“And if my brother were to come in trying to carry you off, I would chase him to the ends of the earth before I let him keep you. I hope that is clear.” He gripped her chin, holding her face steady, looking into her eyes. “I would chase that bastard to hell to bring you back to me. Do you understand? He would not be allowed to lay one finger on you, and if he did, it would be the last thing he did. He would lose that hand, and then he would lose everything else dear to him. Everything.”
Honesty. Always with her it was that damned, unguarded honesty and he did not possess the strength to fight it on any level. Not now.
She shivered in his arms, and he wondered if perhaps he had gone too far, and then he decided he didn’t care. Not at all. Not in the least.
If he was possessive, then so be it. If he was untamed, then so be it. If he was no better than any of the other men in his family, then he supposed he would have to accept that, not fight it. Not anymore. Not with her.
It simply was.
Suddenly, he understood the nature of that violence that coursed through Diego’s veins. He understood that rage in his father. Because he felt it now all the same. It wasn’t anger. It was something different. It was big. And it was hot, and it was something that owned him, body and soul. A possessiveness that he could not fight.
Possessiveness he would not fight, here and now.
He set her down on his couch, positioning her toward the back of it as he knelt on the cushions, spreading her thighs wide. And then he examined her femininity, all of that gleaming beauty, and the pearl that was the center of all her pleasure. “Beautiful,” he growled, stroking his fingertips over her sensitive and responsive flesh. “And all for me.”
“I am not the one who was supposed to marry someone else today,” she panted. “I am not the one who deserves to be caught up in such a fit of possessiveness.”
He tightened his hold on her thighs. “This is not about what either of us deserves,” he said, his voice rough. “This is about what is. About what I’m going to take. I will have all of you, my bride. I hope you understand that.”
“And you need to know, my husband,” she returned, “that it is understood that if there is any doubt in your mind as to what you would do if Liliana came in here tonight and said that she wished to leave Diego, that you will keep your hands off me, that you will stand up and walk away from me now. Because you are not the only one who is possessive.”
“If she came in here, what would you do?” he asked.
“I would fight her for you,” she returned, that stubborn chin tilting upward. “Because I fight for what’s mine. You know that I do. If I have to cut my hair off and change my identity, I will do it. But I fight for what’s mine.”
If she had been another woman it might have been tempting to be offended to be compared to her horses, to have that same sort of possessiveness given over to him. But it was not another woman. It was Camilla. And knowing the fierce possessiveness with which she regarded those animals, he did not think he deserved more. But rather, he suspected he deserved a lot less.
“And if she were to come in here,” he said, “I would scarcely notice, because she is not the woman that I want. You are the woman that I want.”
Understanding that when he said that, he knew there was a cost to it. Because if things had gone as planned, he would have full ownership over the Navarro family estate. If Diego had not taken Liliana, then all of it would be his. He would be in the clear.
But then he would not have Camilla.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind he was reminded of words that felt similar. A Bible story. A king offering his queen whatever she desired, even if it was half of his kingdom. And he realized then that if given the choice now, that was the trade he would make. It was the trade that had been made through no choice of his own, but it was what he would do if the need presented itself. If the choice were on offer again.
Half of his kingdom. With no hesitation.
“I have no desire for anyone but you,” he reiterated, leaning forward, drawing his tongue across that sensitive bundle of nerves, wringing from her as much pleasure as possible with his lips, his tongue, his fingers. Working her body until she was boneless, breathless and spent, until the last vestiges of her release began to dissipate.
Then he picked up her boneless body and carried her into his bedroom.
“Mine,” he growled, pressing a kiss to her lips. “My wife.”
He pressed her down into the mattress, settling between her thighs. Typically, Camilla preferred to be the one doing the writhing. At least, that was how she preferred to begin their encounters. But not tonight. Tonight the possession was his. Tonight he was in control. Utterly and completely.
She also enjoyed pleasuring him, something that he was not averse to. Usually.
But again, tonight, he would not allow that. Tonight he would not surrender that to her. Tonight he would extract all of the control, all of the pleasure from her that he could.
He slid his hand beneath her hips, cupped her soft, perfect rear and lifted her up off the bed, angling her just so, so that he could thrust into the hilt.
He growled, realizing a moment later that he was bare, that he had not put a condom on. He was tempted, so tempted to press that. To keep doing this with nothing between their bodies. To spill himself inside her when he found his release, and damn the consequences.
It was that same, feral part of him that wanted to possess her completely.
But he would not. He would not do that to her. She wanted her freedom when all this was over. And it was that, that knowledge, that slowed his hand. That helped him hold on to his sanity. And only that.
“I must protect you,” he said thickly, withdrawing from her body and making his way to the nightstand, grabbing a condom and sheathing himself quickly. “I’m sorry.”
He thrust back into her, not bothering to clarify whether or not he was sorry he had entered her without protection in the first place, or whether he was just sorry that he had to get it.
He wasn’t sure which thing made him sorrier, frankly.
Likely that he had to get a condom and he would rather feel her, all that silky heat, surrounding him.
He gritted his teeth, trying to maintain his control as he rocked his hips backward, then thrust home, pleasure almost blinding him as he did so.
He closed his eyes tight, sparks bursting behind them as he lost himself completely inside her.
There had never been anyone like this. There had never been anything like this.
She didn’t just make him feel pleasure, she made him feel pain. Didn’t simply satisfy him, she opened up on the heels of that satisfaction. Made him want in ways he hadn’t expected to ever want before.
The build of his release was almost violent, was deadly, far too intense. And when it captured him, it didn’t just send a burst of pleasure through him, it wrenched his chest open. He gritted his teeth, growling as his orgasm rocked him, pressing his forehead to hers and kissing her, deeply, fiercely, begging her, in Spanish and in English, to come along with him. It was the first time he had not ensured that she was satisfied more than once before he found his own release, but he had not had the control tonight. He had not possessed that kind of restraint.
He rolled his hips, grinding himself against her, and then finally, she gave him her pleasure. She pulsed around him, squeezing his arousal, pulling a few more spasms of pleasure from him as her own orgasm rocked her.
And when it was done, she clung to his shoulders, shaking, crying.
Her tears hit him with all the violence of a closed fist. Because his Camilla did not cry. She was strong, and she was lovely. That warrior goddess of his fantasies. She was weeping now, weeping like