But it hadn’t been the sort of solicitous affection she craved. It had been protective, but intimidating. Possessive.
Catching her necklace before it slid into her cleavage, feeling her dress loosen as he lowered the zip, she kept her eyes on the floor and said huskily, “I thought it was enough that you knew we were poor and my mother wasn’t married. I should have told you the rest. I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed. It’s only because your respect means so much to me that I...”
She had cried enough earlier. She wouldn’t let another sob release now.
“I didn’t want to lose your good opinion,” she continued in a strained voice. “And I know I have. What do you want me to do? I can’t leave without Enrique. I can’t.”
Her heart twisted inside her chest. She started to move away, but a warm hand closed over her upper arm, strong and firm, keeping her from stepping away. His fingers began searching her hair to release the pins that held it up.
“You are not trash. Do not ever let me hear you call yourself that again.”
His voice was so at odds with his light touch in her hair, she froze. She told herself it was the pull of pins tugging tiny strands of hair as he gently dragged them free that made her eyes sting. She tried to be indignant that he did this so proficiently because he’d removed pins and jewelry and evening gowns from countless women.
But when her hair fell, soft and tickling around her bare shoulders, he hooked his forearm across her collarbone and drew her back against his front, big chest expanding, breath hissing as he settled his jaw against her temple.
It was a quiet, tender moment that she couldn’t help but savor.
“I’m furious,” he admitted in a low growl. “Furious that it happened and furious that Diega, someone our family trusted, deliberately tried to humiliate you. I want you so much I can hardly breathe and I’m afraid to touch you because I’m in a mood I don’t know how to control.” His thumb stroked her skin below her shoulder while his forearm sat heavy across her front, pinning her before him.
He was hard. Not just aroused against her bottom, but tense all over.
She touched the sleeve of his jacket and felt his rigidity through the layers.
“I’ve never had anyone defend me,” she said, turning her face into the fabric of his jacket, letting herself sink against him in gratitude. “Thank you.”
She tried to turn, but he resisted, easily keeping her facing forward, then released a ragged curse and pivoted her into him. Her arms went around him as though he was the one in need of comfort when she felt so exposed and fragile she could hardly bear it.
He wrapped strong arms around her, one hand dragging through her hair to pull her head back so he could scrape his teeth against her throat.
“Stop me now if you’re having second thoughts,” he said against her skin, tongue painting a line to her nape.
“I’m not,” she gasped, transfixed by a kind of paralysis as he conquered her with the simple act of opening his mouth against her neck.
It was basic animal dominance and submission. Her nape was sensitive and his strength disciplined. She folded as any living creature would, succumbing to that strength, trust blooming when he could harm her yet didn’t. She was rewarded by tiny exquisite shivers of pleasure that raised goose bumps down her arms.
He drew back and the look in his eyes belonged to a marauder claiming spoils. His gaze didn’t waver as he pushed down her loosened dress.
She gasped, started to catch at the bodice, but he stopped her, holding her hands in the air as the dress slithered into a puddle around her feet. He kept her hands up as he slowly and thoroughly studied what he’d revealed. Pale skin, heavy breasts that had been supported by the bodice and were bare now. Hips plump enough to give definition to a waistline she’d only begun to start finding again. Thighs that—
All thought stopped as he put her wrists together in one of his hands and dropped his free hand to slide a finger beneath the top of her underwear, slowly working them down. The back of his knuckle grazed her folds.
She jerked, catching her breath.
His gaze came up, holding hers as he deliberately brushed against her again while easing the stripe of green lace so it was a tight line across the tops of her thighs.
“Cesar,” she protested. Hot pressure flooded into her loins, making her ache.
“How close are you?” he asked in gruff Valencian, turning his hand so the pad of his fingertip lightly traced her seam, gently parting and sliding easily in the evidence of exactly how aroused she was.
She flinched with sensitivity, biting her lip and closing her eyes against how intimate this was.