Free Brazen Bride by Stephanie Laurens Page A

opened the door, and looked in.
    Logan wasn’t in the bed. No lamp was burning, but the curtains were open; faint moonlight laid a swath of pale silver across the untrammeled counterpane. The candle flame didn’t illuminate much of the large room; stepping inside, she set the candlestick on the nearby tallboy, turned, and saw him silhouetted against the window. He’d been looking out to sea, but had turned his head to watch her.
    Eyes adjusting, she saw he was still fully dressed. Closing the door, she frowned at him. “I thought you’d be in bed. You should be by now.”
    He regarded her for a silent moment. “Are you going to join me?”
    He couldn’t know. He didn’t know. She told herself that, again reminded herself of her resolution. “I was just going to get my robe and nightgown. I’ll sleep in the box room next door.”
    He stirred, then with long, prowling strides closed the distance between them. “You’d rather sleep with boxes than with me?”
    She fought the urge to step back as the space between them shrank. He halted with less than a foot between them, forcing her to tip up her head to meet his eyes. The candlelight cast them in deep and dangerous shadows. She held his gaze, levelly stated, “Sharing a bed with you would, in the circumstances, be unwise.”
    “Unwise?” One devilish winged brow arched. He held her gaze for an instant, then stepped closer.
    Her nerves leapt; instinctively she stepped back—and came up against the panels of the door.
    Temper sparking, she opened her mouth to berate him.
    His head swooped and he covered her lips with his.
    Kissed her. A full, open-mouthed, lips-to-lips kiss that stole her breath and left her giddy.
    He drew back a fraction—enough for her to feel her lips clinging to his, to the taste of him, to the promise in the kiss—then he growled deep in his throat and returned, this time voraciously. His tongue plunged in with no by-your-leave, stroking, claiming, then settling to plunder. He leaned in, commanded, demanded—and she discovered it was impossible not to kiss him back, impossible to let such flagrant, blatant demands go unmet, unchallenged.
    And suddenly they were there again, where they’d been last night, feeding and taking, giving and seizing.
    Wanting.
    It was he who, eventually, pulled back.
    Just an inch, enough to meet her eyes through the candleglow. His were narrowed; she would swear they burned blue.
    “Last night you didn’t think sleeping with me unwise.”
    She struggled to catch her breath, to find a way to distract, to deflect. To redirect.
    His gaze dropped to her breasts as they swelled, flicked up in time to fix on her mouth as she moistened her suddenly dry lips. “That—”
    “Was you last night—the houri beneath me. The one I rode to oblivion, the houri who took me in and rode with me. I remember your taste.”
    Her brazen self was fascinated that he could, that he would; against her will, her gaze lowered to his lips. Focused on them as they curved in a blatantly masculine way.
    “It was an excellent way to warm me up. Exceedingly noble. I feel I should be . . . unreservedly grateful.” He’d braced his big hands, splayed, on the door to either side of her shoulders, caging her within arms she knew were corded steel. He shifted one hand, fingers catching a strand of hair that had come loose from the careless knot atop her head. He sifted the tress between his fingertips. “I remember this, too—soft as silk, warm as flames.”
    She dragged her eyes from the mesmerizing sight of him caressing her hair, fell into his eyes as he smiled, then he looked at her lips again.
    They throbbed. She fought the urge to run her tongue along the lower. Managed to haul enough breath into her lungs to say, “That—last night—was an impulsive act.”
    “So be impulsive again.” His hand shifted, drifted; he slid his long fingers between her arm and her side, hooked them in the side-laces of her gown.
    Let his thumb