“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“I mean, your brother is gone. You don’t need to compete with him.” Anna said.
His expression hardened. “I’m not-”
“You are,” she cut him off quietly. “You’re so angry with him, so bitter. You want everything that should have been his, and I get it. I understand why. He replaced you and that must have been awful.”
Cedric said nothing, his face set in forbidding lines.
“But he’s dead, Cedric,” she went on gently. “He was just a boy when he died. And it’s not his fault that your parents couldn’t do better. It’s not your fault either. You deserved better.”
He was so tense, his whole body rigid. “I didn’t get it though, did I?” he bit out.
She slid her hands wide on his thighs, pressing her fingers into the hard muscle beneath the wool of his suit trousers. “No, and you should have. But like I said, it’s not your fault you didn’t get it, and it’s not Vincent’s fault either. Neither of your parents couldn’t see what was staring them right in the face.” She took a soft breath, holding his gaze with hers. “But I can see. You’re an amazing man. You have the most incredible mind and I like the way you take things seriously, no matter how silly they are. You’re quiet and contemplative, and you’re interested in what people have to say. You’re very caring too, though I think you’d prefer it if people didn’t know that. But I know that. How can I not? When you’ve done nothing but care for me since we left for France?”
Cedric said nothing, the look on his face intense, a muscle in his jaw leaping.
“I’m sorry your parents couldn’t see those things,” she went on, her voice getting huskier. “I’m sorry your father couldn’t appreciate what he had in you and it’s not fair that he didn’t. But…you’re not Vincent, Cedric. And you shouldn’t try to be. You have a life and you need to live it for yourself, not to spite him or your father,”
His expression remained taut. “You think it’s that easy? To just…let go of years of neglect?”
“No, of course not. And I’m a fine one to talk, considering my own childhood. But we both have had people in our lives who haven’t moved on from the past, and we know what the consequences of that are.” Her hands closed on his thighs, gripping him hard. “Don’t you want to do things differently? Especially if we have a child?”
He stared at her for a long, endless moment and something passed between them, though she couldn’t have said what it was. Then he put the wine down abruptly, leaned forward and hauled her up and into his arms. She didn’t resist him, just as she didn’t resist when he shoved his fingers into her hair and pulled her mouth down on his, kissing her hard and deep, as if he had a fever and she was the only medicine that would help him.
A kiss that was desperate and demanded an answer, and so she gave it. She leaned into him, into the hard muscularity of his body, wanting to give him what she could, because she could sense the wide, deep, unending hunger of him.
The hunger for a connection he’d been denied. He wanted someone, she could sense that. Someone who would accept him, who wouldn’t ignore him. Who wouldn’t neglect him. Someone who would appreciate him not for empty charm and a handsome face, but for who he was underneath that. She could be that person for him. She wanted to be that person.
She was his wife after all, so who better?
His mouth was hot and hungry and he was kissing her as if he was dying, and all she wanted to do was to save him. So when he bunched up her dress she helped him, shrugging out of it and her underwear too, so she was sitting astride him naked. Then he undid his belt and the zip of his trousers, and she reached for him, taking him hot and hard and smooth in her hands.
“I want you,” he growled against her mouth. “Put me inside you. Now.”
She shifted, lifting her hips, guiding him to her, feeling him push inside at the same time as she flexed, and they both shuddered with the pleasure of it as he slid deep inside her. Then they both were still. His gaze was dark, depthless as the sea.
“Look at me,” he ordered roughly. “Keep looking at me, Anna,”
And she did, losing herself in his gaze as he began to move, at first slow and gradual, then becoming harder, faster. His hands settled on her hips, gripping her tight, the look on his face intense and hungry, looking at her as if she was his last chance of rescue. She lifted her hands and cupped his face, kept looking into those depthless eyes, losing herself in the rising pleasure and letting him see exactly how it affected her. Letting him see how he affected her. And his movements become more insistent, more desperate.
But she didn’t look away, and when he slipped a hand between her thighs and stroked her, and the orgasm swelled around her, she let him see her get swept away. And she called his name and felt it when the pleasure came for him too.
Anna lay against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her long, lithe thighs on either side of his, her soft breasts pressing against his chest. Her hair was a wild storm over her shoulders, the silk of it warm against his fingers. He still had one hand buried in the soft, silky skeins.
The orgasm had felt as if someone had taken a cricket bat to his head, making it ring, and he couldn’t have moved if his life depended on it. But that didn’t seem to matter. She’d looked down into his eyes and he’d felt more real with every thrust of his hips. With every gasp she gave and shudder that shook her lovely body. She’d done exactly what he’d said and hadn’t looked away, and it felt as if she’d called him into being. And now that strange, dissipating feeling at the edges of him had gone.