The Forced Bride by Sara Craven

cara .
    ‘I swear that there will come a time—some day, some night soon—when you will desire me as much as I want you now.
    ‘And then, may God help you.’
    He turned away, stretching down for his robe on the floor beside the bed. And, for a moment, with an odd jump of her
    heart, Emily thought he was leaving.
    But as he straightened, she realised that he’d only been reaching for the protection he intended to use.
    He saw her eyes widen and said icily, ‘Our marriage has no permanent basis, Emilia. It follows, therefore, that there can
    be no risk of a child.’
    He positioned himself so that she could feel the hardness and strength of him pressing against the junction of her thighs.
    And the breath caught in her throat.
    ‘Relax a little,’ he directed. ‘Or I may hurt you.’
    ‘Hurt me then,’ she flung at him. ‘Do you think I care’
    As his mouth tightened in frustration and his eyes glittered with sudden anger, she knew a brief, almost savage satisfaction.
    Then he moved fractionally and entered her.
    He paused, drawing a deep breath. He said quietly, ‘Bend your knees.’ And it suddenly seemed wiser to obey.
    He took her slowly, easing his way into her, his eyes never leaving her face. She lay very still, staring past him, her
    clenched fist pressed against her mouth, bracing herself mentally. But there was no pain. And, instead, out of nowhere,
    she found she wanted very badly to cry. But did not.
    Because there was nothing to cry about. She’d endured—hadn’t she—the worst he could do to her and it would soon be
    over.
    She began repeating, Soon—over soon, inside her head like a mantra.
    For a moment he too was motionless, as if he were waiting for something, then he said huskily, ‘I would have given you
    the world, Emilia,’ and began to thrust his way to climax in long, powerful strokes.
    Yet, in spite of everything, as she lay beneath him, waiting for him to finish with her, Emily became aware of one
    infinitesimal, bewildered moment when the stark driving force of his body seemed to trigger a tiny echo of response that
    flickered uncertainly somewhere in the depths of her being, but was immediately extinguished.
    And, even as her throat tightened in shock, she felt his movements quicken almost to frenzy until, at the last, he cried out
    and was still.
    Emily remained where she was too, because she had no other choice with Raf slumped on top of her, the dark
    dishevelled head pillowed on her small breasts.
    When he eventually lifted himself away from her, there was none of the triumph in his face that she’d expected. In fact,
    she thought, he looked reflective, almost sombre. But if he had regrets, he certainly did not express them aloud. Or any
    other opinion either.
    In the event, he simply got out of bed, put on his robe and left the room without a word.
    So the mantra had worked, Emily thought, gulping with relief as she straightened the bed before turning on to her side and
    pulling the covers up over her shoulder. It really was—all over and she’d survived, without visible marks. She was
    conscious of aching a little internally, but she guessed that was only to be expected.
    It also occurred to her that, in spite of the provocation she’d deliberately offered, he had not translated his anger into
    brutality. On the contrary, she could accept, in the absence of other criteria, that he’d probably been—almost
    considerate.
    She’d not been really hurt, she thought wryly, just humiliated. But, all in all, it could have been very much worse.
    Then she heard the bedroom door reopen and realised she’d been altogether too optimistic.
    She turned defensively—warily. ‘I—I thought you’d gone back to your own room.’
    ‘And so I have.’ He put the bottle of wine he was carrying and two glasses down on the night table. There was faint
    mockery in his voice. ‘My place is here, beside you,mia bella sposa .’
    He sat down on the edge of the bed to pour the wine, then