Bedding the Beast Page 8

  He heard her breath catch, felt her fingers still, and knew she was close, very close. He thrust a little harder, a little faster, kept his fingers moving, and when she shuddered and cried out, he let go, exploding inside her magnificent ass, moaning like a wild animal.

  When his breath was even, he nuzzled against her neck through the curtain of her hair. She reached back and stroked his cheek. His scarred cheek. Thank God she couldn't see it. He pulled her closer, jostling her a little higher in the process. His limp, happy cock slid out of the hot depths of her body.

  She took her hand back. "What do you call ... what we did?"

  "I don't know." And he certainly couldn't ask anyone.

  "After we marry, you will go inside my pussy."

  After they were married, nothing would stop him. "Yes."

  "Will it feel ... same?"

  She sounded a little disappointed. Or maybe he was the disappointed one. As much as he'd loved being deep inside her back hole, he wanted her pussy a thousand times more. Her pussy would be wetter, softer, and more giving. And he would be able to thrust into her pussy with abandon. But not the first time ‑‑ the first time, he'd be gentle.

  "No. It will feel better."

  And it would. He'd been thrilled to take her this way, but it had been a substitute for what he really wanted. He wanted to fuck her. To ride her face-to-face ‑‑ even though he wouldn't see her face in the dark. To plant his seed in her womb, to have children.

  If she was strong enough to bear them.

  * * * * *

  Mariana woke to the sounds of splashing water in a dimly lit room. She rolled over and saw John next to the stove, emptying a pail into the sink.

  "John? What do you do?" No, that wasn't right. "What are you doing?"

  He looked up. The lamp was so low, she couldn't see his face at all. But she could see he was naked. "Emptying the tub."

  She squinted, but the light was too dim to see his cock. "You washed yourself?"

  "Yes."

  The sky was pitch black outside the window. She must have slept for only an hour or so. When she sat up, a twinge in her bottom made her give a small cry of pain. She felt sore, and stretched, back there.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  She could never explain why she was smarting. Not in any language. "Nothing."

  "Your arms still hurt?"

  She wanted to say yes, if only to avoid the embarrassment. But she'd asked for honesty from him. She wouldn't repay him with a lie. "Not my arms, no."

  He said nothing for a long moment. "Sorry," he muttered.

  "I do not hurt bad. I ... I wanted."

  And she still wanted him, even if she was too sore to take him in her backside right now. He made her feel so good, even when he hurt her a little. She'd loved feeling his big cock moving in her, loved hearing him grunt and groan, loved the way he held her so tightly against his broad, warm chest. Loved feeling like he wanted her, needed her.

  And when he came inside her, and made her come, too, she'd felt so very special. Like he couldn't be thinking of any other woman. Like he couldn't be thinking of her sister.

  He wasn't.

  Oh, no. Not now, not when she felt vulnerable and unsure. Although the voice was reassuring for once. Still, it unnerved her. "John?"

  "Yes?"

  She didn't have the words in English. "Did you hear that?"

  He stood still for a long moment, listening. It was so cold outside, even the animals were quiet. "Hear what?"

  She swallowed. Would he think her crazy? "I thought I heard a voice."

  "I didn't hear anything."

  At least he'd answered her in Italian, without correcting her in that impatient way of his. "I must have imagined it."

  He blew out the lamp and came to the bed. She felt the mattress dip as he settled next to her. "I'll teach you the English words tomorrow."

  Maybe he was the mind reader. She smiled in the darkness, and moved close so she could rest her arm over his massive chest.

  When his hand wandered across her stomach, she tensed up a little. She didn't want to push him away. How could she tell him she was too sore to take his cock inside again?

  "Maybe ... tomorrow ..." she began.

  "Hush." He pulled her hip until she was lying on her back next to him.

  His mouth came down on hers, open and wet, and she arched up to press her lips against his more firmly. She loved the way he kissed, the way he sucked at her lips as though he wanted to take her into his own mouth, the way his tongue thrust inside and rasped against the inner flesh of her mouth. He smelled clean, like the store-bought soap, and he'd shaved his whiskers.

  When he pulled down the blanket, baring her bosom, she tried to pull it back up. Even though she loved his kisses, she wasn't ready for more.

  "It won't hurt, Mariana. I promise. It won't hurt at all."

  He'd given her no reason not to trust him. So she relaxed. He kissed her again, and his hand found her breasts, his rough hand that felt so unbearably gentle. He could bruise her with this big strong hand, but he handled her so carefully, his fingers rubbing across her nipple as if he wanted to memorize the feel of it. His kiss, his touch, had her tingling between her legs, making her squirm.

  Then his mouth opened over her breast, and he sucked her inside, deep inside. She moaned and clutched at his head. His thick, shaggy wet hair tangled around her fingers, but she didn't care, she just had to make sure he stayed there, kept licking, and sucking, and -- oh ‑‑ he bit her nipple! A soft bite, just enough to let her feel the sharp edge of his teeth. His tongue lapped at her, soothing the tiny hurt.

  But she needed more, so much more. "Please," she whispered.

  "Please, what?" His deep voice rumbled against her sensitive breast.

  "Touch," she said, panting. "Touch me."

  His hand stroked from her hip to her bosom. "Where?"

  Oh, would he make her wait forever? "You know."

  "Say it, Mariana."

  "Pussy."

  "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I'll touch your pussy."

  His fingers were between her legs then, playing, stroking, rubbing, spreading her wetness all over, while his mouth sucked at her nipples. He moved lower and kissed her stomach. Wet heat filled her bellybutton ‑‑ his tongue. And then he pulled away from her, pulled his head out of her hands, and moved all the way off the bed. He grabbed her thighs and dragged her down, down, until her knees bent, her feet were on the floor and her bottom was at the edge of the mattress.

  She had a bare instant to wonder what he was doing before his head swooped between her legs, his mouth hot on her privates, licking, licking, licking, until her pussy buzzed with urgent need. Her thighs shook with every teasing stroke of his tongue. Nothing existed but her panting breath, his slurping tongue, and the crisis building in her trembling body.

  His tongue went inside her, deep inside, wriggling. Oh, so good. But he took it out, and before she could draw breath to protest, a big hot finger was there, thrusting into her over and over again. And his mouth found a wondrous spot, the most sensitive spot, and suckled. She clutched at the blankets as she moaned, and gasped, and came hard, hard, against his sucking mouth.

  Before she'd caught her breath, before she even remembered where she was, he lifted her up onto the bed again and wrapped his arms around her, settling on his back with her front draped over him. Her head ended up on his chest. She rubbed her cheek against that thick pelt of hair and gasped for breath.

  "I told you," he whispered, sounding as out of breath as she was. "I told you it wouldn't hurt at all."

  * * * * *

  She nuzzled her face against his chest, and he felt little puffs of warm air on his skin as she struggled to catch her breath. "Oh, John ... John ..."

  No woman had ever said his name that way. Breathy and tender, full of sensual satisfaction. He'd pleased her, all right.

  She wasn't finished. "I never ... that was ... you ..."

  He grinned and tighte
ned his arm around her slender back. "Yes," he said, as if her random words had made any sense. He pulled the tangled covers over her trembling body, unwilling to release her to straighten the blankets.

  One long, slim hand rested on his collarbone. Delicate fingers curved around his neck and stroked his throat. "Can I touch you? Your cock?"

  What had he ever done to deserve such a generous, passionate woman? He took her hand, kissed her palm. "Yes."

  Her hand wandered over his chest. "You can go inside me like before. If you wish."

  Unbelievably generous. Even though he'd hurt her, even though she was still sore in her tender ass, she'd take him there again.

  Tempting, so tempting. But she wasn't some hardened whore to be ridden roughshod. Fucking her in the ass again would pain her, and might make her reluctant for more bed sport tomorrow. "Just touch me. Make me come with your hand."

  Her hand roamed his chest again, down to his stomach. "You are ... so much hair."

  "Hairy."

  "Like a bear," she said, rubbing her hand against his furry chest.

  Her silky hair tickled his stomach as she moved lower, lower. And then her fingertips brushed his cock, and he felt the wet warmth of her tongue, licking his shaft.

  His eyes rolled back, and he gripped the bed sheets to keep from grabbing her head and pushing her mouth against him.

  "Is good?" she asked.

  "Suck me."

  "What?"

  He groaned. How could she expect him to think at a time like this? "Take it in your mouth, and suck ... oh, hell." He couldn't think clearly enough to explain it, not even in Italian.

  He reached down, grabbed one of her hands, and pulled her up so he could suck one of her fingers into his mouth. "Like this," he said, sucking, releasing, sucking again.

  Hair tickled his chest again, a slim hand found his cock, and then he felt her mouth open over him, sucking him inside. Ah, heaven.

  She sucked lightly, too lightly, but her tongue moved against his cock like a rasp of velvet. He touched her hair, gently grasped her head, and showed her how to move, how to pull him into her mouth and out again. She sucked him eagerly, and the brush of her hair across his stomach teased him to a fever pitch.

  His back arched, his brain shut down, his breath turned to harsh gasps. Rough groans left his throat. Before he could tell her to stop, to pull away, he came deep, deep inside the sucking heat of her mouth.

  He expected her to gag, to spit, to leap away from him. But she held him in her mouth, held him until the last wave of pleasure had passed. And when she released his cock, she gave his limp shaft a soft kiss before coming to lie beside him.

  One of her fingers twined in the mat of hair on his chest. "Was good?"

  She had to ask? "L'ultimo. Meraviglioso. Magnifico."

  She laughed. God, he'd made her laugh. "In English?"

  "The best. Wonderful. Superb."

  "Mmm."

  He'd take that for agreement.

  "Tomorrow," she said, "you will spell these words. So I will learn ‑‑ I'll learn," she corrected herself. She bent her lips to his ear. "I'll learn what to say when next you make me come," she whispered.

  He was so tired he couldn't answer her. He just pulled her closer and sighed against the top of her head.

  Chapter Seven

  The chickens fluttered around the coop and clucked wildly, racing for the feed. Two of the birds flew over the heads of the rest, landed in the middle of the feed tray, and showered seed over the ground. Mariana laughed. Silly chickens.

  This morning, anything could make her laugh. She'd woken before John, dressed in the dark, and slipped outside to gather the eggs and milk the cow. Today he'd see that she could be useful outside the bed.

  She stepped quietly onto the porch and opened the door carefully. John was still in bed, the covers pulled over his head. She set down the milk pail and egg basket softly so he wouldn't wake.

  She put water on to boil for coffee, then sat at the table and threaded her needle. The dress was half done. She might even finish today, unless John kept her busy.

  She grinned. Oh, she hoped he kept her very busy.

  Maybe they'd spend the whole day together. Talking, laughing, kissing. More than kissing. Maybe he'd take her to bed during the day ... when he could see her. If he saw her face, her body, he wouldn't be able to think of anyone else.

  Maybe Francesca would leave her in peace then. Much as she loved her sister, she didn't want her ghost haunting her marriage.

  She stood up and added coffee to the boiling water. Noise from the bed drew her attention. John had thrown the blankets partway off and rolled onto his back, but hadn't woken. He lay with his chest bare, his mouth open, breathing deeply. The wild, bushy hair on his head stood up in all directions, making her smile, but the sight of his naked chest made her smile fade. He had more hair on his broad torso than she'd imagined, a thick black pelt that grew in great whorls around his flat nipples and arrowed down his taut stomach in a wide swathe, disappearing under the sheet.

  He looked so strong, masculine, utterly different from any man she'd ever seen. She remembered exactly how that solid, hairy chest felt against her naked back. How would it feel against her breasts, above her, when he lay on top of her to take her virginity? Her mouth went dry, and she had to lean against the sink.

  A bolder woman than she would join him in that bed and wake him with kisses. She would be bold, if she thought he really wanted her. He lusted after her body in the dark of night, but did he really want her, Mariana? Or was she just a poor, small-chested substitute for the woman he really wanted?

  She sighed and sat back down, taking the dress in her lap. It was too soon for him to forget Francesca. Only six months ago, he had shared that bed with Francesca. Done those wonderful things with Francesca.

  No wonder her spirit lingered around him.

  But life was for the living, as her mother always said, and her duty was to be here with John. She put a narrow row of stitches around the bottom of one sleeve, raising the hem, and tied off the thread. This was her dress now. And John would be her husband.

  "Good morning."

  His deep voice made her jump. She looked up and saw him pull his long johns up over his shoulders, then button them closed over his big hairy chest.

  Even though he wasn't looking at her, she gave him a big smile. "Good morning. You want coffee?"

  "Yes."

  She stood and poured a mug, bringing it to him as he shrugged into his shirt. He took a sip and set the mug on the dresser.

  And she couldn't resist. She leaned closer to him and brought her face up for a kiss.

  He stepped back quickly, looking at her warily.

  He didn't even want to kiss her. After everything they'd done in the night. Her chest burned with the pain of his rejection. Shocked, dazed, she turned and walked away before he could see the tears smarting her eyes. She went to the sink, and with shaking hands, cracked a half dozen eggs into a bowl.

  "I'm ... not real sociable in the morning," he said.

  He lied. His voice sounded careful, guarded, as if he was hiding the truth. She had enough younger brothers to recognize that tone.

  She could lie, too. She nodded without looking at him. "Is not a problem." She set a skillet over a burner and started frying some of the thick sausage she'd found in the cold cellar. "What will you do today?"

  "I have to go into town."

  She looked at him then. "Again? The horse is more sick?"

  His pants were on, and he sat on the edge of the bed, lacing up one of his boots. "The horse is better." He started on his second boot. "But I ... forgot some things."

  Again he lied. She turned the sausage. In a minute, she could start the eggs. The sausage took much longer, and she wanted everything to be finished at the same time. Then he'd see that she could cook, too.

  "I'll have to bring Kathleen's horse back to her when I get home," he said. "Probably won't make it back here until supper."
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  So he would be gone all day, again. Well, she would find something to keep her busy. She'd finish the dress ‑‑ her wedding dress ‑‑ and maybe clean the cold storage cellar. And she'd be careful not to hurt her arms. She'd show him she wasn't a weak woman.

  He knows.

  She jumped, lost hold of the fork, and it clattered to the wooden floor.

  The bed creaked as John stood. "You all right?"

  She nodded. Obviously she was the only one hearing Francesca's spirit. At least she had nothing to fear. Intuition, spirits, the second sight -- none of them could harm her. She took a clean fork and slid the eggs into the hot pan, stirring them around the sizzling sausages.

  He sat at the table. "The sausage smells good."

  "Yes."

  "I'm thinking of getting some hogs. Selling the extra meat to get a little cash. But I'm not sure I could turn a profit."

  "Feeding hogs is ..." She didn't know the English word, and if she took the time to look it up, the sausage would burn. "Much money," she improvised.

  "Expensive. Yeah, it is." He sighed. "I really want to grow some extra crops, but ..."

  "No money?"

  He didn't answer. When she glanced at him, he was staring at her oddly. Maybe she shouldn't have said that. Her father had always gotten angry when a woman talked to him about money.

  "Not enough land," he said, before she could apologize. "I was going to buy a few acres from Kathleen, but ... now I don't have the money."

  He didn't seem angry that she'd mentioned money. Not at all. "Maybe you can ... how do you say it?" She stirred the eggs, then set down the fork and rushed to get one of her dictionaries, hurrying back to the stove to keep an eye on the food. With one hand, she flipped through the pages. "Rent the land."

  He shook his head. "I've thought about that. But if the crop goes bad, I'll still have to pay the rent. I'd lose money. And if we had two bad seasons in a row ..."

  "You could ..." She hesitated. Did he really not mind getting ideas from a woman? "You could give Kathleen some money from ... from the crops. When crop is good, both make money. When crop is bad, no money for both. You give a ... part?"

  "A percentage."

  She brought plates and a fork to the table, then served him from the pan. Today he would eat off of a plate.