The Frenchman Chosen Bride✔️(Completed)

Fourteen

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A month later Vanessa was getting ready for the Winter Ball, which was that evening. Her hands shook as she put earrings in her ear, smoothed her hair and flicked some lint off her dress.
    Her nerves were wound so tightly now that she jumped at the slightest sound or movement. The last few weeks had been an exercise in torture. Self-inflicted torture. On the outside she was the picture of a glowing pregnancy. The sleepless nights, walking with muscles cramping from tension, hadn't yet told her on her face, apart from frame dark circles. Rafael hadn't touched her again since that devastating kiss in front of their guests, but she could hardly look at him for fear of him seeing the naked desire on her face. She avoided him whenever she could. Slept late or got up early. Whatever was required.

    He spent some nights on the mainland, and those were the only ones she slept. On a rational level she'd welcomed this, but on every other honest level she missed his presence with a physical pain that was almost unbearable. One day he brushed past her, barely touched her, and it had caused an intense spiking of desire to rush through her that she'd had to restrain herself from grabbing him.
    That was just what he wanted. Her to give in, to beg him for release.

    And...in weak moments...she had begun entertain treacherous thoughts of doing just that. But each time she did, she'd remember why she couldn't... What if she couldn't keep her feelings hidden?

    She sighed loudly in the empty room, and turned side-on to cheek her reflection. She smoothed the black empire line dress over her bump. It was growing every day, still neat but now evident.

    A sound made her jump. Rafael stood against the doorjamb nonchalantly, devastating in a tuxedo. A memory of the first time she had seen him like that, by the pool in the hotel, came rushing back with such sudden force that she felt faint, and grabbed on to the table beside her to stay steady.
    In two quick strides he was by her side, a hand curling around her arm.
    "What is it?"

    She shook her head, warding him off. "No... nothing. Just a dizzy moment. I'm fine."

    He dropped his grip as though burnt, and ran an angry hand through his immaculate hair, leaving it tousled. "For pity's sake, Nessa, would you expect me to leave you lying there if you'd collapsed? I haven't laid a hand on you in weeks. Your startled jumps and fearful glances aren't exactly arousing me to passionate heights."

    He was furious, his pulse beating erratically against the skin of his neck. And all she wanted to do was reach out and press her lips against it. Feel the flutter under her mouth, taste his skin, see if it still had that musky tang...
    She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. Of course I don't expect you to jump on me."

    The way she was feeling, she was more likely to jump on him.
    She was a mess. A mass of churning frustrated emotions and desires...he was the cool one.

    "The helicopter is ready; the limo is waiting. I'll be downstairs."
    He left the room.

    Vanessa turned back to the mirror. Noticed her cheeks burning up, the fever-bright glitter of her eyes. Her breasts pushing against the fabric of the dress felt heavy and full. It was herself she needed protection from, not him. She closed her eyes at her reflection in despair.

By the time they got to the hotel she was calm again. Relatively. It was her first time back there since returning to France, and the memories rushing up were kept down with difficulty. She'd had plenty of opportunity to go to the mainland before now -- Nikita rang nearly every other day to check in and ask her out -- but Vanessa kept begging off. Somehow she knew she wouldn't be able to cope with Nikita's easy friendliness. She was just holding it together for herself. The island had become something of a sanctuary.