The Snow White Bride by Claire Delacroix Page A

much,” he teased. Alexander winked when she said nothing, then claimed her lips anew.
    * * * * *
    H is was a kiss that changed all.
    Eleanor had never been courted with a kiss. She had been bussed, she had been used for a man’s pleasure, she had been bedded for duty and treated like property.
    She had never been seduced.
    She had never been granted the gift of time. Alexander kissed as if he did not care how long it took her to become accustomed to his touch, as if he did not care how long it took to rouse her ardor. He kissed as if he expected to both give and receive pleasure.
    It was wondrous, this kiss of his, and she indulged herself in a newfound pleasure. Something thawed within her, something opened like a blossom touched by the sun’s heat.
    Eleanor closed her eyes, for it was but a kiss, and lost herself in sensation. She parted her lips, inviting him closer, and caught her breath when he deepened his kiss. Still, he cajoled; still, she suspected that she could halt him with a fingertip; still, she surrendered more.
    His kiss was pure sorcery. There was no unbridled violence in his embrace, to be sure, and conviction of that dissolved Eleanor’s resistance. He did not judge her and find her wanting; he did not desire only one deed of her.
    He courted her for her own self. Eleanor found her hands sliding across his shoulders, her fingers kneading the muscled strength of him, then twining in the thick waves of his hair. She found herself welcoming his embrace like the courtesan she had professed to be; she found herself meeting him, touch for touch, and yearning for more.
    His hand rose to her breast, cupping its weight, his thumb sliding across her nipple, teasing it to a point. Eleanor arched her back, fairly pressing herself against him, and he made a sound of pleasure that thrilled her. She wanted only to coax him closer. She could not think sensibly. She could not remain angry that he had forgotten his own victory in his quest. She could not consider anything of import beyond the persuasive pressure of Alexander’s kiss.
    And that was dangerous, indeed. She had never known a man determined to court her favor, for its own merit. Eleanor wished heartily that they had met abed the night before, that he had claimed her maidenhead, that she was not deceiving him.
    The recollection of her trick was sobering. Eleanor broke their kiss with an effort. She pushed Alexander away, so that there was a step between them, as well as a great deal else.
    He watched her, his gaze simmering, then leaned his fists on the wall on either side of her shoulders. Though he did not touch her, she was trapped within the circle of his arms. To be trapped, to see his determination, to note his fists upon the wall, all combined to awaken an old fear. Eleanor caught her breath.
    Did his sweet kiss make her forget all that she knew?
    “I am yet sore,” she lied hastily. She ducked under his arm and quickly put the width of the chamber between them.
    Alexander let her go, much to her relief.
    When she dared to glance back, he stood with feet braced against the floor, arms folded across his chest, splendidly nude. His expression was difficult to read and he was uncommonly still.
    “Did I injure you last evening?” His softly uttered question seemed to echo in the chamber, seemed to hang in the air and demand a reply.
    He had not, of course, though the suggestion offered an easy means of keeping his caresses to a minimum. Eleanor shrugged. “No more than most men would have done, I assume.” She turned away, as if unable to look upon him, but not so quickly that she did not see him wince.
    She felt bad then, for he did not recall the truth and she used his ignorance against him. But encouragement would undoubtedly see her back in his arms, and the truth would see him rescind his proposal. Eleanor had never been so caught between truth and her own objectives, and she knew not what to say.
    Worse, her lips burned in recollection of