Heidi Rice - Contracted As His Cinderella Bride

Of course, he knew. Why had she thought he wouldn’t notice? A man with his experience, who had probably slept with dozens of women.

She shifted, trying to adjust to the thick length inside her, hoping to regain the desire that had disappeared in a rush. But his fingers flexed on her hips, and he flinched.

‘Don’t move,’ he groaned. ‘I don’t want to hurt you more.’

‘It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt.’

‘Don’t lie,’ he said, his gaze shadowed now, the horror replaced with surprise and something that looked like guilt. ‘I am your first. Is this not the case?’

She wanted to lie, to take the guilt out of his expression. But how could she, when it was clearly obvious?

‘Yes, but it’s not a big deal,’ she murmured, because it really wasn’t. Or at least it shouldn’t have been. Up until the moment he had entered her, she’d been delirious with pleasure. He’d brought her to orgasm. Twice. And more than anything she wanted to do the same for him. To see him shatter the way he had made her shatter.

‘I must withdraw,’ he said.

‘No, don’t.’ She clasped his shoulders. ‘Don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop.’ The tearing pain had already lessened, the tendrils of heat building again at her core, the pulsing ache becoming sharp and insistent.

‘Damn it, Alison, you don’t know what you ask of me. I am not sure I can be gentle.’

The growled admission, grudging and yet gruff with desperation, had her heart contracting.

‘I don’t need you to be gentle, Dominic. I just need you to treat me like a woman.’

To treat me like your woman.

The foolishly romantic thought echoed in her head.

She buried it deep. She hadn’t lied when she’d told him her virginity was not a big deal to her. She was twenty-five years old. It was ridiculous she’d waited this long. And yes, it had hurt. But already the full stretched feeling had changed into something closer to pleasure than pain. He filled her up in a way that made her breath hitch, and her clitoris throb with renewed yearning.

‘I’m not fragile,’ she added, because he was still braced above her, not moving, his face strained with the effort it was taking him to hold still. ‘Really I’m not. I know what I want.’ And what I want is you.

She threaded her fingers into his hair, coaxing him to do what they both needed. He swore softly, but then placed a hand at her cheek, brushing his thumb across her lips.

‘D’accord, ma belle,’ he murmured, his gaze becoming dark and intense as he glided out of her, then thrust back in, slowly, carefully, sinking in to the hilt.

The head of his penis massaged a spot deep inside her and she gasped, the delicious shudder adding to the heat at her core.

‘C’est bien?’ he asked, his perfect English having deserted him.

‘Yes,’ she moaned. ‘It’s good.’

He established a rhythm—slow at first, and then building—digging at that spot ruthlessly, relentlessly as heat fired over her skin.

The waves of pleasure gathered again with each new thrust of his hips, each new jolt of desire. She clung to him, the only solid object in the storm engulfing her. Every pulse and heartbeat became attuned to the ravages of pleasure he was waging on her body. The steady rhythm became harder, faster, overwhelming, unstoppable.

She couldn’t think any more, couldn’t make sense of the sounds and sights around her, all she could do was feel...

Her moans became pants, her sex contracting, massaging the hard length. The brutal pleasure coiled tighter at her core. The edge of desire so sharp she felt buffeted, burned, undone.

Then his thumb found the swollen folds where their bodies joined, triggering a conflagration so fierce and all-consuming she cried out.

Her body arched into his, the shattering orgasm exploding along her nerve-endings, like a shimmering light, splintering and then retreating to splinter again.

She could hear her own sobs, her fingers fisting in his hair, as he finally let her tumble to earth—his shout of fulfilment following her over that high wide edge.

His big body collapsed on top of her, his raw pants matched hers, the musty scent of sex and sweat mingling with the shiver of surrender.

She hugged him, exhausted, spent. Her sex sore, her body limp. She caressed the silky strands at his nape now damp with sweat, and tried not to acknowledge the debilitating wave of emotion threatening to engulf her.

It’s just sex. Just for one night. It doesn’t mean anything.

But still she couldn’t quite ignore the faltering beat of her heart at the realisation that, after twelve years, all her foolish teenage fantasises had finally come true. And it had definitely been worth the wait.

BREATHE, DAMN IT. Breathe .

Dominic’s hands slipped from Alison’s hips as he withdrew. She flinched and the dart of shame stabbed at his chest.

His fingers shook as he imagined the bruising imprint of his thumbs on the soft skin where he’d gripped her as he’d pumped into her.

What the hell had just happened? Because what should have been a smooth, subtle seduction had become something frenzied and frantic.

He’d planned to make love to her tonight as soon as they had been alone together in the study—and he’d seen the arousal in her eyes.

She was beautiful, captivating, she wanted him. And she could solve all his problems.

Figuring out where his housekeeper had hidden the first-aid box downstairs had given him more than enough time to consider the tempting possibilities Alison Jones’s reappearance in his life tonight might mean.

He needed a wife and she could be perfect for the role.

Not only did she turn him on to the point of madness, something Mira had never done, but he could offer her a home, and financial security. The fact she was completely unknown to the press with no scandal attached to her was another huge point in her favour. It would be a relatively simple job to set up a new PR narrative to explain their whirlwind romance and wedding. Mira had been out of the country for over a month, he and Alison had known each other as children, they’d met again when she’d delivered something to his home and one thing had led to another.

The only question had been whether she desired him, too. Had he imagined that spark? Because it suited his own ends so perfectly?

But as soon as he’d walked into the study and seen her face flush and her breathing accelerate, he’d known he hadn’t imagined anything. And when he had touched her bare foot, and she’d nearly jumped out of the chair, he’d had to swallow a harsh laugh.

Game on.

But why hadn’t he questioned her artless responses, the beguiling blush that had spread across her collarbone as soon as he’d started flirting with her?

She’d been as eager as him, that was why. He’d assumed the blush, the innocence were all an accomplished act, an act to disguise the fact she was more than ready to take Mira’s place—especially when she had questioned him about the business deal.

He’d been in her situation himself, years ago when he’d been destitute after arriving in Paris with three broken ribs and not a penny to his name, so why would he judge her for taking the easy option? Of snagging a rich man? Hadn’t his own mother—and hers—tried to do the same?

But once he’d tasted her, the sophisticated seduction he’d planned had changed into something elemental.

She had tasted like she smelled. Strawberries and chocolate. Sweet and decadent. But more than that, she had tasted of summer, and sunshine, and joy and surrender.

The fanciful thoughts had scattered, becoming dark and earthy and driven as she’d squirmed against his hardening erection, like a cat desperate to be stroked.