A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(55)

“Logan,” she repeated, testing the name.

Soren smiled. “I believe we should start brewing ale at Pentreath.”

“Don’t,” she said, lifting her mug. “I don’t drink it.” Or she hadn’t before, but obviously she’d started.

His smile became a laugh, but she didn’t feel he was laughing at her. He seemed content. He reached across the table and touched her often. Her acceptance of his, no, their circumstances had pleased him.

Then again, he didn’t know what was going on in her head. Because if he did, he might not be so satisfied.

She had no mooring, she realized. The truth of her life was a question mark.

All she had was what she could experience in this moment, and although she smiled at Soren, she was conscious of a kernel of anger deep inside. He’d loved another woman.

She was second best and she was aware that he’d never used the word “love” with her.

Her son, when he was born, would not be her husband’s heir.

The thought caused her to down her ale. She would have asked for another, except Soren stood. “Come, wife,” he ordered playfully. “I’m tired and ready for my bed—and for you.”

That didn’t seem such a terrible idea.

He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and they went back to the hotel. She was glad he held her steady. She had to concentrate to walk.

Cassandra was amazed to discover that she could be so quietly furious with him, and yet want him to make love with her.

He hadn’t been playing when he’d made his comment in the inn. He started pulling at her laces in the back of her dress practically before they’d entered the door of their room.

They didn’t speak. They undressed. She was naked for all save the singular pearl around her neck.

He moved her toward the bed. She stopped him, grabbing his wrists. He let her hold him. His head lowered. He kissed her skin in the tenderest of places. He whispered words to her, calling her “golden” and “bold” but he did not try to break her hold.

That didn’t mean he didn’t touch her in other ways. She could feel his erection between them. He pressed it toward her.

Had she thought to control him? Why did she hold back? And then she understood—she wished he understood how hard it was for her to lose so much. His plans had not been her plans.

His lips brushed her ear. “If it could be any other way,” he whispered.

He knew.

She wasn’t certain if his knowledge reassured her or made her angrier.

His knee came between her legs and he eased her onto the bed. He found her lips.

This kiss was not like their others. It was emotional, raw, needy.

She wrapped her legs around his hips, bringing her to him and yet she wanted to push him away as well. She stretched out her arms, letting him lie upon her.

He found his way to her. He didn’t need his hands because she was more than ready. He went deep, deeper than he had the night before.

Their kiss changed. His tongue thrust with hers. It was as if she could swallow him whole. She groaned, the sound primitive and passionate.

In answer, he rolled onto his back, taking her with him. The kiss broke in surprise as she realized where she was. She sat on top, her knees a vise keeping him in place.

And she still held his wrist.

He looked up at her. His eyes were dark with desire. “Have me, Cass. Do as you wish.”

She didn’t understand what he meant until he moved, lifting his hips.

This was good. Very good.

The ale in her blood heated with lust. She was angry, and yet passion poured out of her. She released her hold on his wrists.

This was their marriage—and here, on this bed, she was his equal. She’d not have it any other way. Her hips matched his pace and then she set her own. She demanded. The pearl around her neck swung with her movements.

And he was wild as well.

He held her hips, encouraging her to take. She liked him beneath her. Liked feeling she had power. Her arms rose into the air as if she was a goddess praising the universe, and she sank deeper down on him. It was good, good, good— Her muscles tightened with a will of their own. Her body exploded with sensation. She was a goddess. She did own the universe.

And Soren was her mate. For good or for bad, he was hers.

He called her name. She was so lost in the moment of her coming, she heard it as if from a great distance, and then he flipped her over onto the bed. He spread her legs, lifting them in his arms and thrust deep and hard. Once, twice, and on the third, he let go.

She felt the rush of heat and the surge of his life force, and they were one.

He held her legs around his waist as if wanting her to hold him there. She obeyed. She had no will of her own. She had turned to stars and dust. She, who had known all power, was now without defenses. She nuzzled his ear and curled his hair around her fingers.

And she was still angry.

But she would go to Cornwall.

He moved first, rolling off her and gathering her close, her buttocks against his hips. As was his way, he covered their nakedness with the bedclothes.

She crumpled the feather pillow under her head, letting him hold her in his arms. The room smelled of them. She was wet between her legs. Her son might already be within her.

“I’ll make it up to you, Cassandra.” Were his words a promise or a plea?

He pressed a kiss on her shoulder. His whiskers scratched. She liked the feeling of his chest against her back.