Bride for a Night(18)

How the devil any woman could sleep in the ridiculous garment defied his imagination.

But far from repulsed by her appearance, Gabriel’s fingers twitched with the urge to slowly untangle her from the mounds of linen, slowly unveiling her voluptuous body.

What could be more enticing than unwrapping her as if she were a long-awaited gift?

He would lay her on the bed and explore every inch of her satin skin. First with his hands and then with his lips. And only when she was begging for release would he enter her and quench his aching need.

As if sensing his lecherous thoughts, Talia pressed a trembling hand to her throat. Her dark curls tumbled about her shoulders, and her emerald eyes were wide with shock.

Gabriel felt a momentary hesitation.

Hell, she looked so damned innocent.

“My lord,” she breathed.

Annoyed by the brief stab of conscience, Gabriel grimly reminded himself that this female had been willing to become a sacrificial virgin to the highest title. He had held up his side of the bargain, it was time that she do the same.

A sardonic smile curved his lips as he pushed from the door and glided forward.

“Ah, my obedient bride.”

Talia licked her lips. “What are you doing here?”

“Surely you cannot be surprised?” He circled around her stiff form, his hunter instinct fully aroused. “This is our wedding night.”

“Yes, but…” She trembled as his fingers brushed her cheek. “I did not expect you.”

“Obviously.” He stopped directly before her and lowered his hand to tug at the ribbon of her hideous robe. “Or did you choose this garment in the hopes it would send me fleeing in terror?”

“There is nothing wrong with my robe.” Her husky voice brushed over his skin like a caress. “It is perfectly respectable.”

Untangling the last of the ribbons, Gabriel turned his attention to the endless row of buttons.

“It at least answers one of my questions.”

The sound of her jagged breath was the only indication that she was aware he was disrobing her, and Gabriel couldn’t halt a renegade flare of admiration as she faced him with a fragile dignity. “What question?”

His heart missed a beat as his fingers brushed the soft mound of her breast.

“Whether or not you are a virgin,” he said, his voice oddly thick. “No female of experience would wear a garment that resembles a funeral shroud rather than a gown that enhances her natural…assets.”

Her eyes flashed. “If you have come here to insult me…”

“You know why I am here.”

Her brief display of temper faltered at his stark words. He felt her quiver beneath his hands, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

“But you do not want me as your wife,” she said huskily.

He swallowed his sharp laugh. She truly was na?ve if she thought this night had anything to do with wanting her as a wife.

A biting need raced through him, and with a sharp motion he grasped the fabric of her robe and yanked it apart. He heard her gasp of shock as the remaining buttons scattered in a shower of impatience.

“And yet, here you are in my home, the Countess of Ashcombe,” he rasped, his arousal heavy with desire as he parted the torn fabric to at last reveal the soft ivory curves.

Bloody hell. She was as perfect as he had imagined.

He tugged off the offensive robe, his hands lightly skimming over her narrow shoulders and down the delicate line of her collarbone. His blood sizzled as his gaze slid over the breasts that were full and tipped with nipples the color of ripe berries begging for his lips. Slowly, his attention lowered to her narrow waist that flared to feminine hips. Then, as his gaze reached the dark thatch of hair cradled between her legs, his fragile control snapped.