The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Page 7

  Derek shifted his hips into position, rubbing the rounded tip of his sex against the soft triangle of curls between her thighs, seeking entrance. Calla instinctively arched her hips against his, biting her lip to hold back her cry of wonder and amazement as she felt him ease slowly inside her. Filling her inch by exquisite inch. The wonder of that extraordinary sensation sent a tremor of astonishment surging down her spine. She had thought his thick male member was too large for her, but she had underestimated her body’s slick eagerness to have them intimately joined. She felt her inner muscles stretch to accommodate him, clutching him tightly, sheathing his rigid member within her damp, feminine depths.

  She felt him pause. He tangled his fingers in her hair. A soft stream of Hindi words tumbled in her ear, soothing nonsense about pain and regret and promises, then he thrust forward. Calla felt a slight tear and a painful pinch—a rude surprise in the middle of their pleasure—and knew her virginity had been claimed. Derek went utterly still, but she drew her fingers lightly over his shoulders, urging him on. She would not stop their extraordinary experience on a note of pain. Not when she instinctively sensed there was more pleasure awaiting her.

  He drew back, his eyes dark with emotion. “Calla.” Her name was torn from his throat, rich with approval and possession. He slanted his lips over hers, kissing her hungrily, deeply. Then he began to move. Resuming their passionate play, he lifted his slim male hips thrust forward, filling her completely. The sensation was at once utterly foreign and yet instinctively familiar. Primal and deeply arousing.

  Unable to stop herself, she began to writhe beneath him, matching his pace, following his lead. She lifted her hips to meet his long strokes, taking in his deep thrusts as his erection slid in and out of her, filling the emptiness between her legs that she’d never consciously been aware she possessed. Pulling and stretching her in a way that was deliciously disturbing. Her heart pounded with excitement and her breath grew ragged. Tiny tremors built deep within her and zipped along the edges of her nerves.

  Tension whirled within her, growing faster and stronger than anything she’d ever experienced. Calla felt it build and build, even as she bowed her back and arched her hips to reach for it. She surrendered completely, clinging to Derek’s shoulders as he rubbed the swollen bud at the entrance to her sex, drawing a soft moan of pleasure from her lips. Pulling back, he thrust into her, driving faster, harder, deeper. Carrying her with him toward some uncertain end she could feel, but couldn’t name.

  Then it came, the shattering release she’d been aching for. Calla let out a startled cry as her nerves split apart. Scorching hot pleasure raced down her spine and exploded inside her. She felt Derek reach it as well. Every muscle in his body strained with need, then shuddered with release. His muscles quivering, he poured his seed into her, filling her with the very essence of his being.

  Then he collapsed on top of her, their limbs tangled and their bodies slick with sweat. He caught her about the waist and rolled so that she was lying atop him, rather than the other way around. For a long moment Calla could do nothing but catch her breath and wait for the wild beating of her heart to resume its normal rhythm.

  She felt totally disoriented, as though she’d been plunged into the depths of a dizzying sea, then washed up on a foreign, rocky shore. She’d lost her bearings completely. But as her senses slowly returned, so did her awareness. She became conscious of the disheveled state of her clothing and her hair. Of the weight of Derek’s arm draped casually over her bare hip. Of the dancing pattern of the firelight shadows flickering against the wall.

  But most importantly, she was flooded by the memory of her own reaction to her husband’s erotic tutelage. Her older sisters had instructed her to meekly submit to his base needs, no matter how vulgar his appetites appeared. But they hadn’t been vulgar at all—the fact was, she liked it. Worst of all, while she had been advised what the conjugal act entailed, she had assumed it would be purely physical. Perhaps for Derek it had been. But not for her.

  Calla had done far more than her wifely duty. She had matched Derek’s passion with a hunger she hadn’t known she possessed. She had been a virgin in every sense, and her husband had claimed her. He had touched her in a way that stunned her, unlocking some secret, primal need buried deep within her. He had fanned a flame of desire that had scorched her very soul, and then he put it out slowly, with his tongue and his hands and his cock.

  As she looked back on their lovemaking, a feeling of stark unease crept over her. She hadn’t been able to separate the physical act from the emotional intensity it had engendered. Her self-control had slipped away, causing her to need Derek in a way she hadn’t thought possible. A silent alarm rang through her. That was far more dangerous than any mere physical intimacy they’d shared.

  She felt him stir slightly and remove his arm from her hip. He brushed a cursory kiss on her shoulder, then sat up and pulled on his trousers. Calla reached for her blankets, gathering them protectively beneath her chin. He stood and looked down at her, his beautiful, masculine body naked from the waist up. The flame of passion was completely extinguished from his smoky gaze.

  “I should let you rest.”

  Calla nodded. “Yes,” she murmured, not knowing what else to say.

  He strode toward the door that connected their chambers. He was distancing himself, she realized, leaving her behind both emotionally and physically. Only moments ago they had both burned with erotic fever. Now a distinct coldness emanated from beneath his smooth facade. He seemed guarded, inaccessible, icily removed.

  As she watched him walk away, an astonishing realization stole over her. If Derek could enjoy the physical act of sex, free from emotional entanglements, so could she. Perhaps this was more of his erotic tutelage. He was letting her know that she did not have to lose herself so completely.

  Calla let out a long breath, feeling as though an enormous weight had been lifted from her chest. They next time they lay together, she would be ready. She would learn how to hold back. How to protect herself.

  She would not make the same mistake her mother had made. She would not make her husband the center of her universe, around which she spun in anxious female orbit, relentlessly eager to serve and find favor. Her marriage would be a union of similar backgrounds, mutual respect, and physical pleasure. Nothing more. That was all either of them needed. It was a perfectly practical, perfectly satisfactory foundation upon which to build a future together.

  “Derek,” she called, needing to share her remarkable revelation. “There’s something you should know.”

  He paused at the entrance to his room, turned. “Yes?”

  “You needn’t worry. I don’t intend to fall in love with you.”

  Silence, thick and heavy, hung between them. After a long beat, Derek politely inclined his head. “I think that’s very wise.” He retreated to his own chamber, softly closing the door behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  Derek rode through the streets of London as dawn broke, the cresting sun casting its bleary light over the packed dirt streets. Touring the city at daybreak was a habit he rarely indulged in once the weather turned foul, but he’d needed a diversion to clear his thoughts. A brisk ride had seemed like just the thing.

  Dawn had always been his favorite time of day, but that was particularly true in London. It was at daybreak that the population purged itself of its lofty highs and wretched lows. The city’s transformation never failed to enthrall him. As he watched, affluent lords and ladies tottered home from elegant balls and dinner parties, returning to their fashionable mansions in Mayfair and St. James. Thieves, drunkards, whores, and other assorted rabble retired from their evening’s pursuits as well, taking whatever shelter they could find in alleyways and boarding houses.

  London turned itself over to the class of workers who kept the city alive. Coffee houses threw open their doors, sending the aromas of their rich brew wafting through the air. Merchants, haberdashers, and dressmakers set out their g
oods. Fishmongers shouted their wares, bakers pulled steaming loaves from ovens, schoolboys raced to their tutors, and barbers sharpened their blades. Seemingly within the blink of an eye, the streets were crowded with pedestrians bundled against the cold. They battled the traffic of trolleys, cabs, and carts, each rushing off in a different direction.

  Although Derek had left his home with no real destination in mind, his mount carried him unerringly toward the Isle of Dogs and the East India Docks. He rode past the towering red brick walls that encircled the docks and paused at the gates, watching the bustling activity before him. Legions of stevedores were busy unloading cargo, taking the bulky crates and barrels from the deep holds of docked vessels and transferring them into wagons for transport. To the average passerby, the scene would likely appear chaotic—more like ants swarming a hive than any semblance of order. But to Derek’s trained eye, the system was one of thriving, routine commerce.

  With one notable exception. His gaze moved toward the Makara. Of the three ships he owned—a modest fleet by any standards—the Makara was the only vessel which boasted a steam engine in addition to traditional sails. Manufactured in India, it had just completed its maiden voyage from Calcutta to London, where it had immediately run into trouble. A faulty compression cylinder had flooded the hold and ruined most of his cargo. Given his temporarily illiquid position (the result of unexpected repairs needed for his other vessels), his only hope of financial recovery was to find a salvage buyer, rid himself of the damaged goods, and reinvest. For the moment, however, the vessel was stalled, awaiting custom’s inspection.

  Normally the sight of his floundering ship and cargo would be enough to turn his thoughts in the direction they belonged. But not that morning. Derek clenched his teeth in frustration as he resigned himself to facing what had precipitated the need for the hard ride.

  His bride.

  Or rather, his unprecedented hunger for her. His appetite for his new wife had merely been whetted last night, and when he’d woken he found it burned just as fiercely. A cold bath and a brisk ride in the chilly morning air had done nothing to diminish his blinding need for her.

  A virgin. Preposterous. The last time he’d bed a virgin, he’d been one himself. His taste ran toward large, voluptuous beauties whose lusty appetites matched his own, not delicate misses with prim sensibilities. But then, he could hardly describe Calla’s reaction to his touch as prim. She’d been as instinctively responsive as the most highly skilled courtesan.

  The troublemaker.

  The wild one.

  That bold streak had showed itself in bed as well, thoroughly disrupting all of Derek’s carefully laid plans. He had assumed it would be necessary to slowly introduce Calla to the physical duties of marriage. He’d instructed his servants to chill champagne and light candles. He’d even had a jar of ointment prepared to ease his passage into her sex—an ointment which had proven absolutely unnecessary. When the time had come to claim his bride, the new Lady Keating had been hot and wet and ready for him. And so goddamned tight.

  Derek let out a low oath as the memory of their lovemaking washed over him. Calla’s thick chestnut hair tumbling free from the neat bun in which she normally wore it. Her feminine strength and the sleek athleticism of her body. The intoxicating contrast of sweet wine on her lips and spicy curry on her tongue. The silky-softness of her ivory skin, unmarred save for the henna tattoo wrapped around her finger, a tattoo which indisputably marked her as his. And her breasts. They weren’t large, but they were round and pert and lush, tipped with bold, berry-colored nipples that tightened into tiny, perfect buds beneath his tongue. Exquisite. Riper and sweeter than any summer fruit he’d ever tasted.

  She pleased him. No, more than that. She’d awakened something within him he couldn’t define. He’d stripped off her clothing, leaving her naked of everything except her wedding ring and the delicates bangles she wore around her wrists—and ankles. A proper English lady adorned with the bracelets of a Delhi seductress. Christ Almighty. That, perhaps, was why everything had gone so badly astray.

  She’d ignited a spark within him that had blazed dangerously out of control. As a consequence, he’d gone too fast. Somehow the goal of slowly introducing his new bride to the art of lovemaking had been entirely forgotten, lost in the passion he’d seen burning in her eyes. Just one look and his courtly resolve had faded to dust. His own savage hunger had become paramount. Calla had offered something he’d desperately needed, and he’d ruthlessly plundered her for it.

  It had taken the shock of her virgin’s blood smeared against his thighs for him to regain his senses. For him to pull himself back from the precipice over which he’d fallen. But even now, as remorse for his actions swept over him, his treacherous member jutted up against his groin, straining the buttons on his trousers, aching with need and desire, betraying his new-found intention to do right by his bride.

  He wanted her still. Neither the cold bath, physical exercise, frigid air, or silent admonishment for his lack of control had helped.

  Derek released an impatient sigh. There was only one solution. Courtly resolve be damned. Hunger for Calla burned in his body like a fever, and there was only one way to break it. He would return home and bed her again. And again and again, indulging his every erotic whim and pulsing desire until he’d thoroughly exorcised his need for her.

  So intent was he on his thoughts, he didn’t notice Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, riding toward him until the man had nearly drawn abreast.

  “This is a surprise,” Jonathon said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Need I remind you? You’ve been married less than twenty-four hours. I should have thought you’d be home, thoroughly domesticated and enjoying the fruits of your wedded bliss.”

  Derek shot him a warning glare. The look would have been enough to quiet any other man, but he and Brooksbank had been friends for too long for Brooksbank to be put off by a mere glare.

  “Trouble in paradise?” he queried, eyeing Derek with a speculative smirk. “Has she already banished you from her bed? Smart girl. I knew I liked her the moment I saw her.”

  “She’s done no such thing,” Derek bit out, before he realized the obvious. He shouldn’t have deigned to dignify the remark with a reply. Brooksbank was merely baiting him.

  “Ah. Then perhaps she’s realized you weren’t the man she expected. In that case, I suppose she won’t mind waking to find you gone.”

  “The last I heard, ships sail in both directions.”

  Jonathon arched a dark blond brow. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’ve done my duty. Married her. If she’s unhappy with the consequences, I can simply send her back to Calcutta.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Certainly.”

  But his stomach tightened even if the clipped reply fell from his lips. No. Calla would not be leaving anytime soon. The mere thought caused a surge of possessive irritation to roil through him. He shifted impatiently in his saddle. He just needed time to sort it all out.

  The good captain of the Makara, Nathan Bedsford, spotted Derek on the dock and hailed him with a wave. Bedsford turned toward the ship‘s gangplank and moved to disembark, clearly intending to join them to discuss some mundane business matter. Instead, Derek touched his heels to his mount’s flanks and turned, leaving an astonished Bedsford—and a highly amused Brooksbank—staring after him as he rode away.

  Regrettable, but it couldn’t be helped. Whatever Bedsford needed to discuss would have to wait.

  Derek’s first order of business was with his new bride.

  Calla stood in the breakfast room contemplating a sideboard that groaned with a variety of rich dishes. Classic English fare, she noted. None of the spicy Indian savories she normally enjoyed with her tea. Spread before her was a banquet consisting of eggs—scrambled, fried, and poached—potatoes, scones, muffins, biscuits, toast, porridge, cheese, sausage, bacon, kidneys, oysters, fruit, je
llies, marmalades, coffee, tea, and hot chocolate. Astonishing.

  She heard a movement behind her and turned to see Derek stride into the dining room. Her heart gave a funny little leap as her gaze moved over him. He’d been riding. He was attired in a pair of rich, tobacco-colored leather boots that reached just below his knees. Fawn trousers encased his muscular thighs. His broad chest and mahogany limbs, so magnificently bare the night before, were now sheathed in billowing linen. No coat, she noted. Perhaps it had been taken by Bellowes when he returned, but she thought not. Frosty air clung to his skin like a scent.

  Just the sight of him sent a quiet thrill coursing through her. His hair was mussed from his ride, one thick wave falling rakishly across his brow. For a moment she considered brushing it back, just to see if the ebony mass felt as silky to the touch as she remembered.

  Pushing aside the untoward impulse, she gathered her wits and gestured toward the sideboard. "You must be ravenous in the mornings."

  "Actually, this is for you. As I didn't know your preferences, I had Cook prepare—"

  "A feast for twelve," she supplied with a small smile.

  He shrugged. "Perhaps you'll find the time later to let Cook know what you like."

  "I will," she agreed easily. "The truth is, I am famished. Particularly after last night.”

  “Oh?”

  She watched in confusion as a knowing grin tilted the corners of his lips. She studied him with a puzzled frown, then her cheeks flamed as she realized her gaffe. She had meant to say she had been too nervous at their wedding supper to eat more than a bite or two. Instead, it had sounded as though their exertions in bed had worked up her appetite.

  “I was referring to our supper, not—”