Page 37 of Wedding Night In The King's Bed

“Is your reality so heinous, Helene?”

She could see that he hadn’t moved, not even a millimeter, and yet she felt as if he had. As if he’d stood up, then loomed over her, crowding into her space and taking over her senses.

“I didn’t say it was. That doesn’t change how I feel about the necessity of stories, Gianluca. Fairy tales teach people how to be people.”

“Some stories are necessary,” he gritted out, as if they were in a desperate fight that he needed to win. “The story of the Kingdom, that all its subjects can share in. These specific beliefs we all must live by to do so in relative peace with the hope of prosperity. But you are speaking of something else. When surely you should know that the purpose of such tales was never singing seafood and dancing candelabras. The first fairy tales were no doubt told over the fires of yore as morality tales. Warnings, not love stories. Making them something else not only takes their power, it steals your own.”

“Or,” Helene returned with precious little hold on her hard-won charm, “they are just good stories, no matter what you use them for.”

“At heart, they are lies.” Gianluca’s voice was harsh and unequivocal. “And I cannot abide lies.”

“What sort of lies do you mean?” she asked softly, carefully, because she had woven that tapestry so carefully and so steadily and now she was tugging on its threads. And she couldn’t seem to stop, not now that she could see a glimpse of the real Gianluca shining through. Not even though she knew that she was risking everything here. And worse, risking hurting him in the process. “Like the one where you pretend that the only happy memory you can draw up from your childhood involves a random servant? I think both you and I know that’s not the case.”

“Damn you,” he growled at her.

And then he really did rise from his chair. And he really was looming over hers, with a look on his face that she’d never seen before.

As if the ice she’d cracked was him.

Then Gianluca was hauling her up, slamming his mouth to hers, and breaking all of his own rules.

She half expected him to shove all the china out of his way, onto the hard floor, but he was still Gianluca. He lifted her up into his arms, dragging her thighs around his waist, and carried her down to the far end of the table, where the table was not covered in dishes and he could lay her out like a feast.

And then he proceeded to eat her alive.

And it was different this time. There was something different, as if both of them were naked in ways they never had been before. As if they were both too raw to do anything but show themselves, and Helene couldn’t understand that entirely, but everything in her was open to this, whatever it was.

To him, however he came to her.

Especially when it was as if they had revealed themselves tonight in ways so new there was nothing to do but imprint on each other with every touch. With every hard, deep kiss. With the way he dug his hands into her hair, then tipped back her face as if he could make a whole meal out of her mouth alone.

He really did try, and Helene tried back.

But it didn’t last, because every time they built a fire, a new one raged, and they seemed unable to do anything but throw gas on each.

Her hands were busy and shaky at his waist. She ripped his shirt off, heedless of the buttons that popped off and hit the floor. Because it was necessary, more necessary than breath, to put her mouth on the glory of his bare chest and then to trace with her hands that arrow of dark hair that led her right where she wanted to go.

He didn’t let her get there. Not this time. He muttered something she didn’t understand, though it seemed to fill her all the same.

Then his hands were at the hem of her shirt, pulling it up and off. He made a low noise of deep male approval at the site of the frilly, lacy thing she wore beneath, but then he pushed it up and out of his way. Then he took that off of her too.

Gianluca drew one proud nipple into his mouth, making another low sort of noise when she arched into him, giving him better access. And delivering herself directly into the carnal delight of that hot, clever mouth of his.

Helene could do nothing, then, but surrender. As he went on and on, teasing her and taunting her, until she was begging him. Pleading with him.

Until he bent her back against the table, slid his hand down beneath her waistband, and palmed her wet heat at last.

Then he played her like some kind of classical instrument, making her a part of the symphony that soared all around them, as he slowly, expertly, tore her apart.

Once. Then again.

And then, while she shook and sobbed, Gianluca pulled the rest of her clothes off. He kicked off his own, and then, with a glorious ferocity, slammed his way into her.

He folded up her legs between them so she was wide open, completely his. No barriers, no control, nothing but the way he thrust deep, again and again.

Helene opened her eyes, gripping his shoulders as he braced himself above her. She held his gaze as he slammed into her and made her bloom with each thrust, shoving the heavy, antique table across the floor.

It should have been a kind of madness, but it was something else.