Page 7 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

six

. . .

Cullen

She's mine now. The gold band on her finger gleams in the firelight as she sits perched on the edge of our bed—our bed—looking impossibly small in the vast expanse of the master suite.

My wife. The word feels foreign on my tongue, like a language I once knew but have long forgotten.

Her wedding dress—hastily acquired but perfect nonetheless—pools around her like liquid moonlight.

I've never seen anything so pure, so perfect, so completely undeserving of a man like me.

And yet here we are.

Three days after my spontaneous proposal, and Amber Lockhart is now Amber Blackwood.

The justice of the peace looked between us skeptically—the massive, scarred man and the delicate beauty beside him—but money has a way of answering unasked questions.

The ceremony was brief, clinical, nothing like what a girl like Amber deserves.

But she didn't complain, not once. She stood beside me, steady and certain, and when it came time to say "I do," her voice didn't waver.

Now she watches me from beneath lowered lashes, her hands folded primly in her lap. Waiting. Nervous. I can see it in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way she keeps wetting her lips.

"Are you afraid?" I ask, keeping my distance though everything in me strains to close it.

She considers the question with a seriousness that undoes me. "Not afraid of you," she says finally. "Just... nervous. This is all happening so fast."

An understatement. A week and a half ago, she was living her life, free and untouched. Now she's married to the man who stole her, who threatened her father, who still plans to use her as leverage in a vendetta fifteen years in the making.

What kind of monster am I?

"We don't have to do anything tonight," I say, the words scraping my throat raw. "We can wait."

Her eyes lift to mine, startlingly direct. "Do you want to wait?"

God, no. I've wanted her since I first saw her standing in that bedroom, lamp raised like a warrior despite her fear. I've dreamed of her beneath me, around me, taking all of me. But what I want has never mattered less.

"What I want isn't important," I tell her, staying rooted to the spot though my body aches to move toward her. "This is your choice, Amber. All of it."

A small smile curves her lips. "My choice," she repeats, as if tasting the words. "That's new."

"Get used to it."

"And if I choose you?" She rises from the bed in one fluid motion, the dress whispering around her. "If I choose tonight?"

My throat goes dry. She's so small compared to me, so delicate. The top of her head barely reaches my chest. My hands could span her waist. I could break her without trying.

"Then I'll try to be worthy of that choice," I say, the most honest thing I've ever told her.

She takes a step toward me, then another, until she stands before me. Even in the dim light, I can see the blush staining her cheeks, the pulse fluttering in her throat like a trapped bird.

"Help me with my dress," she says softly.

My hands are steady as I turn her gently, but inside I'm trembling. The dress fastens with a line of tiny pearl buttons down her back, each one a test of my patience. I work them free one by one, revealing the smooth skin of her back inch by tantalizing inch.

"Did I tell you how beautiful you look?" I murmur, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck as the last button comes undone.

She shivers under my touch. "Three times."

"Not enough." I ease the dress forward over her shoulders. She catches it against her chest, suddenly shy. "Let me see you, wife."

The word affects her; I can see it in the way her breath catches, her pupils dilate. Slowly, she lets the dress fall, pooling at her feet in a whisper of expensive fabric.

She's wearing white beneath it—of course she is. Simple cotton bra and panties, modest but devastating on her lush curves. Nothing fancy or elaborate, but she takes my breath away.

"So beautiful," I say, because there are no other words.

Her hands come up to cover herself, but I catch them gently. "Don't hide from me."

"I'm not... experienced," she admits, the blush spreading down her neck to her chest. "Not at all, actually."

Something primitive and possessive roars to life inside me. "You've never been with anyone?"

She shakes her head, eyes downcast. "Daddy was... protective. And I never met anyone I wanted enough to defy him for." Her gaze lifts to mine. "Until you."

Christ. The responsibility of it hits me like a physical blow. I'm not just her first; I'm her choice, her rebellion, her leap of faith.

"I'll be gentle," I promise, cupping her face in my hands. "I'll make it good for you."

"I trust you." Three simple words that cut deeper than any knife.

I lead her to the bed, settling her on the edge before stepping back to remove my own clothes. Her eyes widen as I strip off my shirt, taking in the scars that map my torso—remnants of the night her father left me for dead.

"Oh, Cullen," she breathes, reaching out as if to touch them.

"Don't," I warn, the word harsher than I intend. "They're not pretty."

"They're part of you." She rises to her knees on the bed, putting us at eye level for once. "Nothing about you could be ugly to me."

Before I can stop her, her hands are on my chest, fingers tracing the largest scar—a jagged line from collarbone to sternum. Her touch is feather-light but burns like fire. I allow it, standing rigid as she explores me, learning the map of my pain by touch.

When she leans forward and presses her lips to the scar on my neck, I nearly come undone.

"Amber," I groan, catching her wrists in my hands. "Be careful."

"Why?" Her eyes meet mine, guileless yet knowing. "You're my husband. I'm allowed to touch you."

The word— husband —hits me like a punch. Yes, I am her husband. This impossible, beautiful creature is my wife. I've claimed her in the eyes of the law, but not yet in the way that matters most.

I release her wrists to finish undressing, aware of her eyes on me, her quick intake of breath as I stand before her completely naked. I know what she sees—a body built for violence, for power. Too large, too hard for someone as soft as her.

"Still sure?" I ask, giving her one last chance to back away.

In answer, she reaches behind to unhook her bra, letting it fall away. I drink in the sight of her—small, perfect breasts tipped with dusky rose nipples that pebble under my gaze.

"Come here," I murmur, and when she does, I lift her as if she weighs nothing, laying her against the pillows. I follow her down, careful to keep my weight off her, braced on my forearms.

The first kiss is gentle—a question, not a demand. She answers by opening beneath me, her arms twining around my neck to pull me closer. I taste her deeply, thoroughly, letting her set the pace even as I guide her.

"I'm going to touch you," I tell her between kisses. "Tell me if anything doesn't feel good."

She nods, eyes wide and trusting. I trail my mouth down her throat, learning the taste of her skin—sweet, with a hint of the vanilla perfume she dabbed on for our wedding. When I reach her breast, I pause, looking up to find her watching me.

"Okay?" I check.

"Please," she whispers, and the need in that single word shatters my control.

I take her nipple into my mouth, suckling gently at first, then with more pressure as she arches beneath me. My hand slides down her side, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, until I reach the edge of her panties.

"These need to go," I murmur against her skin, hooking my fingers in the elastic.

She lifts her hips in answer, letting me slide the last barrier down her legs. And then she's naked beneath me, all cream skin and soft curves, completely exposed to my gaze.

"Perfect," I breathe, overwhelmed by the trust she's showing me. "So fucking perfect."

I kiss my way down her body, worshipping each inch with lips and tongue and careful teeth. By the time I reach the juncture of her thighs, she's trembling, little gasps escaping her with each breath.

"Cullen," she says, uncertain but not afraid. "What are you?—"

"Shh." I press a kiss to her inner thigh. "Let me make you feel good first."

Before she can question further, I part her with my thumbs and taste her intimately. The sound she makes—half gasp, half moan—goes straight to my cock, already painfully hard. I lick into her slowly, reverently, learning what makes her shiver, what draws those sweet sounds from her throat.

Her hands find my hair, holding me to her as if afraid I'll stop. As if I could ever stop tasting her, this honeyed nectar that I've already become addicted to.

"Oh god," she breathes as I focus my attention on the bundle of nerves at her center. "Cullen, I'm—I can't?—"

"You can," I encourage her, sliding one finger carefully inside her tight heat. Christ, she's small. Too small for what's coming. "Let go for me, Amber. Let me feel you."

She's close—I can tell by the tension in her thighs, the way her internal muscles flutter around my finger. I curl it slightly, finding the spot that makes her back arch off the bed.

"That's it," I murmur against her. "Come for me, wife."

The word triggers something in her. With a cry that might be my name, she shatters, her body clenching around my finger as pleasure takes her. I work her through it gently, easing her down, preparing her for what comes next.

When she's boneless and panting, I move back up her body, kissing her deeply so she can taste herself on my tongue. Her hands roam my back, my shoulders, touching me with wonder.

"I didn't know," she says when I release her mouth. "I didn't know it could feel like that."

Pride surges through me—primitive, possessive pride that I'm the first to give her pleasure, the only one who ever will. "That's just the beginning."