The Marriage Bed. Helen Bianchin
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obvious?’
‘Stop it, Gabbi,’ Benedict warned.
‘Why? I’m on a roll.’
‘Quit while you’re ahead.’
‘OK. Pick a scenario. Annaliese wants you, you want her. Annaliese wants you, you don’t want her.’
‘The latter.’
She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath, and she released it slowly. ‘Well, now, that’s a relief. I can kiss goodbye visions of throwing out monogrammed towels, ruining your hand-stitched shoes and cutting up every one of your suits.’ She gave him a hard smile that didn’t quite match the vulnerability apparent in her eyes. ‘I had intentions of being quite vicious if you decided on divorce.’
Humour gleamed in those dark eyes, and a deep chuckle emerged from his throat.
‘It’s not funny.’
‘No.’
‘Then don’t laugh. I was serious.’
Benedict took a long swallow of champagne and placed his flute down on a nearby pedestal. ‘Why in hell would I consider divorcing a sassy young woman who delights in challenging me on every level in favour of someone like Annaliese?’ He removed her champagne flute and lowered it to join his own. Then he pulled her into his arms.
Gabbi didn’t have a chance to answer before his mouth closed over hers, and she drank in the taste of him mingled with the sweet tang of vintage French champagne, generously giving everything he asked, more than he demanded, until mutual need spiralled to the edge of their control.
‘I could take you here, now,’ Benedict groaned huskily as his lips grazed a path down her throat, and she arched her head to allow him easy access to the sensitive hollow at its base, the swell of her breasts as he trailed lower.
A soft laugh choked in her throat as he freed one tender globe and took a liberty with its peak. Then she cried out as he lifted her over one shoulder and began striding from the room.
‘Caveman tactics,’ she accused as he ascended the stairs.
He gained the upper floor, then headed for the main suite. When he reached it, he released her to stand within the circle of his arms.
‘Want to undress me?’
Her eyes sparkled with wicked humour. ‘Might be quicker if you did it yourself.’
‘That bad, huh?’
‘Yes,’ she said with honest simplicity, her own fingers as busy as his as clothes layered the carpet.
Their loving was all heat and hunger the first time round, followed by a long, sweet after-play that led to the slow slaking of mutual need.
Afterwards she lay with her head pillowed against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat beneath her cheek.
‘I don’t think I could bear to lose you,’ Gabbi said, on the edge of sleep, and wasn’t sure whether she heard or dreamed his response.
‘What makes you think you will?’
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