Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

hair falling in tangles over your shoulders. I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed in your body and I’m not. I don’t want to desire you, indeed my own lust sickens me, but I will take you. God forgive me, I want to take you, now. I must do it. This damnable marriage must be consummated.” He was looking at her breasts again. She couldn’t stop their deep up and down motion. Dear God, this could not be happening to her.

“You asked me why I call you a slut, why I am treating you like this? You want to know why I’m not treating you like my sweet little virgin bride?

I detest your damned lies, your protestations of innocence. Damn you, Arabella, you betrayed me. You took that damnable little French bastard as your lover, and for that, you bitch, you will pay dearly.” His hand touched her breast. She bowed off the bed, screaming. He slammed his palm over her mouth. “Surely that does not surprise you or shock you.” He lifted his hand off her. “No, I don’t believe I could bear seeing you play the whore. If I continued touching you, caressing you, you would begin to moan and cry out, would you not? No, I will get it done. As I said, there will be little enough pleasure for me and none at all for you. At least with me there will be no pleasure for you, damn you.” Abruptly he stood back from the bed and untied his dressing gown. He shrugged it from his shoulders. He stood naked before her, carefully watching her face. There was an ugly sneer on his mouth.

Arabella stared at him. She had never before seen a naked man. By God, he was beautiful, all hard planes and hollows and corded muscles. There was no fat on him, just lean hardness. She realized she was staring, and sucked in her breath. He’d called her a whore, he’d accused her of taking the comte for her lover? That was mad, simply mad. He had talked about not touching her and had told her that he wouldn’t. She looked at the thick black hair at his groin, at his sex, hard and ready. Oh yes, she’d seen horses mate and knew very well what that meant. Surely he was too big for her. Surely he wouldn’t force her. Oh God, she hated herself, her own weakness, her fear, but still, she said, “Justin, please, what do you intend to do? You are very big. I don’t think this will work.” He looked like he would spit on her. Her rage became whole and full. “Damn you, I am a virgin! I took no lover, not even that miserable little French bastard! Who lied to you? Did Gervaise? Tell me, damn you, who told you this?” She frantically pressed her legs tightly together and brought her hands up to cover her breasts.

“Dear God, what an actress you would have made.” He stretched, and again, she stared at him. He laughed, an ugly hoarse laugh that scared her to her toes. “You may believe me that your body will easily take my sex. Oh yes, I would wish that you cease your fiction, your damnable lies. You want to know who lied about you? I will tell you. No one told me lies about you. I saw him, I saw you, the both of you coming out of the barn, just moments apart. It was obvious what you had done.” His breathing was so harsh now she could barely make out his words.

“Perhaps I should give you pleasure. The only thing is that you might not shout out my name when you take your release. That would be a blow to me, wouldn’t it? No, I will simply get it over with. Yell and scream and curse as you like. It will make no difference.” She could only stare at him and mutely shake her head back and forth.

He’d seen her with the comte? Coming out of the barn? But it was impossible.

He leaned over her, wrenched her legs apart, and straddled her. She began a silent struggle, scratching at his face, kicking up at his groin with her knees. He simply flattened her hands over her belly and held down her legs under his own. She felt his hand move between her thighs, and froze.

He realized at that moment that he couldn’t force her—no, he couldn’t rape her and that’s what it would be—rape. He strode over to his dressing table, dipped his fingers into a pot of cream and returned to her. She was lying there on her back, her eyes disbelieving and shocked.

“Don’t move.” To make sure, he held his palm flat on her belly. She struggled a moment, then stilled.

She watched his finger, coated with cream, come down toward her. Then she felt that finger, coated with that cream pushing against her. Even as she struggled, trying to break his hold on her hands, she felt his finger shove inside her, moving deeper and deeper still. God, she hated it. He was alien to her, his finger a punishment. The barn? What was this about the barn?

“Justin, please, stop this, please. Don’t hurt me. None of what you believe is true. There was no barn. I barely tolerate the comte. Why—” She screamed, a pitiful sound really, high and thin. His finger was gone.

Now, his sex was inside her, shoving deeper and deeper. He paused an instant, grasped her hands, and jerked them over her head. With an almost tender motion he pulled the tangled strands of hair from her eyes.

“God, I cannot believe that you have done this to me.” He pushed deep, the cream easing his way, but it wasn’t enough. The pain ripped through her. She was sobbing, feeling herself choke on her own tears, and when he paused just a moment in his mad thrusting, arrested by her maidenhead, he stared at her, sudden shock and