HELEN BIANCHIN - The Marriage Arrangement

She flung him a baleful glare. ‘Because I’m independent.’

‘And stubborn,’ Miguel added.

‘No,’ she disagreed. ‘Self-sufficient.’

‘Tenacious.’

‘That, too,’ she admitted, then allowed, ‘If I have a problem, I promise I’ll call on you.’

It would have to suffice, Miguel conceded. ‘Are we going to stand here bandying words, or do we go to bed?’

She felt inclined to deny him. To turn her back and ascend the stairs alone. Yet to deny him was to deny herself. And she needed the reassurance of his touch, the possession of her body. To feel, in the darkness of the night, that she meant more to him than just part of his life as a convenient wife. To pretend for a while that the marriage was real, and what they shared was special, not just very good sex.

‘Oh, bed,’ she agreed. ‘Definitely.’

‘Minx,’ he declared. ‘What if I’m tired?’

‘Are you?’ she asked seriously, then wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I wouldn’t think of overtaxing your strength.’

He laughed, and the sound curled round her nerve-ends as he caught hold of her hand and led her upstairs. ‘Let’s see who cries wolf first, shall we?’

This, Hannah breathed shakily minutes later as Miguel slid the zip fastening free from her gown, was like entering a sensual heaven. He had the touch, the knowledge, the skill, to divine a woman’s needs.

And fulfil them, she added with a silent gasp as the gown slid in a silken heap to the floor. The light brush of his fingertips trailed an evocative path over sensitised skin as he eased the silken briefs down over her thighs.

She stepped free of them and at the same time discarded the heeled shoes that added four inches to her height.

He was wearing too many clothes, and she pushed his jacket from his shoulders, tugged at his tie, then freed shirt buttons with restless speed.

His lips settled at the sensitive hollow at the edge of her neck, and sensation arrowed through her body as he used his tongue and his teeth to tease a tantalising kiss that had her arching towards him.

His shirt fell onto the carpet, and her fingers feverishly attacked the buckle on his belt, then tended to the zip on his trousers.

Miguel’s contribution to shucking his clothes was to step out of his shoes and pull off his socks.

She reached for his briefs, and slid them free, awed by the state of his arousal. It fascinated her that such a part of man’s anatomy could drive a woman wild, and provide such pleasure.

Unbidden, she drew the pads of her fingers lightly over its silken length, caressing with a sense of captive thrall.

‘Amada,’ Miguel growled softly. ‘If you don’t want to be tossed down onto the bed and possessed without delay, I suggest you stop that now.’

She lifted her head and offered him an infinitely sweet smile. ‘Why?’

He uttered a faint groan. ‘Madre de Dios.’ The words left his lips in a ragged supplication as he dragged her close.

His mouth covered hers in a kiss that drugged her senses and tore at the very fabric of her soul.

Control, she had none. There were only the man, the moment, and an intensity of emotions so overwhelming she simply held on and joined him as he took her to the heights and beyond before free-falling down to a state of exotic warmth and satiation.

Her body felt like a finely tuned instrument that had been played by a virtuoso. Exultant, still clinging to the sweet sorcery of a master’s exquisite touch.

She loved the feel of him, his sheer strength and passion, tempered by a control she sorely wanted to break. What would it be like to experience his unbridled lovemaking? To crash through the barriers of restraint and be taken with a raw primitive hunger that knew no bounds?

Dear Lord. Just thinking about it sent renewed heat racing through her veins and had her moving restlessly against him.

His lips brushed her temple, almost as if he were attuned to the depths of her innermost needs, and his arms tightened as she found his mouth with her own.

This time it was she who nurtured his desire and sent it spiralling towards hungry passion in a mesmeric coupling that left them both slick with sensual sweat and fighting to regain a steady breath.

‘Witch,’ Miguel teased huskily as he buried his lips against her breast.

‘Hmm,’ Hannah murmured with bemused contentment, only to give a tiny gasp as he began teasing the tender peak, alternately with his tongue and the edge of his teeth, taking her to the brink between pleasure and pain.

Then with one fluid movement he slid from the bed, scooped her into his arms, carried her into the en suite and stepped into the large shower stall.

Seconds later warm water cascaded from four strategically positioned shower-heads, and Hannah slid to her feet as Miguel reached for the soap.

Evocatively sensual, they lingered for a while, then Miguel closed the water dial, snagged two towels, and once dry, they returned to bed to sleep.

Except after the first few hours Hannah was plagued by dreams that had her tossing restlessly until dawn, followed by a deep fitful sleep as light began filtering through the curtains.

She was unaware of the soothing touch of the man who lay beside her, or that he curled her body close in to his more than once through the night.

Nor was she aware that he woke early, and propped himself comfortably on his side to watch her sleep.

She had delicate features, and the softest, silkiest skin of any woman he’d had the pleasure to touch, he mused gently. The tousled length of her hair lent an abandoned look, and her lashes were long, curling upwards at the ends. The mouth was lush, the lips softly curved in sleep. Capable hands, slender, displaying the band of diamonds and splendid pear-shaped solitaire that claimed her as his own.

She bore an air of fragility that was deceptive, for she possessed an inner strength, an innate honesty that decried artifice or deceit.

He would have liked to rouse her into wakefulness, to feather light kisses over every inch of her skin until she reached for him, then make long, slow love.

The generosity of her response never failed to move him, physically, mentally, emotionally.

Miguel felt his senses stir, and knew if he remained in bed she wouldn’t sleep much longer. With a husky groan he rolled over and slid to his feet, then he walked naked into the en suite and stood beneath the shower.

HANNAH woke late, took one look at the digital clock and raced to the shower, then she dressed and applied basic make-up in record time before running lightly downstairs.

Miguel was in the process of draining the last of his coffee when she entered the kitchen, and heat flared through her veins at the mere sight of him.

It was as if she could still feel his touch, the masculine heat of his possession, the passion…

Dear heaven, she cursed shakily. This was post-coital awareness at its most provocative!

He looked at her and glimpsed the faint tremor that shook her lush mouth. Did she have any conception of her beauty? Something that went far beyond the visual, to the depths of her soul. At this precise moment she was remarkably transparent, and it moved him almost beyond measure.

He watched as she collected a glass and poured herself some fresh orange juice, then she plucked a slice of toast from the rack and spread it with marmalade.

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ Hannah queried in the quest for normality. She took a bite of the toast and followed it down with black sweet coffee.

He looked every inch the corporate executive, his tailoring impeccable, a dark silk tie resting against a pristine white shirt.

‘I reset the alarm,’ Miguel relayed imperturbably, and checked his watch. ‘Timed to go off around now.’ He cast her a quizzical glance. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’