Free And One Rode West by Heather Graham

couples use dressing screens. Men turn their backs for their wives to change. They maintain decorum—”
    “Decorum!” Jeremy interrupted. Despite the nagging pain that still stung his cheek, wry amusement tinged his anger. “You think that your brother makes love to my sister with decorum? For her sake, I hope the hell not!” With those words, he traveled the two steps between them. He didn’t know what he was after.
    He caught her shoulders, drawing her to him. He lifted a hand to her chin, cupping it.
    His lips touched hers.
    You may now kiss the bride
.
    The words echoed mockingly in his mind, then faded away. Christa protested. A strangled sound escapedher. She struggled against the rock-hard hold of his body.
    In all his years of warfare, he had never felt more merciless. She’d married him. She could damn well kiss him.
    But that wasn’t why he had touched her. And it wasn’t why he kept touching her.
    Her lips were full and beautiful, the taste of them was sweet. More than that, the passion that filled her trembled there, within her lips, her mouth. Maybe it was the passion of hatred. That didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it was the passion of his own anger. That didn’t matter either. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to taste that sweetness. He didn’t give a damn if she was protesting. His fingers curled into her hair, holding her to his will. His tongue broke through the restraint of her lips, forced her teeth, discovered the fullness of her mouth. Still the taste was so sweet. It seemed the smothered protests were being swallowed away as he held her.
    Maybe it was more than her lips that spurred him on. The first time that he had seen her, he had been startled by her beauty, perhaps even a bit captivated by it. He could remember just staring at her and forgetting where he was and what he had come for.
    Once again, he discovered himself startled, captivated.
    Beneath the sheer fabric of her ribbed and laced chemise, he could feel the sensual curve and shape of her body. Full breasts crushed against his chest. Despite them, he could feel the wild pounding of her heart. Her legs were long and shapely, nearly entwined with his. He could feel the flatness of her stomach, and even the rise of her femininity, for he had crushed her very hard against him. The taste, the scent, the feel of her, all were suddenly blinding.
    And suddenly so arousing that he could think nomore. Her hair was silk to his touch. Her body was fire. He could forget pain touching her. He could forget the war. Forget love, and the dreams that had been cast to ashes. No matter that it was a passion born of anger, Christa seethed with it. She was raw and exciting to touch. More than her beauty made her arousing. The electricity that shimmered from her and around her evoked a shattering burst of desire within him. It made him long to drink and drink of her lips. To savor the sweet taste of her mouth. To delve further and further within it. As the seconds passed it seemed that she ceased to protest. Perhaps her body yielded to his. Perhaps her lips surrendered, parted of their own accord.
    Let her go! he warned himself.
    His mistake. He should have never come so far. Kissed her so. Taken her so into his arms.
    She broke away from him suddenly. The back of her hand flew to her swollen lips. Her blue eyes were liquid as she gazed at him.
    “You’ve no right!” she choked out.
    He shook his head. “No, Christa. You had no right to slap me. I have every right to be here. You married me, remember? You insisted on it.”
    She bit her lower lip. Blue flames seemed to leap from her eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest. He might have been amused if he didn’t feel as if he were suffering all the torments of hell.
    “But you can’t mean—”
    “I don’t know what I mean. I just want to see this incredible piece of southern fluff I’ve acquired.”
    “How dare you—”
    “Take care, Christa. Get to know the enemy you’ve harnessed. I dare