A Forbidden Night with the Housekeeper Page 13

  Brushing the last of the wild flowers out of her hair, she laid the brush on the dressing table with trembling fingers and headed towards the bathroom. A claw-foot tub stood in the centre of the lavish room, facing tall French windows which looked out over the dark fields of vines beyond the estate’s gardens. Slipping off the robe, she climbed into the steamy, fragrant bathwater, but as she soaked tired muscles, trying to loosen the kinks caused by this overwhelming day, and the last overwhelming week and a half, the throbbing ache between her thighs strengthened and the panic intensified.

  She had already lost too much of herself during tonight’s events. If only she had more experience. Should she risk sleeping with Maxim? Was she even capable of denying herself that pleasure? And if he did come to her tonight, how did she remember that this marriage was one of convenience, not love?

  * * *

  Maxim tapped gently on the door to Cara’s suite of rooms. No reply. Was she already asleep?

  But as he contemplated returning to his own rooms across the hallway, the sensual tension that had been tormenting him throughout the day—ever since she’d stepped off his private jet that morning—clawed at his gut again.

  He didn’t feel rational, or focused. He felt desperate—driven by a craving stronger than he had ever known.

  Every time he had got a lungful of her scent today, each time he’d seen the heat warm her cheeks when she’d glanced his way, the hunger for her had increased. Their first dance had been torture, as her body softened in his arms and she’d allowed him to lead her in the steps—while all the time he had been thinking of another dance he wished to lead her in.

  Every single thing about his wife turned him on. But was that really so surprising?

  He had searched for five long months to find her and then forced himself to leave her for ten days while preparations for their marriage were made. And during all that time he had dreamed about her continuously—sweaty erotic dreams which had turned his hunger into something more than it was ever meant to be.

  He wasn’t a man used to having to deny his natural urges, and every one of them had been focused on Cara for months. And now she was his wife, was it any wonder he wanted to consummate their marriage? Surely they both deserved something more from this union than simply security for the child? Madame Moreau, the Parisian obstetrician he had hired, had confirmed what Dr Karim had said in London. Cara and the child were healthy; there was nothing to fear from sexual intercourse.

  Damn it, stop second-guessing yourself. You can hardly satisfy this hunger from the hallway.

  He knocked again, then tentatively opened the door, wondering if she was asleep. As he entered the room, the light coming from the bathroom illuminated the empty bed, and a scrap of something lacy and insubstantial laid upon it.

  Just the sight of the negligee and the thought of Cara’s full curves barely concealed by it had the heat surging into his groin.

  He could hear splashing in the adjoining bathroom and smell the heady fragrance of flowers.

  He cursed softly to himself then walked across the room, unable to resist the pull of a desire so strong it had been driving him crazy for hours, days, weeks...hell, even months.

  He stood in the bathroom doorway to absorb the sight of his bride in the free-standing tub unobserved. Her heavy breasts were misted with moisture, while damp tendrils of hair clung to her high cheekbones.

  He groaned.

  Her head shot round, and what he saw in her eyes—stunned desire, naked need—echoed in his gut and turned the erection to throbbing iron. The emotion that gripped his chest felt like more than desire, more than passion, more than the basic urge to mate—he struggled to beat it back, to control it.

  This was just hunger, nothing more, nothing less; it only felt like more because he desired her so much—and the fact of her pregnancy had resurrected emotions, vulnerabilities, that were best left buried.

  ‘Maxim?’ she said, folding her arms over her beautiful breasts to cover her nakedness. ‘You’re... You’re here.’

  He could hear the wariness in her voice, see the shyness in her flushed face. Damn, why did her innocence make her even more exquisite? It made no sense. He had always preferred the women he slept with to be bold and assertive, ready to tell him what they enjoyed, but, with Cara, her pleasure was like a rare gift waiting to be unwrapped. And, weirdly, her innocence made him feel untouched too, discovering the limits of his own pleasure for the first time.

  The thought was so damn intoxicating he had to swallow another groan.

  ‘Do you wish me to leave?’ he asked, even though it was the hardest question he had ever asked. If she said yes, he would have to go, even though the thought of stepping away from the feast before his eyes might well tip him over the edge into insanity.

  He saw her slender throat tighten as she swallowed, but then she shook her head.

  He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever might be watching over him in that moment. And sent up a silent vow too, that he would do his very best to treat her with the respect her inexperience—and her condition—deserved, even if the hunger clawing at his gut was already more than he could bear.

  An idea sprung into his mind, erotic but also playful, and his erection stiffened even more.

  ‘Would you like me to wash your back?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice light, the opposite of what he felt.

  ‘Um...’ She chewed her lip, considering, and every one of his pulse points throbbed in agony, waiting for her decision. ‘That would be nice, if you’re sure you want to.’

  He masked the inevitable groan with a husky half laugh. She was going to kill him before the night was out. ‘J’en suis certain, Cara.’

  He sat down on the gilded chair in the corner of the room to unlace his shoes and had managed to strip off his shirt and tuxedo trousers before her shocked voice asked, ‘Maxim, what are you doing?’

  ‘Joining you in the bath,’ he said as he lowered his boxer shorts and watched her gaze drop to the painful erection. Stunned need—and panic—flared in the blue depths and he laughed again, the sound considerably more tortured this time. ‘It’s the only way to do a thorough job.’

  She didn’t take her eyes off the mammoth erection as he crossed the room. He climbed in behind her, the water rising to lap over the lip of the tub as he sunk down, his erection now snug against her bottom. She trembled, and moved, instinctively rubbing against the stiff length.

  Oui, she was definitely going to kill him, but at least he would die in a state of bliss.

  He reached past her to pluck the soap from the side of the tub. He lathered his hands, then placed them on her shoulders. Beginning at her nape, he worked down her spine as far as he could reach, kneading the tight muscles, glad when the sinews began to loosen under his thumbs. She still had her arms clasped across her chest, but he could feel the tension gradually releasing. At last her arms softened enough for him to draw them down.

  He covered her breasts with his hands, and leant over her shoulder to watch the nipples—rosy from the water—elongate under his focused caresses.

  ‘Maxim, I... That’s not my back...’ Her voice broke on the husky comment, the raw need in her tone a potent aphrodisiac.

  ‘Yes, but I feel they need my attention,’ he teased, desperately trying to keep the mood playful. ‘It’s my job as your husband to make sure you are properly washed.’

  ‘It... It is?’ she said, her body relaxing enough to lean into him.

  Unable to bear the tension any longer, he leaned over her shoulder and, holding the heavy weight of her breasts in his palms, whispered in her ear, ‘Turn your head for me, ma femme.’

  She did as he asked, and he claimed her lips. The angle was too awkward to go deep, but even so her tongue tangled with his, meeting his shallow thrusts. He lifted his head first, her soft sigh of disappointment like a siren call to his sens
es. Standing, he lifted her from the water and stepped out of the tub with her in his arms.

  ‘Maxim, be careful, you might slip,’ she said, gripping his shoulders.

  He placed a kiss on her nose, pink and delicious, and laughed at her practicality.

  Dieu, could she be any more exquisite?

  He brushed his feet on the damp bath mat and strode into the adjoining bedroom with her held high in his arms. ‘Take a towel,’ he said as they walked past the pile on the bathroom dresser.

  Placing her on her feet beside the four-poster bed, he took the fluffy bath sheet from her and proceeded to dry her wild tumble of curls, then her body, taking the opportunity to run the soft towelling over her flushed fragrant flesh, marvelling at the changes—surprised by how much they aroused him.

  He would not have believed he could want her more than he had that first night. But he did. Her breasts were fuller and firmer, her curves more lush where her body had ripened in pregnancy.

  Was she more sensitive? he wondered.

  Sinking to his knees, he discarded the towel and gripped her hips, suddenly desperate to taste her.

  ‘Maxim!’ She grasped his shoulders, her whole body trembling as if she were in a high wind. He knew how she felt, every inch of his skin was alive and raring to devour her, the erection so hard it hurt.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said.

  He looked up and smiled at the stunned desire in her face. He ran his fingers over the seam of her sex—and decided to taste her another time. If he feasted on her tonight he might not be able to hold onto the frenzy building in his blood.

  ‘Making sure you are ready for me,’ he said, exploring the swollen folds.

  She jolted and moaned as his thumb stroked across the slick nub of her clitoris. ‘I’m... I’m very ready,’ she said.

  ‘Bien.’ He stood and licked his fingertips then watched her pupils expand. He’d done his best to take this slowly, to woo her, but he couldn’t hold back much longer. Despite the need rioting through his system, though, he took in the firm mound of her belly—aware of the life that grew inside her.

  ‘Climb onto the bed, Cara, on all fours,’ he managed, his voice raw, as violent need sparked along his nerve-endings.

  She seemed confused, so he took her elbow and guided her onto the bed, then rolled her over gently and lifted her hips. The lips of her sex quivered, swollen and shiny with her juices. He placed himself at her entrance, the sight of the thick erection entering her so erotic he felt dazed.

  He slid deep in one slow, careful thrust, filling her to the hilt. Her muscles clenched around him, tighter than a fist, her shocked sob making his erection grow to impossible proportions.

  He began to move, rocking his hips, out and back, to claim every centimetre of her sex. This part of her, at least, still belonged to him.

  But as he plunged deep, took more, branded her as his...the words of the ceremony in the mairie that afternoon—words which shouldn’t have meant anything—poured through his mind all over again, this time binding, and true. Too true.

  Her sex clenched around him in orgasm, massaging his length and triggering his own titanic climax. A shout was wrenched from his throat as his seed emptied inside her.

  But as they shuddered through the devastating orgasm together, a disturbing thought occurred to him. She was his, but only until the child was born, so why did this need feel too huge to ever be sated?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CARA AWOKE THE next morning to find the light shining through open shutters... And the bed beside her empty.

  She’d tried to convince herself last night, as the afterglow had suffused her senses and Maxim had held her while she fell asleep, that all her fanciful feelings about him, about her marriage, were just endorphins. An industrial-strength hormonal rush which had only become more potent because of her pregnancy. Her feelings for Maxim, for this marriage, were nothing to be terrified of, because they were just a chemical reaction she couldn’t control.

  But as she stretched in the bed alone, the luxury linen sheets like sandpaper on her over-sensitive skin, she couldn’t help fixating on the empty space beside her, and struggled to explain away the tenderness beating under her ribs. And the wave of disappointment... And longing.

  Or the questions that bombarded her.

  Where had he gone? Had he returned to his own rooms? Why hadn’t he stayed?

  She pushed the questions back, tried to stop the tender spot in her chest becoming the hollow ache of inadequacy that had defined her childhood as she slipped out of bed and walked into the bathroom on unsteady legs.

  The damp bath mat had been hooked over the heated towel rail and the bath had been emptied. Even so, the erotic memories from yesterday evening, his tender ministrations as he’d joined her in the bath and the powerful, passionate sex that had followed assailed her senses again. But as she searched the room for Maxim’s clothes, or any sign that he had ever been there, her confidence faded.

  After taking a quick shower, she managed to find a pair of designer jeans and a pretty blue blouse in the wardrobe full of expensive new clothes in the suite’s dressing room.

  She could hear the bustle of activity downstairs as she stepped onto the landing. The clean-up operation was in full swing. After wandering downstairs unobserved, she headed past the Great Hall and saw a small army of staff, busy packing away the remnants of last night’s wedding banquet.

  The show was well and truly over.

  She spotted Antoinette amid the mêlée.

  ‘Antoinette, bonjour!’ she called out, glad of the distraction. While she had no aptitude for social events, she knew a lot about housekeeping. And cleaning. Perhaps she could help? And it would take her mind off last night, and Maxim’s absence from her bed this morning.

  Antoinette rushed over, looking concerned. ‘Madame, I am so sorry. Monsieur Durand gave us instructions not to wake you.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m an early riser.’

  ‘We did not expect you to be up so early. I am so sorry I didn’t attend you immediately.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Antoinette, really,’ Cara said, feeling a blush work up her neck on cue. Did everyone know what they’d been doing last night? ‘Do you know where Monsieur Durand is?’ she asked, feeling a little foolish.

  Antoinette nodded enthusiastically. ‘Monsieur Durand is in the breakfast room.’

  The maid led her through the house, leaving her at the entrance to a huge glass conservatory. The lush planting inside the room contrasted with the bare wintery gardens shrouded in an early morning mist outside. She walked through the foliage, and spied Maxim seated at an ornate iron table in a picturesque alcove, sipping coffee and reading something on his phone.

  Her husband. Her lover.

  The emotions she’d worked so hard to control during the night rushed towards her again like a tidal wave, threatening to knock her off her feet.

  How could they be even stronger now and more volatile? And what was she supposed to do to make them stop?

  Dressed in a crisp white shirt, his jaw clean-shaven and his hair recently brushed, his gaze was locked on the screen. With the flaky remnants of his breakfast on the plate in front of him, Maxim looked focused, alert, confident and every inch the captain of industry.

  She cleared her throat and his gaze rose from his phone. Passion flared in his eyes but, before she could respond to it, he frowned.

  ‘Cara, why are you awake so early?’ he said, not sounding pleased to see her. ‘After last night, you need your sleep.’

  All her questions about what time he’d left her and where he planned to sleep in the future died on her tongue. It wasn’t exactly a reprimand, but it was close enough. Heat flushed through her at the mention of ‘last night’ but she forced herself to walk towards him.

  ‘It’s not that early,’ she said in her
defence.

  He stood and pulled out a chair. ‘Sit,’ he said, placing a perfunctory kiss on her cheek as he tucked the chair in. He seemed distracted but the buzz of his lips still set off a shiver of reaction. She tried not to dwell on it. Her response to him was physical not emotional. Why couldn’t she remember that?

  ‘What would you like to eat? I will have the chef prepare it for you,’ he said, sitting down.

  ‘I’m... I’m not that hungry,’ she said.

  ‘Cara—’ his brows furrowed ‘—you must eat.’

  She nodded, remembering his obsession with her health and where it came from. ‘A croissant then, I guess.’

  ‘That is not enough,’ he said, then lifted the phone and barked an order for an array of breakfast dishes.

  ‘I’m not sure I can eat all that,’ she said when he ended the call to the kitchen.

  He didn’t seem too pleased with that response, but simply nodded. ‘There is an app on the phone Jean-Claude supplied you with. It has a direct link to the staff. If there is anything you require, just let them know. I have hired a nutritionist to suggest meals suitable for pregnant women, you can consult with her, also through the app.’

  ‘Okay.’ She wanted to be pleased with his thoughtfulness, but instead she felt overwhelmed again. And a little frustrated. Where was the man who had made such passionate and provocative love to her last night? And where was the woman who had made that commanding, confident man moan?

  She didn’t feel powerful any more, she felt inadequate and out of place—the way she had so many times before when she’d arrived at a new foster home, desperate to fit in, to find a place for herself. Only to discover there wasn’t one.

  ‘It is good you are here,’ he said, surprising her, but, just as her heart lifted at the encouraging statement, he added, ‘I am about to head to the winery for the day.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday!’ she heard herself say. And it’s our honeymoon, she almost added, but managed to stop herself—after all, this wasn’t a real marriage.