The Spaniard's Pregnant Bride. Maisey Yates
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husband her parents deemed fit.
Perhaps that was why Renzo was so much more indulgent. He saw the disparity in what they were asked to do, who they were asked to be.
Her parents did not. And neither did Cristian, who had enabled her parents in their attempts to marry her off. Additionally, he was always on hand to play the opposing, humorless figure. Though, she knew his life had its share of hardships, and it almost made her feel guilty for finding so much at fault with him. Endless fault, really.
But still, his personal tragedies—and his involvement in her upcoming marriage—didn’t give him a right to be so harsh with her.
She blinked, looking back down at her food. She didn’t know why she was thinking of him now. Maybe because were he here, he would lift a sardonic brow at her if he saw her indulging in a plateful of sweets. Likely, using it as evidence to support his thinking that she was only a child. A spoiled one, at that.
She thought he was an ass. So, she supposed they would have to call it even.
The music began to swell, a dramatic waltz wrapping itself around her, enveloping her in the smooth and easy sensuality. She turned and looked at the couples out on the dance floor, holding each other close and moving with effortless grace.
What would it be like to have a man lead you like that? To hold you so close, with such strength? She imagined that her future husband was a very accomplished dancer. He was—after all—a prince. As far as she knew they began taking classical ballroom from the moment they learned how to walk.
Suddenly, a black-gloved hand came into her view. She looked up and her breath fled from her lungs. She parted her lips, preparing to speak, and he lifted his other hand, pressing his index finger to the cold, still mouth of his mask.
He had seen her too. He had noticed her. She had not been alone. That rush of heat, of excitement she had felt when he’d descended the stairs, that impression that he had not been touching the banister, but her skin, had washed over her for a reason. The connection was real.
Excitement, emotion, swelled in her chest even as the music began to swell, filling the space in the room, and inside of her.
She allowed him to lift her from her chair, and even though they made no skin-to-skin contact, though the leather glove provided a bit of protection between her hand and his, she felt a lightning bolt of heat straight down low between her thighs.
She was being ridiculous. He could be anyone. He could be any age. He could be hideously disfigured beneath that mask. He could, in fact, be Death himself.
But she did not think he was. Because this feeling was too certain. Too deep.
When he pulled her into his hold, when her breasts pressed against the hard wall of his chest and heat sparked through her, she knew that whoever he was, he was the one that she wanted.
A strange thing. To have such an instant, intense attraction that transcended reality on such a visceral level.
He swept her over the dance floor like she weighed nothing, weaving between other couples as though they didn’t exist. Didn’t matter. She looked up and caught his dark gaze and a shock wave blasted through her. She focused on the crystal chandelier above that cast fractals of light over the people below, and at the rich velvet drapes that hung over the walls, partly concealing murals of frolicking goddesses painted over the plaster surface.
Each brush of her body against his made her tremble. Every brush of that gloved hand on her lower back sent a sweeping wave of longing through her. She ached between her legs, desperate for his touch. This wasn’t just a dance. It was a prelude to something much more sensual.
She had never responded to a man like this before. Of course, she had never danced with a man like this before either. Still, she didn’t think this had anything to do with the dancing, as arousing as it was. She didn’t think it had anything to do with the music, as deeply as it affected her. This was all about him. And it had been from the moment he had walked into the room.
She was dizzy. That had nothing to do with the dancing either.
She slid her hand down from where it was looped around his neck, pressed her palm against his chest, making sure to meet his gaze. It was dark, obsidian and unreadable beneath the mask. Perhaps he was disgusted. Perhaps he could not imagine why she had taken his request to dance as an invitation for more.
He caught her hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and pulling it back.
She froze, thinking she had made a terrible error. Then, he turned her hand, slowly rubbing his thumb over the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist. She shivered, her body taking his touch for exactly what it was. A response. A yes.
She swallowed hard, looking back off the dance floor to try to catch sight of her brother. He was nowhere to be seen. Which meant he had likely already taken off with a woman who had caught his attention. Good for her, he wasn’t here to babysit.
She had no idea how to do this. Most especially without talking. And her mystery man seemed intent on keeping things silent between them. She didn’t mind it. It heightened the electric feelings coursing through her.
She had no idea who he was, and he had no idea of her true identity. That was only a good thing. Her engagement to the prince of Santa Firenze was highly publicized. And though she doubted she would be famous worldwide, in Venice, there would certainly be some awareness of who she was.
But, soon, there was no decision to be made. Because he was moving her off the dance floor, away from the crowd and down an empty corridor. Her heart was thundering hard. And for a moment, she had the big concern that she was perhaps being kidnapped. She had not imagined that kidnapping might feel so close to seduction, or vice versa.
Now she was just thinking crazy things because she could hardly breathe for the fear and excitement that were jockeying for pride of place inside her.
He pressed her into an alcove, the music fading completely into the background. She could hear no one, and nothing. And in that moment, as the mysterious man in black filled her vision, it was as though they were the only two people on earth.
He pressed his thumb against her lips, tracing the edge of her mouth, a sensual shiver racking her frame. Then he let his fingertips drift down her neck, and down farther, to the neckline of her gown. His touch was featherlight over the rounded swells of her breasts, but it resonated inside her, deep and low. All consuming.
That was when she knew for certain she had not misinterpreted the situation. When she knew for sure that this was a seduction. And she was perilously close to being seduced.
But would she allow it?
Even as she had the thought, she realized how ridiculous it was. She had already allowed it. From the moment she had taken that offered hand, she had been saying yes.
His hand traveled all the way down to her hip, and he began gathering the deep purple fabric of her gown, pulling it up around her thighs. His fingertips brushed between her legs, brief, tantalizing contact in the place where she was beginning to burn for him.
Then, he pressed his palm against her stomach, pushing his hand upward, tugging the neckline of her dress to the side, exposing one of her breasts, then the other. She gasped, barely able to believe what was happening. What she was allowing him to do.
In truth, she wasn’t allowing anything. She was simply a captive to it. To him. And she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind at all.
He dragged his thumb over one sensitized nipple, and she gasped. Then he pinched her tender flesh between his thumb and forefinger.
She arched more deeply into his touch, and he lifted both hands, cupping her, squeezing her tight. Then his hands were back on her skirt, drawing it up, exposing her to him. His fingers slipping between her thighs so that he could tease her. Then beneath her underwear, touching her more intimately than anyone ever had before.
She felt lost in him, in this. She had never known pleasure like this. It was like being in the center of a sensual storm.