The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Read online

  That simply wasn’t who she was.

  But then, she allowed, she had never met anyone like Derek Arindam Jeffords. How was a woman supposed to maintain any semblance of dignity in the presence of a man like that?

  Irritated with the direction of her thoughts, she slipped more deeply into the tall copper tub, letting the hot, scented water pool about her limbs. Behind her, she heard the door to her suite open, followed by the soft pad of footsteps.

  “Just a few more minutes, Ruthie,” she called to the young girl who served as her chamber maid. “This feels wonderful.”

  “Don’t rush on my account.”

  Derek. Standing at the threshold of her chamber while she was entirely naked, with nothing but the thinnest film of soap bubbles to cover herself. Lord above. And Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva too, she thought, adding a trinity of Hindu deities for good measure.

  “May I enter?”

  Calla froze. Her stomach did a queer little somersault and her mind raced. Would she allow her husband—with whom she had already performed the most intimate of acts—to see her while she bathed? He had already seen every inch of her naked form, of course. He had kissed, licked, and petted every inch of that naked form.

  But that was entirely different. They had disrobed while in the throes of heated passion. Now the flames of desire had yet to be stoked. Her body was entirely exposed while Derek was, presumably, dressed. Still. They were married. Likely this was simply what sophisticated married people did. With that in mind, she summoned every ounce of courage she possessed and managed to squeak a single word. “Yes.”

  He entered the room and strode past the tub without sparing her a glance, carrying with him a bottle of wine, two long-stemmed crystal glasses, and a small white box. He set the items atop her dressing table and stood with his back to her, absorbed in his task. She heard the popping of a cork, followed by the soft gurgle of liquid as he poured the wine.

  He had bathed as well, she noted. Her gaze moved with hungry fascination over his body. wore a deep burgundy dressing robe loosely belted at his waist. On another man the robe might have looked ridiculous, perhaps even effeminate. On Derek, it was stunningly regal. It clung to his broad shoulders, skimmed his slim hips, and boldly outlined the muscular contours of his tight male ass. Calla took in the shadowy form of his powerful thighs and dropped her gaze lower. It had never occurred to her that a man’s legs could be beautiful, that calves could be so taut and well-formed. How enlightening.

  He turned, holding aloft two glasses of white wine. His robe parted slightly, allowing her a glimpse of the bare mahogany skin of his chest. His hair was as dark and slick as a seal’s, curling slightly at his collar. It clung to his scalp in a sleek black curve, with the exception of one stubborn, rogue wave which brushed beguilingly against his temple.

  She watched in breathless anticipation as he crossed the room and passed her a glass of wine. Their fingers brushed. Calla’s pulse rocketed. She managed a small, fluttery smile and nodded her thanks.

  Derek’s gaze traveled with unabashed appreciation over her body. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to squirm with embarrassment or blush with pride at the enjoyment she read there. “Lovely,” he said in a tone of complete nonchalance, as though being in a room with a woman at her bath was an everyday occurrence. Perhaps to him, it was.

  “Have you sufficiently recovered from our journey to Shadwell?” he asked.

  “Nearly.”

  “Oh?”

  “My feet are still rather sore,” she admitted. Giving in to a rare impulse of vanity, she’d worn her best boots, a neglected black leather pair with saucy little heels and shiny pearl-tone buttons that wrapped around her ankles. The choice of footwear had shown poor judgment on her part. As she wore the boots so infrequently, the leather had been stiff and unforgiving, cramping her toes and chafing her heels.

  Derek frowned. Setting aside his wine, he reached for a stool and placed it at the foot of her bath. He seated himself, folded a plush towel over the rim of the tub, then rolled up his sleeve and reached for her ankle.

  Calla started at the unexpected intrusion of his hand in her bath.

  “Easy, jaanu. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  He lightly grasped her left ankle and withdrew it from the bathwater, propping it upon the towel folded at the tub’s edge. He proceeded to administer a gentle massage, pressing his thumbs into her aching arch and swirling his strong fingers over the ball of her foot. Working with unhurried, methodical care, he rubbed her heel and instep, then kneaded and caressed each individual toe.

  Calla’s wineglass nearly slipped from her fingers.

  Heaven. Utter bliss in his touch.

  He brought his hands upward, moving through the silky water to flex her ankle and rub the kinks and knots from the muscles of her calf. While he worked, rose-scented water lapped over her breasts and slipped between her thighs. Calla closed her eyes, tipped back her head, and let out a low breath that was part release, part pleasure.

  “You like this,” he said.

  “Yes,” she breathed, her voice soft and husky.

  “Good.”

  Derek eased her left foot back into the water and lifted her right ankle, beginning his tender ministrations all over again. His touch worked a small miracle on her body, loosening her limbs until she felt as though her bones had dissolved completely, leaving her limp and languid, almost drowsy with contentedness.

  When he finished, he offered her his hand and assisted her to her feet. His gaze darkened as he watched tiny rivulets of water stream down her body. She felt a maidenly desire to cover herself, but resisted the impulse. He passed her a towel, wordlessly watching as she dried her body and raked her fingers through the damp tangle of her hair. He helped her step from the tub, then lifted her ivory silk dressing gown from a nearby divan and held it open for her to slip on.

  “Hungry, jaanu?”

  Hungry? No, she wasn’t hungry at all. Her appetite had shifted in an entirely different direction.

  But Derek wasn’t to be deterred. Taking her hand, he settled her before the hearth, where a fire crackled and blazed. No furniture, she noted. Just a plush, deep crimson rug and a scattered assortment of oversized pillows. So Indian, Calla thought approvingly. As she sank before the hearth, she decided she’d finally found her favorite place in all of her new home.

  Derek retrieved the white box he’d brought to her suite and brought it with him as he sat down beside her. “We left the Shah Jalal before we could enjoy dessert,” he said. He slid off the lid. Nestled within the box was a rich assortment of exotic sweets, each wrapped in a vibrant bit of brilliantly colored tissue and liberally sprinkled with sugar, so that the whole effect sparkled like a box of jewels.

  Calla, her senses blurred by the wine, her limbs loosened by the massage, and her body warmed by the fire, could only sigh. “How lovely.”

  “Exquisite.”

  He nodded in agreement, but his gaze was fixed entirely on her, rather than the box of sweets. He lifted a bit of laddu and brought it to her mouth. She let him coax her lips apart and nibbled it directly from his fingers. Sweet flakes of coconut, sugar syrup, and cardamom melted on her tongue. She licked her lips, closed her eyes, and let out a throaty purr of satisfaction.

  She was going to kill him, Derek thought. His lovely, innocent bride was as responsive to his touch as the most skilled seductress. If he didn’t know her better, he would have thought her the most sophisticated tease in all of London. He recollected the enticing glimpses he’d had between her legs as he’d massaged her feet, the way she’d arched her back and moaned in pleasure. The way the glistening droplets of water had streamed down every luscious swell and feminine curve of her body when she’d stood naked before him…

  Nothing but sheer erotic torture.

  He thought he’d experienced desire before. Now he knew better. That had been a sham, a fiction, nothing but a poor imitation of what he currently felt. Even as Calla lay stretched out be
fore the hearth, she had no idea what the fire’s glow did for her skin. How it heated her cheeks and added a warm blush to her natural creamy softness. How the ivory silk of her dressing gown clung to her body like the tissues that clung to the boxed sweets, just waiting for him to unwrap and devour.

  Sliding his arm beneath her, he lifted her and settled her onto his lap. Even that small act brought him pleasure. He liked every move she made, from her gasp of surprise as he lifted her, to the press of her soft ass against his swollen cock as she settled in his lap. He liked the way she locked her arms around his neck and nuzzled her cheek against his chest. He liked the tangle of her damp, thick hair brushing his arm. His bold new wife ignited a need he hadn’t even known existed within him.

  Until that moment, physical intimacy had been nothing more than an intensely satisfying pastime, in return for which his partner had been rewarded with pleasure of her own, along with whatever baubles, trinkets, or gowns might strike her fancy. On other occasions, his paramours had taken their pleasure in the lure of the exotic, succumbing to the wicked thrill of bedding the Black Baron, a man who lurked just outside the boundary of respectable society.

  But this was different. This was Calla. His wife. Resolve coursed through him. Tonight he would bloody well not be rushed. He was determined to treat them both to a slow, thorough seduction.

  Their bodies met and molded, her soft curves yielding to the greater firmness of his lean muscles. He lowered his head, lightly pressing his lips against hers. He waited until she had accepted the feel of his mouth, then delved deeper, using the subtle pressure of his jaw to coax her lips apart. He swept his tongue inside her mouth, savoring the sugared sweetness of her lips and the faint flavor of cardamom on her tongue.

  Calla shifted slightly, rolling her hips in time to the rhythm of their embrace. Without the benefit of his breeches, Derek felt his cock, already aching with unanswered need, leap to life, straining against the plush fabric of his robe.

  Their kiss, initially a steady, orderly thing, grew sloppy and urgent. Calla’s hands mimicked the pattern of his own, moving with an almost frantic urgency over his back and shoulders, tugging their way through his hair, driven by the same raw hunger, the same relentless need that fired his blood. Their bodies locked and molded together, as though leaving a mere fraction of an inch between them simply could not be borne.

  A sense of burning dissatisfaction built within Derek. The taste of Calla’s lips and tongue were no longer enough to gratify him. He wanted more. He needed the touch of her skin against his own. He needed her body, her heat, her scent. And he needed it now. He reached for her dressing gown, seized by a carnal yearning he couldn’t contain. Temporarily foiled by the gown’s knotted belt, he battled an adolescent urge to simply rip the garment off her back. To his surprise and pleasure, Calla once again mimicked his touch, tugging at his clothing. Together they moved with wanton urgency, pulling at sleeves and dragging garments over shoulders, fumbling with eagerness and fueled by desire.

  At last they succeeded in ridding themselves of their scant clothing. For the second time that evening, Derek’s gaze feasted on Calla’s naked flesh, drinking in every stunning detail of her form. When he had first laid eyes on Calla Lily Staunton in the drawing room of the East India House, he had considered her tall and plain. Now the words elegant, delicate, and luminous came to mind.

  Her skin, so ivory and pure, seemed to shimmer in the flickering firelight. She was neither a large woman nor exceptionally waiflike. To his delight, she fell perfectly in between. Her breasts were not large, but round and pretty, twin globes of soft ivory flesh peaked by mouth-watering, deep rose nipples. Her waist was so tiny he could span it with his hands. Her hips were slim, her legs long and shapely. Calla was graced with soft, feminine curves that would have befitted a Roman goddess—Diana, perhaps, or some other lithe, supple huntress.

  “Sundara,” he murmured against her throat. Beautiful. English simply wouldn’t do. He needed the words of his childhood, the lyrical music of Hindi to properly express himself. “Esha. Gita.Lavanya.” Desire. Song. Grace. Even that wasn’t enough.

  Calla reached up and placed her palm lightly against his chest. A small, wistful smile curved her lips.

  “Pati,” she said. Husband.

  Derek felt his heart sputter and then drum wildly against his ribs. For years he had scoffed at superstitious custom of consulting horoscopes to determine the suitability of a bride and groom. Yet in that instant, everything felt intensely, profoundly correct, on a grander scale than any he’d ever known. As though some small corner of the universe had fallen into precise alignment and everything was right with his world.

  Calla’s eyes sought his. Emboldened by his reaction to her touch, she drew her hand over his biceps, and past the base of his throat. She lightly brushed his ribs, then feathered her fingers down the hard, chiseled planes of his belly.

  Her brave exploration stopped just above his engorged manhood and her courage appeared to desert her. Color flamed in her cheeks and she averted her eyes, as though embarrassed by her display of wanton curiosity. Derek captured her hand in his.

  “Feel how I want you, jaanu.”

  He guided her hand toward his penis, intent on dispelling any fear she might harbor at the very foreignness of that member. Her sweet, guileless touch was nearly his undoing. At first her grasp was light and tentative, merely the silkiest of touches. She skimmed a single fingertip over the head of his cock, gliding over the flared ridge and across the dewy slit at the top.

  Then, her confidence building, she gripped him harder, wrapping him in the sweet warmth of her palm. She moved her hand up and down his shaft in an experimental motion that drew a husky groan from his lips. When he could take no more of the blissful erotic torture, he shifted reluctantly out of her grasp, lest their lovemaking end too quickly.

  Catching her about her waist, he rolled her so that she was positioned beneath him. He braced himself on his forearms above her and used his mouth to explore her every curve and mysterious hollow. He traced a path of fiery kisses from the nape of her neck to her collarbone, then across her ribs, her belly, and the slender arc of her hip. No detail was too petty to go unadmired. A freckle beneath the lobe of her ear deserved the same devotion as the shadowy cleft between her breasts.

  He was dimly conscious of the need to go slowly, but he couldn't force himself to do it. He was almost frantic in his desire. He cupped her breasts in his hands, awed at the lush weight and the firm, erect feel of her nipples against his palms. He heard her startled gasp as he tweaked her nipples lightly with his fingertips, gently teasing them into even stiffer peaks. When he brushed his lips over her breasts and drew one rosy peak into his mouth, caressing and teasing her nipple with his tongue, she let out a low moan and arched her back, pressing herself into him.

  After devoting the same lavish attention upon her opposite breast, his hands followed the path his lips had taken, heating and caressing her flesh. He felt her shudder at his touch and heard her breathless sighs. Her hands clutched and released his skin. Derek shifted his body lower still, brushing his lips along her upper thighs, eager to taste the very essence of his wife. But she must have realized his goal. Until that moment she had been relaxed, almost melting in his hands, writhing and purring at his touch. Now he felt her stiffen in shocked protest. She clamped her knees together.

  “Derek,” she protested. “You can’t possibly mean to...”

  “Can’t I?”

  “But…It’s not proper.”

  He felt a wicked grin tug at his lips. “For years, jaanu, missionaries tried to teach the natives that there was only one proper way to make love, hence the missionary position.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “If nothing else, I think we learned something today.”

  “What’s that?”

  He pressed a light kiss against her throat. “You’re not a missionary.”

  She gave a light laugh. “No,” she said. “I’m not
.”

  “That means we’re sinfully free to explore other options.”

  He gently parted her legs and ran his hands over her silky soft skin. Then he touched his tongue to her inner thigh. She cried out in surprise, followed by a throaty purr of pleasure.

  Finding the tight pearl of flesh at the entrance to her sex, he teased it with his fingertips until she was writhing beneath him, her breath coming in hot, shallow pants. Her initial reticence was transformed into glorious eagerness as she dug her fingers into his shoulders and arched her hips to allow him greater access.

  Bending low, he pressed his mouth to the juncture of her thighs. He began to nuzzle and kiss her nether lips. She rocked beneath him, whimpering low in her throat as he traced his tongue over the slick pink folds of her sex. He sucked the tiny pink bud of her clitoris, twirling his tongue around that tight bundle of erotic nerves.

  He felt a tremor race through her, sensed her stiffen and arch her hips as though nearing her completion. Derek drew back. Calla gazed up at him, glassy-eyed and flushed with arousal, but he could only shake his head. He needed to be inside her when she came. He needed to feel the tight muscles of her sheath clench around his cock, needed to feel her hard nipples press into his chest, needed to feel her warm breath in his ear. Needed her.

  But most of all, he needed to watch her face as her climax overtook her.

  Lying on his back, he drew her on top of him, so that they faced one another and her knees were splayed open on either side of his slim hips. “Guide me,” he gritted out. “Take me in, jaanu.”

  Confusion showed in her expression, replaced seconds later by astonished comprehension. “Can we? Like this?”

  Yes. Like that and a thousand other ways, if it pleased her. At the moment, it was all he could do to let her lead, to allow her to set the pace and the rhythm. He gave a curt nod, battling the urge to arch his hips and thrust himself inside her, to put an end to the sweet, prolonged torture.

  Calla spread her knees further apart, straddling him. She tilted her body forward and thrust her ass slightly in the air. She brought herself lower.