‘Fine. What is it?’
She spun around, facing the wall of the corridor directly opposite. ‘There’s a billion buttons and I can’t undo them. I guess wedding dresses are designed with the fact in mind that a bride won’t be undressing alone...’
‘Apparently,’ he murmured, moving closer.
She knew that because she could feel him, even though he didn’t touch her. His warmth seemed to be wrapping around her like an opportunistic vine up an abandoned wall.
‘Would you mind?’ she asked quietly, keeping her attention focussed on the bland whiteness of the hallway wall.
‘And if I did?’
‘I suppose I could find some scissors somewhere...’ she pondered.
‘No need.’
And then, even though she’d come to his room for this express purpose, the sensation of his fingertips brushing against her back made her shiver. Her nipples strained against the fabric of her gown in a new and unexpected sensation.
‘Are you cold?’
The question caught her off-guard. She bit down on her lip, willing her body to behave, her pulse to quiet, her heart to settle. But her body had its own ideas, and it continued to squirm, delighting in his closeness and his touch.
‘I’m fine.’
His laugh was soft, his breath warm. It ran across her back like a wildfire she should have paid better attention to.
He pushed at the first button, flicking it open expertly. One down, nine hundred thousand to go, she thought bleakly. He dragged his fingers down to the next button and her stomach rolled with awareness.
Emmeline sucked in a deep breath.
He wasn’t trying to turn her on; this was just how he was. The man oozed sensuality from every pore of his gorgeous, perfectly tempting body.
Still, as he undid the second button and moved on to the third the dress parted an inch at the top, and she was sure it wasn’t an accident that his fingertips moved across her skin as he lowered them to button number four.
He worked slowly, and for every second she stood in front of him she felt as if her nerves were being pulled tight, stretched and tormented. At button number twenty he wasn’t even halfway down her back, and a fever-pitch of heat was slamming through her.
Had he undone enough for her to take the dress off? She wasn’t sure, at this stage, that she much cared if the dress got torn, so long as she could get it off without subjecting herself to another moment of...this.
Oh, maybe one more moment, she conceded weakly, sucking in a deep breath as his fingers grazed the flesh near where her bra should be. She hadn’t needed one in the dress; its boning was sufficient.
Lower still, and the next two buttons came apart slowly. His fingers were achingly close to her lower back, to the inches of flesh that dipped towards her rear.
No man had ever seen her there, let alone touched her. His fingers lingered on her flesh, not moving downwards, just stroking her skin. Her pulse hammered and her eyes drifted shut on a tidal wave of imagining and longing, on hormonal needs that had long ago been relegated to the back of her mind.
‘I... I...’ The word stammered out as a dubious whisper. ‘I can cope from here,’ she said quietly, even though her body screamed in silent rejection of her comment.
He ignored her. His hands moved lower, to the next button, pushing it through its beaded loop, separating the fabric, and then his fingers were back, lingering on the flesh exposed by the undone dress.
‘That’s enough,’ she said again, with more strength to her words, and she backed them up by moving a step forward, away from him, and slowly turning around.
His eyes almost electrified her. They were full of something—some strange emotion she couldn’t process. His jaw was clenched tight and there was displeasure lingering in the harsh curves of his lips.
‘Thank you,’ she said softly, unaware of how pink her cheeks were, how enormous her pupils, how full her lower lip from the way she’d been savaging it with her teeth.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and unknowingly she darted her tongue out and licked its edges. His own lips flickered in a small sign that he’d seen the nervous gesture, before his gaze travelled lower, to the curve of her breasts no longer held firm by the dress.
‘Did you want to join me, cara?’ he drawled, those eyes lifting back to hers with something like knowing buried in their depths.
She shook her head quickly from side to side, but still she didn’t move. Her throat was dry, parched, and it stung as though razorblades had been dragged along it.
‘I think you do.’
His smile flickered again, but it was a harsh smile, thoroughly without pleasure.
‘I think your nipples are tight and aching for my touch. I think your skin is covered in goosebumps because you want me to kiss you all over. I think you came to me tonight because you’re curious about whether sleeping with me would feel like that kiss outside the chapel.’
She stifled a groan. ‘But...’
‘But?’ he prompted, reaching out a hand and capturing hers, lifting it to his lips.
She had expected a kiss, but instead he dug his teeth into the ball of her thumb and arrows of heat and need shot through her, making her knees shake and her back sway.
She couldn’t speak. She could barely think. Sensation and feeling were all that was left in her.
‘But you are a virgin?’ he prompted, her inexperience not even a question.
Was it emblazoned on her skin somewhere? Like the opposite of a scarlet letter and something only he could see?
‘And you are saving yourself for someone you love?’ He dropped her hand and let out a harsh sound of laughter. ‘Rather a shame, given you’ve just married me.’
His eyes returned to hers with renewed speculation.
‘How do women like you even exist in this day and age?’
There was anger in the question—an anger she didn’t understand.
‘Women like me?’ She was surprised that her voice came
