His Not-So-Blushing Bride. Fiona Brand

a shuddery sigh, she lay on the pillow, facing him, and light from the TV highlighted her delicate cheekbones. Such a paradox, the delicacy outside veiling the core of steel inside. Something hitched in his chest.

      Oh, yeah. This strong woman hated falling. But he liked being the only one she would let catch her.

      “One of the women at the shelter …” she began and then faltered. Threading their fingers together, he silently encouraged her to go on. A couple of breaths later, she did. “Pamela. She went back to her husband. That bastard broke her arm when he shoved her against a wall. And she went back to him. I tried to talk her out of it. For hours. Courtney talked to her, too. Nothing we said mattered.”

      He vaguely recalled Courtney was Cia’s friend and also her partner in the new shelter. A psychologist. “You can’t save everyone.”

      She pulled their fingers apart. “I’m not trying to save everyone. Just Pamela. I work with these women every day, instilling confidence. Helping them see they can be self-sufficient …” Her voice cracked.

      She looked at this as failure—as her failure. Because these women, and what she hoped to accomplish with them, meant something, and she believed in both. It went way past fulfilling her mother’s wishes. Her commitment was awe inspiring.

      The line between her eyes reappeared. “She threw it all out to go back to a man who abused her. He might kill her next time. What could possibly be worth that?”

      “Hope,” he said, knowing his little psych minor couldn’t see past her hang-ups. “Hope people can change. Hope it might be different this time.”

      “But why? She has to know it’s got a one hundred percent certainty of ending badly.”

      “Honey, I hate to rain on your parade, but people naturally seek companionship. We aren’t meant to be alone, despite all your insistence to the contrary. This Pamela needs to hope the person she chose to marry is redeemable so they can get on with their lives together. Without hope, she has nothing.”

      Hair spilled into her face when she shook her head. “That’s not true. She has herself, the only person she can truly rely on. The only person who can make sure she’s taken care of.”

      “Are you talking about Pamela or Cia?”

      “Don’t go thinking you’re smart for shoving a mirror in my face. It’s true for both of us, and I’ve never had any illusions about my beliefs, particularly in relation to men.”

      “Illusions, no. Blind spots, yes.” He ventured a little closer. “You’re so black-and-white. You saw the trust clause and assumed your grandfather intended to manipulate you into a marriage where you’d be dominated by a man. You said it yourself. He wants you to be taken care of. Allowing someone to take care of you isn’t weakness.”

      Her mouth tightened. “I can take care of myself. I have money, I have the ability to—”

      “Darlin’, there’s more to being cared for than money.” He swept a lock of hair off her shoulder and used the proximity as an excuse to run his hand across her silky skin again. “You have physical needs, too.”

      “Oh, my God. You do indeed have a gift. How in the world did you manage to drop sex into this conversation?”

      He grinned in spite of the somber tone of their illuminating conversation. “Hey, I didn’t say anything about sex. That was you. I was talking about holding you while you cry. But if you want to talk about sex, I could find some room in my schedule. Maybe start with telling me the most sensitive place on your body. Keep in mind, I’ll want to test it, so be honest.”

      She smacked him on the arm without any real heat. “You’re unbelievable. I’m not having sex with you simply because we’ve been forced into sharing a room.”

      Touching him on purpose. Would wonders never cease? He caught her gaze. “Then do it because you want to.”

      Her frame bristled from crown to toe, and the sheet slipped down a few tantalizing inches. “I don’t want to, Wheeler! You think you’re God’s gift to women and it never occurs to you some of us are immune to all your charm and … and—” her hungry gaze skittered over his chest, which he had not hidden under a sheet mummy-style, like she had “—sexiness. Stop trying to add another notch to your bedpost.”

      Could she have protested any more passionately? “Okay.”

      “Okay?” One eye narrowed and skewered him. “Just like that, you’re giving up?”

      “That was not an okay of concession. It was an okay, it’s time to change the subject. Roll over.”

      “What? Why?”

      A growl rumbled through his chest. “Because I said so. You need to relax or you’ll never go to sleep. If you don’t go to sleep, you’ll keep arguing with me, and then I won’t sleep. I’m just going to massage your shoulders. So shut up and do it.”

      Warily, she rolled, and he peeled the sheet from her as she spun, resettling it at her waist. Tank top with spaghetti straps. Not the sexiest of nightclothes, but when he lifted the dark curtain of hair away from her neck, the wide swath of bare skin from the middle of her back up to her hairline pleaded for his touch.

      So he indulged.

      First, he traced the ridges of her spine with his fingertips, imprinting the textures against his skin. Once he reached her neck, he went for her collarbone, following it around to the front and back again.

      She felt amazing.

      He wanted more of her naked flesh under his fingers. Under his body. Shifting against his skin, surrounding him with a hot paradox of hard and soft.

      The stupid floor blocked his reach, so he settled for running his fingers over her exposed arm, trying to gauge whether she’d notice if he slipped the tank top strap off her shoulder.

      “What, exactly, are you doing?” She half rolled to face him. “This is the least relaxing massage I’ve ever had.”

      “Really?” he asked nonchalantly and guided her back into place. No way was he missing a second of unchecked access to Cia. “Someone who’s immune to my charms should have no problem relaxing while I’m impersonally rubbing her shoulders.”

      “Hmpf.” She flipped back to face the wall. Must not hate it too much.

      He let the grin spread wide and kneaded her neck muscles. “Darlin’, there’s no sin in enjoying it when someone touches you.”

      She snorted but choked on it as his hand slid up the inside of her arm again and a stray finger stroked her breast. He needed the tank top gone and that breast cupped in his palm.

      “There is the way you do it,” she rasped.

      “You know,” he said, closing the gap between them, spooning her heated back to murmur in her ear, a millimeter from taking the smooth lobe into his mouth. “I don’t for a moment believe I’m God’s gift to women. Women are God’s gift to man. The female form is the most wonderful sight on earth. The beautiful design of your throat, for example.”

      He dragged his mouth away from her ear and ran his lips down the column of her neck. “I could live here for a decade and never completely discover all the things I love about it,” he said, mouthing the words against her skin.

      He was so hard and so ready to sink into her, his teeth hurt.

      Her head fell back onto his shoulder, her eyes closed and her lashes fluttered, fully exposing the area under discussion. Her sweet little body arched in wanton invitation, spreading against his. He wanted to dive in, find Dulciana’s gorgeous, gooey center and feast on it.

      This visceral attraction would be satisfied, here and now.

      “Lucas,” she breathed, and his erection pulsed. “Lucas, we can’t. You have to stop.”

      “Why?” He slid a hand