybe he was still asleep and this was one hell of an erotic dream, because only there would a maiden wife make a sug­gestion like that.

"In my clan, it's the oldest of traditions that wives help their husbands bathe." She was biting her lower lip, her guilt obvious in the way her body had gone tense. "I've been shirking my duty because I knew you didn't know of it."

And, he guessed, because she was a virgin. How could he have expected an untutored girl to understand the barbarian hunger she'd probably seen in his eyes last night? Tenderness that he hadn't known he could feel made him move his hands up and down her back, gen­tling her.

"Would it be such a chore?" he whispered. Despite a lifetime of confidence, he found himself waiting for her response, armoring his heart against pain.

Her cheeks tinted again with that rosy shade that made her golden skin glow. "No." It was the softest of murmurs. Her lashes drifted down to hide her eyes from him, but he continued to feel her arousal in the way her nipples pressed against his chest. "You make me wish to touch you," she confessed, mouth almost on the skin of his chest.

"What about the scars?" he asked bluntly. Painful truth was better than a fantasy like the one he'd built around Lydia. The eventual shattering of fantasies tended to wound a man far more than honesty.

She ran a slim finger across one of the ragged scars on his chest. "In Zulheil, desert chieftains participate in a ceremony to show their loyalty to our sheik." Her fin­gers floated down to trace the faint lines that ran across his abdomen. "They mark their bodies with pride. You are a hunter like them and these are your scars of bat­tle." She pressed a kiss to the jagged scar that cut across his collarbone.

He shivered. "I suppose they could be considered battle scars." His childhood had been a battleground and he'd come up against his father's belt and his mother's fist more times than he cared to count. His hand stroked the bare skin of her hip. To his surprise, she cuddled closer. There was a softness to her body that spoke of true welcome.

"They make you... sexy to me." Her voice was almost indiscernible. "I see the men in your advertising and they are too pretty. Who would wish for a husband who couldn't protect them?"

Once again, he was reminded that his wife was a woman from another land, a land that for all its sophis­tication, had a primitive core that lay very close to the surface. "And you think I could?"

She tipped up her head. "Despite your civilized front, you're a hunter at heart." Her hand trailed up his chest, the languid stroking fuel to the slow burn of desire within him. "You see me as your property, and you'd never let anything hurt what is yours."

Her intuition startled him. Whatever the state of their marriage, in saying vows, he'd made her his and he would die protecting her if it came to that. Clenching his fist in her abundant hair, he tilted her head. "How do you like being my property?"

Mountain-cat eyes narrowed. "I am no man's prop­erty. I simply said that that is how you view me."

His lips quirked. "A subtle distinction."

"A distinction nonetheless. But, I will accept this—as your wife, I belong to you." Then she did something totally unexpected. She gripped the curling hairs on his chest with one hand, making him wince. "And, husband, if we lie together, you become mine ."

Well, well, well, Marc thought, at once amused and intrigued by the possessive interest in his wife's eyes. "The princess doesn't want to share?"

She pulled at the hairs in her grasp. Hard. "The prin­cess will never share. Decide."

He untangled her hand, fighting his grin. "My ti­gress." He had no intention of cheating. If he couldn't keep it in his pants, he would've never taken a wife. His father might have been an abusive tyrant but even he'd never sunk that low.

Ten minutes later Marc decided he was insane. Why wasn't he inside his wife's tight little body right now?

Because she was naked, wet and slippery, and slowly soaping his thighs. His arousal was blatant, but she avoided looking at that part of him, the possessive ti­gress suddenly turning shy. It was the reminder he needed that he was the experienced party. She'd only go so far before halting in confusion.

"Enough. I'm clean. Your turn." He took the soap from her, desperate enough to be completely unso­phisticated.

Her eyes went wide. "That is not custom!"

"It is in America." He turned her away from him so he could soap her back. "I, too, have been shirking my duty.''

Her body was so lovely that he thought he was dreaming. The slender waist he'd savored outside, flared into womanly hips that would cradle him deliciously when he drove into her. Those long legs of hers could make a man beg for mercy. Thankfully she didn't appear to like wearing shorts or she'd cause traffic accidents.

"This wasn't told to me in my lessons on American culture." She threw him a suspicious glance over one wet shoulder, water-darkened lashes delineating her tawny eyes even more sharply.