he looked at her with those kind brown eyes of his and she fell in love with him even more. Close up, he was starting to have fine lines around his eyes, but it only made him look more distinguished. "I want you to be sure of me."
"Sweetheart." She sighed. "I'm not sure of anything but you." She pulled him in for a kiss, and she understood then why she had agreed to marry him after knowing him for less than a month. Of all the guys she had ever met in her immortal life, he was the only one who made her feel this safe. She who distributed love only felt loved herself with his strong arms around her.
Fair haven was dark and shrouded, but Bran elected not to turn on any of the overhead lights. "Shhh . . ." he said. "Let's not wake Madame Grobadan."
"Let's not!" Freya agreed. Madame might have been the boys' stepmother, but she had basically raised them and remained a formidable presence in Bran's life. Freya was half-afraid of her, and had let her run the engagement party and make all the decisions, meekly acquiescing to her stringent demands. Madame loved the boys like her own, and with her intimidating posture and dismissive attitude, she was in some ways even more frightening than a real mother-in-law.
If possible, the house looked more impressive than it had at the party, with its vast open spaces empty of people. The grand piano gleamed in the moonlight, and Bran opened the French doors so they could hear the sound of the ocean. The house was so large, the main hall could hold an army, and the residential wing might as well have been in a whole other zip code. Freya walked over to the bar cart and made Bran a martini, extra dry. The bottled olives looked a little puny, but with a tap of her finger they turned juicy and plump. She fed him the olives one by one and he downed the drink in one gulp.
Bran set the glass aside then slouched in one of the roomy club chairs by the fireplace and loosened his tie, which was his way of telling her he wanted her to sit on his lap. He had been so unsure and hesitant in the beginning, as if not quite daring to believe that she would oblige him. His masculine gentleness was so appealing, and she quickly straddled him, so that her long, thick, curly hair brushed his face. He pulled her down to him hungrily, and soon his hands were slipping her dress above her head and she was unbuckling his belt and helping him kick off his pants.
"But what about . . . ?" she asked. "Should we move to your room?"
"They're miles away and asleep. . . . We'll be quiet," he whispered.
In the moonlight her body looked as perfect as a statue; when she sank herself on him her breath caught at the rush of feeling, of being broken and taken, as they moved gently together, so that with each thrust she felt as if she were opened anew. He groaned, his face tense with desire as he picked her up, the two of them still joined; then they were on the floor and he was turning her over, so that she was kneeling with her back in front of him, her head in her hands, thrilling at the way he held her by the waist, the way he pushed himself into her, his hands strong as he moved her every which way, now on her back, now on her stomach, now on top, mastering his strength and keeping her gasping. He was always in control, and she had never met anyone who made her feel quite as . . .
Well no, that wasn't quite true, now, was it . . . ?
There was someone else who . . .
She pushed the image from her head . . . but there it was. . . .
Killian, with his strong hands under her skirt, as she unzipped his jeans. . . .
It didn't belong there . . . especially not now. . . . Why was she even thinking of him? She didn't want this. She didn't want to think of him at all, and certainly not at this particular moment, but she couldn't help but remember . . . how she'd been on her knees, how she'd taken him in her mouth, had tasted him, and