She didn’t recognize her own voice when she gasped his name. She could only tremble beneath his questing hands as he took her to new heights of desire. His hand slid over her belly, between her thighs and there was no fear, only the anticipation of something she did not understand. He cupped the mound of her sex, pressing lightly, and she flexed beneath him, countering the thrust of his hand instinctively. Her head fell back and she arched into his touch, eager for more.
Rhys was breathing hard, when he parted the slick folds of her sex and stroked her gently. He found the small nub of flesh that was the seat of her pleasure. He caressed it gently, circling it with the pad of his thumb. She shivered and moaned, and instinctively parted her thighs wider, allowing him greater access.
Rhys looked down at her, her face flushed, her lips parted with desire. It was a heady thing to witness the awakening of her passion, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to feel the softness of her skin against his own. He rose again, stripping off the remainder of his clothing, eager to feel her softness against him. He rejoined her quickly, resuming the sensual onslaught before any sense of reality could return. That she came willingly into his embrace did not escape his notice.
“Do you trust me?” When she nodded, he claimed her lips again, kissing her until she was dizzy and breathless. “If you wish me to stop, at any point, all you have to do is tell me.”
She nodded, still breathless and reeling from his kisses. She could feel the press of his bare chest against her. She couldn’t imagine ever wanting it to stop. His skin was smooth and hot to the touch, slightly roughened by the dark hair that swirled over his chest and tapered to a slim line, growing thicker again around his rampant sex. His body fascinated her. She wanted to touch and explore, to learn every inch of his masculine frame, but there was no time as he reclaimed her mouth. The weight and heat of his body against her own was heady. As close as they were, it wasn’t enough. She wanted more.
He stroked his thumb over the delicate line of her jaw, his fingers tracing the column of her throat, feeling the staccato rhythm of her pulse. The press of her breasts against his chest was the sweetest torture. He pressed kisses against her jaw, her throat, and into the sweet hollow below her ear, all the while his hands caressed her back, skimming over her hips and down the sinuous curves of her legs. Her skin was like silk, and his blood heated, demanding fulfillment. Unable to wait any longer, he tugged at her night rail, removing the garment entirely, letting it fall forgotten and discarded to the floor.
His gaze roamed over her, reverently, reveling in her lush curves. Greedy for more, he lowered his head to take the pink, furled tip of one breast into his mouth. She moaned, and writhed beneath him as he laved the taut bud with his tongue, alternately sucking and nibbling at her turgid flesh. There was no hesitation, no question as she parted her legs and invited his touch. He swept his tongue inside her mouth, where it tangled with hers, before flattening his palm over the soft mound of her femininity, cupping her possessively. He traced the delicate folds, wet with her desire, until she cried out, clutching him. He swept his thumb over the tiny pearl, flicking, caressing again and again.
He was in an agony of desire. He slipped a second finger inside her, marveling at how exquisitely tight she was. He wanted nothing more than to slide his aching member into the welcoming heat of her body, but he hesitated. He didn’t want to cause her more pain than was necessary, but he was unable to deny himself any longer.
He settled himself between her parted thighs, the head of his erection nudging the slick folds of her cleft. “It will hurt,” he said, “But only this once, and only for a moment.”
She nodded, and opened herself more fully. The pain didn’t matter, and even with the pleasures he had shown her, she knew there was much more. She felt empty and hollow, her body crying out for him. She wanted to feel him inside her, to be filled by him.
The effort required to be gentle was Herculean for him, as he parted the honeyed folds of her sex and pressed his hips forward, sliding partially into her. He struggled for control, for some semblance of the self discipline that he prided himself on. His breathing was ragged, as he struggled with the need to bury himself in the enveloping heat, to drive deeply into the welcoming warmth of her sex.
Emme shuddered as her flesh burned, stretching to accommodate him. It was such a foreign sensation, and so different from the pleasure of his skillful hands and wicked mouth. Slowly, the discomfort abated, leaving only a feeling of fullness and an urge to move against him, to explore the curious sensations. He felt thick and hot inside her and instinctively, she knew that there was much more.
Rhys held his weight on his forearms, his forehead pressed against hers as he waited for her to relax and to ease his passage. He eased in further, relishing the feel of her sheath clenching around him. He moved his hips in a series of light, gentle thrusts, creating a delicious friction that had her lifting her hips toward him, her legs coming up to wrap about his hips. She melted around him, and each thrust went slightly deeper, until he could feel the barrier of her innocence.
He whispered an apology against her cheek and then took her lips in a fierce kiss as he thrust deeply, breaching her maidenhead. He wanted to lose himself inside her, to thrust into her moist heat again and again, but with sheer force of will, he managed to control his urges, and held himself rigid inside her, as he waited for her to relax beneath him.
Emme didn’t cry out, though she had bit her lip at the unexpected pain. She had been warned, of course, but the reality surpassed what she had expected. She knew that he was struggling, that he was trying to be gentle. She forced herself to relax, to accept the invasion. She was aware of him inside her, filling her, his flesh mingling with her own. She knew that the worst was over, but the intense pleasure he had given her earlier seemed far away. Disappointment was blossoming inside her, taking root, but then he moved.
The anticipated pain did not materialize. Instead, there was a deep coiling of pleasure. Each small movement of his hips, as he withdrew from her, only to press deeper again built on that pleasure, until it was overwhelming in intensity. She closed her eyes, her neck arched and her head thrown back in pleasure.
His lips pressed against her neck, his teeth scraping lightly as he quickened his pace, thrusting harder and deeper. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she gasped and shuddered around him. She found the rhythm and began to meet his thrusts, lifting her hips to welcome him.
When her hands slid down his back to his taut buttocks and pressed him more deeply inside her, he lost his battle with restraint. His control snapped and he drove deeply inside her, losing himself in her soft heat.
Knowing he would not last much longer, he brought his hand between them, touching her where their bodies joined, each caress sending her closer and closer to the precipice. Her hips flexed instinctively, arching upward to meet his thrusts as his skilled fingers played over her.
With the first spasm of her orgasm, as the muscles of her sheath rippled around him, clenching tightly, he could no longer wait. He thrust deeply, as the tension coiled within him. He withdrew and thrust again, and was lost. He groaned, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. He shuddered with pleasure as he spilled his seed deep inside her.
Emme’s hands stroked over his sweat slicked skin, reveling in the pleasure that he had given her. Tremors wracked her body and each one elicited an answering shudder from him. She noted that he was careful of her, holding his weight on his forearms above her. He kissed her, gently, sweetly before withdrawing from her. He rolled to his back and pulled her with him so that her head was pillowed on his chest, and his heart still thundered beneath her ear. In moments, they were both fast asleep, replete and sated.
Rhys awoke in the hours before dawn, his new wife tucked against his chest. His body stirred but he ignored the burgeoning desire. He had tried to be gentle, but he knew that she would be sore. He had known that she would be passionate, that they would find pleasure with one another. The exten
t of that pleasure had been beyond anything he had ever encountered. Ignoring the response of his body at the memory of their lovemaking, he contented himself with holding her, feeling the weight of her against him in the darkness.
When light began to filter through the windows, Emme stirred, turning to face him so that her lush, tempting breasts were pressed against his chest. He stifled a groan as his member hardened without deference to his good intentions. Rather than continue to tempt fate, he extricated himself from the tangle of her glorious hair and slumberous limbs. She had moved at one point during the night, with the intention of going back to her own chamber. He had unceremoniously pulled her back into the bed with him. He liked having her there.
The fire had died down and the chill of the room helped to curb his libido. Heedless of his nudity, he strode to the hearth and stoked the embers back to life, adding another log to the fire. When he turned, his wife was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled up over her breasts and her hair wild about her. She was looking at him curiously.
“Yes?” he queried.
“I realized that you have a very unfair advantage,” she said, her smile as tempting as any courtesan’s. Soft and coquettish, it shaped her divine mouth in such a way that it could do little but stir carnal desires.
“And what is that?” he asked, desire deepening the timbre of his voice.
“You know what I look like everywhere and I barely had time to look at you, at all.”
God preserve him, he thought, as his good intentions fled entirely. He rose, poker stiff and eager to show her. Her eyes took in every detail as he walked back to the bed in the weak morning light.
He was magnificent, Emme thought. There was not an ounce of spare flesh on him. He was all muscle over bone—broad of chest and shoulder, long limbed, with powerful thighs and lean hips.
She eyed his sex with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. It grew larger beneath her gaze.
“May I touch you?”
He would have begged, he thought, and she was asking permission. “Yes,” he said simply.
She explored his body, tracing his shoulders and running her hands over the powerful muscles of his chest. When the flat discs of his nipples hardened beneath her exploring fingers, she leaned forward and licked him as he had done to her. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought the sigh that escaped his lips then, was her name. She turned her attention to the other nipple, scraping lightly with her teeth and his hands fisted in her hair. She trailed her fingers over the ridges of his abdomen, explored the indentions at his lean hips, and ran the flat of her palms over his hair roughened thighs. He groaned then, his erection jutting powerfully from the nest of dark hair.
With more courage than she’d ever given herself credit for, she touched it, her fingertips gliding over the satiny smooth skin. She hadn’t expected that it would be so smooth, that the skin would be so velvety, or that the heat of him would sear her.
His breath hissed out through his clenched teeth. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.
His nearly virginal young wife had him randier than any well trained courtesan ever had. “No, you did everything right, and if you kept doing everything right, I would have spilled myself in your hand and our lovemaking would have been over far too quickly.”
“Oh,” she said, her lips forming that exquisite bow. “In that case, I should repeat it.”
Rhys didn’t give her the opportunity. He laid her back on the bed and came down on top of her. “You are playing with fire, wife.”
She smiled, “I know… and I think I like it.”
“It’s too soon,” he said, kissing her neck, then rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, so that she straddled him. Her hair spilled over them, tangling about their limbs. “You’ll be sore. Now, behave.”
Emme considered it. She was sore, but she didn’t care. “You can’t mean to sleep like this,” she protested. “I’m too heavy.”
“You’re not too heavy, and I don’t intend to sleep. I intend to rest, momentarily, and then enjoy a morning ride.”
Emme snuggled against him, enjoying the feel of the crisp hair of his chest against her own smooth skin. “It’s too cold outside for a ride.”
He chuckled. “That’s quite alright. I won’t be riding; you will.”
Hours later, after he had made love to his new bride for the second time, Rhys had watched Emme retire to her own room to bathe and dress for the day. He couldn’t help but compare his wedding night with Emme to the disastrous one that he had shared with Elise. Aside from the first night of their marriage, when their ill-fated union had been consummated, Elise had never shared his chambers or invited him to her own. She had preferred another wing of the house, one where her lovers could come and go without running into her husband or mother- in-law. The rest of the time she had spent in the tower, writing in her rambling journal.
Leaving his chambers and heading for the breakfast room, he realized that it had mattered little even then. He had been content to let her entertain other men because he’d had no interest in her. As he had been led to believe that she was already pregnant with someone else’s child when they’d wed, the idea of having his own child as his heir had already been denied him. But her body had never altered. Her belly had never rounded with child. When he had confronted her, she had confessed that she had lost the babe. He had demanded then that she curb her wild ways and take no other lovers until the succession of the title was secure. She’d laughed then, bitterly, and upon reflection, quite madly. She’d assured him that she knew well how to prevent pregnancy as she had no intention of ever going through it. That had been the first time he had mentioned divorce. Lady Eleanor had intervened then, telling him to give Elise time. It had been only a few short months later that she had died. The gossip had been rampant, that he had killed her for denying him his husbandly rights.
The truth had been that he had taken no joy from bedding Elise. She’d been cold and unresponsive. It had been spite, and she’d said as much. She’d vowed on that one occasion, that he would never enjoy her passions as he’d once denied her his. Elise, he realized, had always been somewhat mad. She’d been a study of extremes, even as a child. It had always been elation or agony, and never anything in between. He did not expect his marriage to Emme to be free of strife, but in only twenty-four hours, he’d enjoyed more contentment with her than in his entire marriage to Elise. He was still smiling at the thought when the door opened behind him.
“You’re woolgathering.”
The soft statement brought him back to the present, and to the wife he’d just been considering. “Yes, I suppose I was.”
Idly, he began to fill his plate from the sideboard. When she was beside him, he kissed her. It was not a passionate kiss, but a simple gesture. He kissed her because she was his, and because he could. He eased back from the kiss, before passion consumed him again. Her hair was tamed from the wild disarray of their morning debauch. It was dressed in a neat coiffure, revealing the slender column of her neck, and the faint traces of red left by his whiskers. Some part of him, something dark and possessive within him, reveled in the knowledge that he had marked her.
They broke their fast together. It was an intimate moment, shared only by the two of them. Rhys decided that it was something he could grow used to. She didn’t chatter at him, but sat in companionable silence with him as they enjoyed their meal. He read the morning papers and shared the more interesting information with her. She responded sensibly, and he was once again struck by her intelligence. If there was one thing about his wife he would have altered, it wasn’t her birth or lack of fortune. It was her strange abilities. They disturbed him, shaking his comfort on levels that he didn’t wish to acknowledge.
After finishing their meal, they strolled through the gardens and he gave her a more extensive tour of the estate than she’d had previously. It was nearly noon before they returned to the house and joined the others.
Upon entering the drawing room he no
ted that Lady Haverston had departed, risking night travel to London with her niece, Miss Stone. She had waited to receive word of their wedding so that she could carry the gossip back to town with her. The murdering duke and the mystic, Rhys thought somewhat bitterly. What a tale they would make for the gossips.
Eleanor was baleful and his mother appeared to be cool and collected as always. She had Emme sit beside her and began to discuss the skills required to run a household like Briarwood Hall. He stood back from the group, watching them. Michael approached him and discreetly poured a measure of brandy from his flask into the teacup he held.
Rhys smiled. “Ever prepared, Michael.”
“You’re looking content, my friend.”
“Tread easy, Michael. I’d hate to have to call you out.” In spite of the threat, his voice was infused with calm and good humor.
Michael chuckled. “Good lord, yes. It’d be a shame if I had to make her a widow already. Speaking of content, she looks equally satisfied with life, if a bit fatigued.”
Rhys said without umbrage, “You really are an ass, Ellersleigh.”
“Perhaps I am merely jealous of your connubial bliss? It was blissful, wasn’t it? Surely you can spare that much for your old friend, who is now deprived of all female company save for your sainted mother and your aunt. One I love like a mother myself, and the other, well, perhaps if she were the last woman on earth, but even then, I’d need a drink. Several drinks, actually.”
The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set Page 13