Bitten by Desire by Marguerite Kaye Read Free Book Online Page B

proud and ready. She looked at him, unashamedly relishing the very masculine lines of him, hard and unyielding in contrast to her own soft and pliant body. He leaned over her and untied the strings of her nightgown, easing it down so that she too was naked. Now she understood fully the reason for her curves. They were two halves of one being, she and Vaelen. Imogen held out her arms and Vaelen covered her body with his, skin to skin, lips to lips, chest to breast, thigh to thigh, at every point of contact pulses jumping, blood rushing, that raw, exposed over-attenuated ragged feeling soothed with the balm of love.
    He kissed her again, not gently this time but with hard passion, and she sighed. His hands caressed her face, her throat, her breasts, his thoughts encouraging her to follow, to mirror him, the pleasure painted on his face telling her that what she did to him felt exactly the same as what he did to her. His mouth, heated by hers, trailed kisses of fire onto her breasts, sucking her nipples so that she gasped as the needling, jolting pleasure took hold in her belly and in her sex. His erection was hard between her legs, the tip nudging at her damp entrance. She wanted him inside her. If she did not have him inside her now, she would, she would…
    He read her thoughts, smiled with potent promise as he stroked her hair, and kissed her languorously. Then slowly, achingly slowly, he moved into her, and into her, and into her, his thick shaft making her muscles clench and shiver, little pulses of pleasure like sprays of stars arcing up, lighting her from the inside. Vaelen tilted her carefully and pushed higher. She moaned and clutched at his back, pulling him to her. He kissed her—a deep, hot crimson kiss, dark with delight. He said her name, or thought it.
    Imogen.
    Vaelen.
    Then he moved, slowly withdrawing to the tip of his manhood, slowly back, and again, and again, each time a little faster, a little harder, saying her name in time. His eyes were fixed on hers, watching every nuance of pleasure as he thrust and withdrew, saying her name with each thrust, Imogen, Imogen, Imogen. She felt herself swelling and shattering at the same time. She cried out, and bucked under him, felt him swelling too, felt the contraction of his own climax seconds after her own, his pulsing and her pulsing together. He filled her. She was so shattered with pleasure that she thought she would fly apart were he not holding her, melding into her, kissing her.
    â€œNow,” she panted. “I love you, Vaelen. Do it now.”
    He hesitated. Looked deep into her eyes and saw no hesitation at all. “I love you, my own darling Imogen.” His voice was husky with something that in another being would be tears. He licked the pulse that beat at her throat. “I love you,” he said fervently. “I love you.” A prayer.
    Then he fastened his lips on the tender skin of her neck.

Epilogue
    Although the bride was still in half-mourning, the groom’s desire to flaunt his love before the world and the world’s desire to attend the most talked-about match of the Season made the wedding of Imogen, formerly the Duchess of Strathfyne, and Vaelen, the Earl of Kilmun—for he chose not to reveal his litany of other titles—an extravagant affair indeed.
    It took place at St James’s church one bright June morning. The bride wore a gown of sea-green silk with a jade over-dress of sarsenet lace. The bodice was low, the puffed sleeves slashed. Her only adornment was a long string of freshwater pearls which glowed pink on her creamy bosom. Though some—such as Lady Cullen—looked down from their willowy heights and claimed they thought her too lacking in stature for beauty, her bosom rather too full for the fashion, most agreed that Imogen looked radiant.
    Certainly her groom, standing at the altar, had eyes only for her. As she had eyes only for him. As the Dowager Duchess of Strathfyne—now,