Contracted As His Cinderella Bride

‘So you are smart as well as beautiful.’ His thumb glided across her lips and her mouth opened instinctively on a sigh, the blood rushing in her ears.

‘If I asked to kiss you, Alison,’ he said, the rasp of need in his voice both raw and sublime, ‘what would you say?’

She nodded without thinking.

Kissing Dominic probably wasn’t a good idea, but she was incapable of controlling the euphoria rioting in her blood. The knowledge he wanted her was even more intoxicating than his fresh woodsy scent and the feel of his thumb tracing over the pulse in her neck.

‘You must say the word,’ he coaxed as he stroked the well of her collarbone.

‘Yes.’ Please.

‘Merci.’

The hoarse thank-you was as tortured as the need twisting her belly into tight knots.

Her bottom bumped the wall as he pressed her against it, found the hem of her sweatshirt and slid his hands under it to hold her steady.

Then his lips were on hers, hot and firm and seeking. A groan escaped from her constricted throat and his tongue plunged deep into her mouth.

He explored in masterful, demanding strokes as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her sweatpants and cupped her naked bottom.

He ripped his mouth away. ‘No panties?’ he said, the pupils so dilated his chocolate brown eyes had become black.

‘They... They were wet,’ she choked out.

‘I may have to punish you for that, Alison,’ he murmured, the mocking tone so fierce it was only half joking.

Raw need careered through her.

‘I want to see more of you,’ he said. ‘D’accord?’

She nodded again, having lost the power of speech.

Lifting the hem of her sweatshirt, he tugged it over her head. She shuddered as his gaze glided over the damp sports bra she had donned after her shower.

Could she have been wearing anything less alluring?

But his gaze when it met hers still blazed with arousal. ‘Très belle.’

Capturing both her wrists in one hand, he lifted her arms above her head, until she was pinned against the wall, her breasts thrust out, begging for attention, her breathing so ragged it sounded deafening.

He covered one straining breast with his free hand and scooped it free of her bra. Exposing her to his gaze.

‘Magnifique...’ he murmured, then lowered his head and licked across the swollen tip.

She bucked against his hold, shocked by the sensations firing down to her core as he teased and tortured the oversensitive peak with his tongue, his teeth.

She couldn’t stop shaking, sobbing. Until he covered the erect nipple with his mouth and suckled.

It was too much and yet not nearly enough. The jut of his erection, so hard and large confined in the suit trousers, pressed against her belly. She wanted to feel it inside her, to take the ache away.

Her breathing guttered out when at last he released her engorged nipple. But the relief was short-lived, as he unhooked the bra and freed her other breast to begin again. Torturing, teasing, tormenting.

She was begging, bucking against his hold when he finally returned his mouth to hers. He held her captive, both wrists shackled above her head. The huge erection notched between her thighs, her bare breasts crushed against his chest. The hard shaft found that sweet spot through their clothing, rubbing, rocking, the waves of sensation building from her core.

The orgasm built so swiftly, she couldn’t control it, the shattering wave crashing over her with staggering intensity. Her body arched as the bright light fired from her core and shattered into a million glittering shards.

She was struggling to breathe, her body slumped against his, when his voice rasped against her ear.

‘Dieu, did you just climax, Alison?’

Her eyelids fluttered open, to find him staring at her with a need so fierce it was terrifying and liberating all at once.

Her thundering heart began to slow. He did not look happy. In fact, he looked stunned. Had she done something wrong?

‘Yes...’ she said. ‘I’m... I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop it. Was I supposed to?’

His lips quirked and then, to her astonishment, he dropped his head back and laughed.

She tugged on her arms, tried to wrestle herself free of his hold, humiliation engulfing her.

He was still fully dressed. With her bra hanging from one arm and her nipples raw and swollen where he’d played with them she’d never felt more exposed.

‘I should go,’ she murmured.

But he didn’t release her, as the rough chuckles died. His thumbs pressed into the rampaging pulse at her wrists.

‘No way. We’re not finished yet. Even if you jumped the gun.’

‘I said I was sorry about...’ She tried to protest, but he silenced her, the swift kiss both demanding and possessive.

‘There was no need to apologise,’ he said, his gaze compelling—the humour replaced with something much more potent. ‘Do you have any idea how adorable you are?’

The gruff words were quietly spoken, but so achingly sincere her heart punched her ribs.

Cupping her cheek, he swept his gaze over her, the approval she saw making her heartbeat thunder in her ears.

What was happening? Because this felt too intimate, too emotional. More than sex.

‘Please, I...’ she began.

‘Shh...’ He stroked his hand down to her collarbone, the ripple of sensation making her shiver. ‘I wish to take you to bed, Alison. How do you feel about that?’

‘I... I want you too.’ Very much.

‘Bien.’

He sent her a devilish grin, full of wickedness and intent. Letting her arms drop, he dragged the bra away, leaving her standing before him in only the baggy sweatpants.

‘Très, très belle,’ he murmured again, his voice thick with arousal. ‘My gym pants have never looked so good.’

She crossed her arms over her breasts, brutally aware of how naked she was, compared to him.

But then he scooped her into his arms.

She grasped his neck as he marched her into the spare bedroom. The room was luxuriously furnished with a large tester bed complemented by an array of antique pieces. He closed the door to the study, so the only light in the room came from the bathroom and the bay window that looked out onto the house’s grounds. The low lighting had a little of her anxiety retreating as he laid her on the bed.

Her pulse sped up again though as he unbuttoned his shirt, then stripped it off.

Moonlight flickered over the tanned skin, putting the bunched muscles of his torso into stark relief. He was magnificent. Tall, muscular, lean and powerful. The dark hair that defined flat brown nipples and arrowed down into his trousers through his abs had her lungs seizing. Her throat dried as he released the hook on his suit trousers and kicked off his shoes.

The rigid erection sprang up as he lowered his boxers.

Her gaze met his, her breathing so shallow now it was a miracle she didn’t faint as he climbed onto the bed.

‘Lose the pants, ma belle,’ he said.

She wriggled out of the sweatpants and flung them away. He climbed on top of her. His skin felt hot and firm as he pressed her into the mattress and a rough palm coasted up her bare thigh. A hoarse cry escaped her throat.

Their skin touched everywhere. His fingertips electrified her nerve endings as they found the sensitive seam of skin at the top of her thigh, then located the slick heat at her core.

‘So wet for me, ma belle.’ She could hear the hunger in his voice. ‘Tell me what you like.’

I don’t know.

She trapped the answer in her throat. And flattened her palms against the ridged muscles, stalling for time. She didn’t know how to answer that question; no man had ever seen her naked before, let alone touched her, stroked her.

His thumb found the bundle of nerves again and she moaned, jerking her hips towards the intimate torture.

‘You like that?’ he asked as his thumb circled, not quite touching her again where she needed.

‘Yes, yes, please do it again.’ She didn’t care any more about the naked need in her voice, the raw desperation. She wanted to feel that glorious release once more.

‘Can I touch you, too?’ she asked.

The deep groan against her neck felt like a benediction. ‘Oui.’

She slid her hand down his chest, feeling the muscles quiver. His whole body shook as she wrapped her fingers around the stiff column of flesh. She had a moment of panic as she gauged his size, his girth and the steely strength beneath the velvet-soft skin. How would anything that large and hard ever fit inside her?

But then his thumb found that devastating spot between her thighs and every thought flew out of her head.

She stroked him as he stroked her. But where his caresses were firm and assured, her movements were jerky and uncertain. Still she took pleasure in his shudder when her thumb found the bead of moisture at the head of his erection. She could feel his passion building as the coil at her core twisted and tightened. Her knees fell open, her hips angling forward, in a wanton display of need she couldn’t control. Her fingers gripped his rigid flesh as one blunt finger entered her, sinking into the tight flesh, his thumb still working her into a frenzy.

‘You are very tight. It has been a while, yes?’ he asked.

She nodded. Because what else could she say? It was a lifetime since she’d felt this good.

He swore softly in French, his hips driving into her hand, the hard flesh getting longer, thicker.

‘Come for me again, ma chérie,’ he demanded, and just like that the wave slammed into her, flinging her over that final peak.

She let out a hoarse moan as she fell to earth, sinking into the glorious oblivion. But as the afterglow settled over her like a glittering cloud, her fingers flexed on the erection. He was still rigid, still huge.

Leaning over her, he fumbled in the bedside drawer, the rip of foil was loud enough to be heard over her staggered breathing.

Lifting her hand from his erection, he kissed the knuckles. ‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he murmured, the urgency sending new ripples of longing through her exhausted flesh.

He rolled on the condom, then grasped her hips.

She felt the head of his erection probe, before he thrust deep.

Rending pain seared through her and she choked off a sob.

‘Merde!’ He reared back.

She bit into her lip to stop the cry of pain. Intense pleasure had turned to shock and discomfort, but far worse than the soreness where his erection was lodged deep inside her was the look of pure horror that shadowed Dominic’s face.

He knew.

The thought doused the heat, until all that was left was the chill of his disapproval.

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.

CHAPTER FOUR

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.

Bon Dieu, but he hadn’t been able to get enough of her, exploring the recesses of her mouth like a man possessed.

And once he’d freed her breasts, felt her nipples harden and swell against his tongue, he’d been lost in a passion so intense it had been a major battle not to take her right there against the wall of his study.

When his hands had cupped her naked bottom, sensation had hurtled beneath his belt with the speed and accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.

Suddenly, he’d become the desperate boy again, instead of the experienced lover.

He’d had to force himself to slow down, to carry her to the bedroom and strip off his clothes, to draw forth another orgasm—simply to prove he could wait to have her, that he was still the one in control—before he’d plunged into her.

But when she had gasped and stiffened in pain, he’d known instantly—this was no act.

She had been a virgin, for God’s sake.

He should have stopped then, but, even while he was frantically trying to assess the repercussions of her innocence, his body had refused to obey him once she’d given him permission to continue—so he’d taken what she’d offered, because he’d been unable to do otherwise.

And now here he was, lying in bed beside her, not knowing what the hell to say to her.

Should he apologise? Explain? She’d said it wasn’t a big deal, but somehow it was to him. He’d never been a woman’s first lover. Had deliberately avoided that sort of intimacy. And what did he do now about his plan to suggest they marry? Because this could complicate things in ways he did not want, and had not anticipated.

His gut twisted as he felt her shift on the bed beside him. She hadn’t spoken, probably because she was as shocked by the intensity of their lovemaking as he was. And appalled by his lack of sophistication.

Or was she? How would she know the power of their connection—or how catastrophically he had lost control—if she had never slept with another man?

She sat up with her back to him, but as she went to stand he flung his arm out and caught her hip. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, pleased when the words came out reasonably smoothly despite the rawness in his throat.

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your sweats? I’ll return them tomorrow.’

What?

It took a moment for him to register what she was asking him and why as she bent down to scoop the sweatpants off the floor. But when she tried to stand, he at least had the presence of mind to keep his hand anchored on her hip.

‘You’re not going anywhere tonight, Allycat,’ he said, moving across the bed to band an arm around her waist.

She twisted round again, her face so close he could see the confusion in her eyes. ‘Why...why not?’ she asked.

Mon Dieu, she was even more innocent than he had assumed.

He kissed her shoulder blade. ‘Because I have exhausted you. And it is still raining.’ They weren’t the main reasons, not even close, but he didn’t want to talk about anything else until he had calmed down enough to figure out all the angles.

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