Free Forbidden Fire by Heather Graham

marrying her.
    â€œI do,” he said firmly.
    â€œAnd do you—” The registrar paused for a second, squinting at a paper.
    â€œKatherine Marissa, Mr. Blackstone,” Ian supplied dryly.
    â€œYes, yes, of course. Now do you, Katherine Marissa, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to honor and obey, from this day forward, till death do you part?”
    Death? she thought vaguely. It seemed drastic. He hadn’t stopped it; she had to do so.
    She almost cried out at the sudden pressure upon her hand as his fingers wound tightly around it in warning. “I do!” she gasped.
    Then Mr. Blackstone was talking again, and she really couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Moments later Ian was raising her hand, and something cold and way too large was slipped upon her finger.
    Mr. Blackstone pronounced them man and wife, and nervously suggested that Ian might like to kiss his bride.
    â€œKiss my bride,” he muttered, and she wanted to wrench away at the bitterness that tinged his voice. For a moment she thought he meant to thrust her far from him. He did not. His hold upon her was very firm. And she was suddenly pulled tight within his arms, and her mouth opened in protest as she saw the intent within his eyes.
    No sound escaped her.
    His lips touched hers. She expected violence from the way he held her.
    But there was none.
    His mouth formed over hers with a fierce demand and pressure, but there was something more. Perhaps it was something practiced … something innate within the man.
    Whatever it was, she could not think once his lips molded so securely over hers. She felt the brush of the stubble of his beard, she felt his hold, his pressure, his undauntable determination. And yet she felt the seduction. The slow, almost lazy coercion. Her lips were parted beneath his, the startling, damp, heady warmth of his tongue filled her mouth, tasted and explored. Leisurely, and yet with such purpose. The fingers of his left hand entwined with the hair at her nape, holding her still to his thorough exploration. His other hand lay upon the small of her back, holding her close to him, so very close that she felt the pulse and tension of his body, the hardness of his build, and the heat that lay within, simmering, fusing, touching her in a way she had never imagined being touched before.
    The tip of his tongue skimmed over her lips, delved deep within her mouth once again, endlessly deep. Her fingers wound into his shirt, for she was certain that if he moved, she would fall. All the fire had seemed to enter into her from his body. And a trembling that was rich with newborn sensations, making her both hot and cold, furious and …
    And fascinated.
    She should protest.…
    She could not.
    Dimly she heard Mr. Blackstone clear his throat; Meg and Lucy sighed very softly in unison.
    And then, at long last, Ian Tremayne moved his dark head, lifting his mouth from hers. His cobalt eyes seared into hers for a long moment, and she could not draw her gaze from his. He touched her lip with his thumb, rubbing the remaining moisture from it. And still his gaze touched hers, yet she did not know what emotion lurked in his eyes. She thought that he was still furious with her for testing his hand. Yet he was the one with the sudden determination at the end. He had taken her course of action and flown with it. In a sudden impetuous heat? She was sure of it, for already she sensed a withdrawal. His touch fell from her face, and he was gazing at Mr. Blackstone again.
    â€œWell, the papers, then,” he said flatly. “We should keep this legal.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Tremayne! Most certainly.”
    Mr. Blackstone pushed the license across the desk. Ian Tremayne leaned low over it and scrawled his name. It was barely legible.
    He thrust the pen into her hand. She stared at him. The anger was back with him. “Sign it,” he told her. She kept looking at him. “For the