Indeed, he had not returned in a fit of lust. He’d returned because he was angry. Angry at her for nearly marrying Tommy. For not telling him the truth.
She broke into his thoughts, and he caught her by the waist to steady her. “I am sorry that I am not perfect.”
Right now, the only thing imperfect about her was the fact that she was clothed.
“What makes you say that?”
“We were married today,” she said. “Or perhaps you do not remember?”
“I remember.” She was making it impossible to forget.
“Really? Because you left me.”
“I remember that, too.” He had returned, ready to consummate the marriage. Ready to claim her as his and eliminate any doubt that they were married, that Falconwell was his.
That she was his. His, and not Tommy’s.
“Brides do not expect to be left on their wedding night, Michael.” He did not reply, and she brazened on, raising her hands to his arms, clutching him through layers of clothing. “We do not like it. Especially when you forgo an evening with us for one with your . . . raven-haired beauty.”
She wasn’t making sense. “Who?”
She waved a hand. “They’re always raven-haired, the ones who win . . .”
“Who win what?”
She was still talking. “ . . . It doesn’t matter if she’s raven-haired or not, really. It just matters that she exists. And I don’t like it.”
“I see,” he said. She thought he’d been with another woman? Perhaps if he’d been with another woman, he would not be here, wanting her so much.
“I don’t think you do see, actually.” She wavered, watching him carefully. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No.” He at least knew that was the correct answer.
“Shall I tell you what else brides do not like on their wedding night?”
“By all means.”
“We do not like to sit at home. Alone.”
“I imagine that goes with not liking being left.”
She narrowed her gaze and lowered her hands, swaying back, enough for him to tighten his grip and hold her steady—to feel the soft warmth of her beneath her shift, reminding him of the way she molded to his hands . . . to his mouth . . . to the rest of him. “You mock me.”
“I swear I don’t.”
“We also don’t like to be mocked.”
He had to take control before he lost his mind. “Penelope.”
She smiled. “I like the way you say my name.”
He ignored the words and the unplanned flirtation in them. She did not know what she was doing. “Why aren’t you in your own bed?”
She tilted her head, considering the question. “We married for all the wrong reasons. Or, all the right reasons . . . if you’re looking for a marriage of convenience. But, either way, we did not marry for passion. I mean, think about it. You didn’t really compromise me at Falconwell.”
A memory flashed of her writhing against him, pressing up into his hands, his mouth. The feel of her. The taste of her. “I am fairly certain that I did.”
She shook her head. “No. You didn’t. I know enough to understand the mechanics of the process, you know.”
He wanted to explore that knowledge. In depth. “I see.”
“I know there’s . . . more.”
So much more. So much more that he wanted to show her. So much that he had planned to show her upon his return home. But . . . “You have been drinking.”
“Just a little.” She sighed, looking over his shoulder into the darkness of the room beyond. “Michael, you promised me adventure.”
“I did.”
“A nighttime adventure.”
His fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her to him. Or maybe she was simply swaying in that direction. Either way, he didn’t stop the movement. “I promised you a tour of my club.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want that tonight. Not anymore.”
She had the most beautiful, blue eyes. A man could lose himself in those eyes. “What do you want instead?”
“We were married today.”
Yes. They were.
“I’m your wife.”
He stroked his hands up her back until his fingers slid deep into golden curls, taking hold of her head and tilting her just so, perfectly, so he could lay claim to her and remind her that he was her husband.
He, and no one else.
He leaned in, brushing his lips across hers, light and teasing.
She sighed and pressed closer, but he pulled back, refusing to allow her to take over. She’d married him. She’d given him the chance to restore his name and his lands. And tonight, he wanted nothing more than to give her access to a world of pleasure as his thanks.
“Penelope.”
Her eyes drifted open. “Yes?”
“How much have you had to drink?”
She shook her head. “I am not in my cups. It seems I drank just enough to find the courage to ask for what I want.”
She’d had too much, then. He knew it, even as her words sent desire lancing through him, “And what is it you want, darling?”
She met his gaze head-on. “I want my wedding night.”
So simple, so direct. So irresistible. He took her lips again knowing he shouldn’t, and kissed her as though they had all the time in the world, as though he was not dying to be a part of her. To be inside her. To make her his. He sucked her full lower lip between his teeth, licking and stroking with his tongue until she moaned her pleasure at the back of her throat.
He released her mouth, kissing across her cheek, whispering, “Say my name.”
“Michael,” she said without hesitation, the word trembling at his ear, sending a shaft of pleasure straight through him.
“No. Bourne.” He took the lobe of one ear into his mouth and worried it before releasing her and saying, “Say it.”
“Bourne,” she shifted, pressing against him, asking for more. “Please.”
“There will be no turning back after this,” he promised, his lips at her temple, hands reveling in her softness.
Her blue eyes opened, unbelievably light in the darkness, and she whispered, “Why would you think I would turn back?”
He stilled at the question, at the honest confusion in her words. It was the drink talking. It had to be. It was inconceivable to think that she did not understand what he meant. That she did not see that he was nothing like the men who had courted her before.
“I’m not the man you had planned to marry.” He should confront her with Tommy. But he did not want another man’s name spoken in this moment. In this place.
She was already making him weak.
She smiled, small and perhaps sad. “You are the man I married nonetheless. I know that you don’t care about me, Michael. I know that you only married me for Falconwell. But it’s rather too late to look back, isn’t it? We are married. And I wish to have a wedding night. I deserve it, I think, after all these years. Please. If you don’t mind too much.”
His hands moved to the collar of her nightgown, and, with a mighty tug, he rent the clothing in two. She gasped at the movement, her eyes going wide. “You ruined it.” Bourne groaned at the wonder in the words. At the pleasure there.