His hand stilled.
"Like a sculpture," she said. "Only finer for although you're made of flesh and blood, you have none of its imperfections."
Well. His chest puffed.
Then he fell upon her like a ravaging wolf.
His lips closed over her nipple, this time taking it deep into his mouth. Her grip tightened on his shoulders as he flicked the sweet bud with his tongue then suckled it some more. Her moan told him she liked that, and, by God, so did he. He kissed her delicate breast all over before licking his way over to the other side, where its delightful twin awaited him.
With a happy sigh, he lavished similar attention on this tit while his fingers plucked and played with the nipple he'd left behind. When she moved restlessly against him, he knew she was ready for more. So he kissed her hot and deep as his fingers trailed over the fine grooves of her ribcage and the smooth valley of her belly. He dipped his finger into her silky nest and groaned at what he found.
Her cunny was already wet, drenched, and hotter than the fires of hell itself.
Maidenly instinct must have kicked in, then, for her thighs locked together. He didn't mind. Trapped between those smooth silken limbs, his hand was exactly where he wanted it to be.
"This won't hurt, sweeting," he murmured. "In fact, if you let me, I can make you feel so very good. Believe me?"
Her eyes looked so trustingly into his.
"Yes," she whispered, and her legs slackened.
"Good girl. I don't ever want you to be afraid of what happens between us." He found her clit, and when he slowly diddled the plump bud, her breath made a hitching sound. "That's nice, isn't it? 'Tis your pearl and what a lovely jewel it is. How does it feel when I stroke it this way?"
Her throaty sigh sent a quiver up his cockstand.
"How about this?"
Her hips wriggled, her pussy pressing against his hand. "Oh, Paul ..."
"Christ, that's good," he breathed. "I think you're ready for more."
He slid a finger down her folds and between her shy, moist lips. When he found the entrance to her grotto, his heart thumped, more moisture leaking from his cockhead. Ye Gods, she was tight. Perspiration dotted his brow as he ventured forward, breaching her with the tip of his middle finger. When she stiffened, he bent to suckle her nipples again. Within moments, she relaxed enough for him to sink his digit inside.
Pulsing heat gripped him.
Holding onto his self-control, he rasped, "Alright, darling?"
"Yes ... I think so." Her eyes had a glazed look.
With tender care, he fingered her. Her flowing dew eased the way and made his lungs burn with anticipation. When he saw no signs of discomfort, he drove deeper and added another finger. His excitement soared as her hips began to move, her pussy taking his penetration so thoroughly, with such sweet, lush abandon, that he knew she was ready for his cock.
First, he wanted to watch as she took her initial flight over pleasure's precipice.
Stroking her bold clit, he continued to plunge into her hole.
"Oh ... oh my ..." she panted.
"Come for me, darling," he said.
Her eyes shut as she obeyed. Her cries—the sweetest he'd ever heard—erupted with passion worthy of an opera. In the next heartbeat, he was between her thighs. He shuddered as he dragged his bulging tip along her slick folds. With his cock coated in her cream, he notched it to her slit and drove forward. Past the initial resistance, her snug sheath gave way, her aftermath rippling over his shaft, the luscious squeeze wringing a groan from him. Soon he was buried to the balls, wrapped in the hottest, most generous embrace of his life.
He was inside his wife. His. Wife.
Pleasure deepened, rooting in his chest. Triumph and possessiveness rolled through him. Taking his weight on his arms, he rasped, "Love, look at me."
Her lashes lifted, and then he was drowning in the limpid depths of her eyes. In the amazing ardor he saw there, so natural and real. Before he could ascertain her comfort, she lifted her palm to his jaw; with that tender permission he knew that everything was alright. More than alright. His sweet nymph wanted him as much as he wanted her.
His control, so tightly held, unraveled, and then he was moving, plunging deeper and deeper into her welcoming depths. Arousal poured over him when she began to take up the movement. Her hips learned his rhythm, lifting in sweet synchrony. So perfect, so natural, he was dazed by the easy joy of it. He saw the desire building again in her eyes, and he gritted his teeth, trying to hold on. She was so wet, so tight. The pressure in his bollocks grew, and he fought to hold back, to give her another climax before he found his own.
He grasped her knee, hitching it high against his hip.
Each thrust of his cock grazed her pearl, and her head flung back on a cry. He wanted to kiss the sweet sounds from her lips. So he did, swallowing her moans as she came for him once more, then pouring his own groans right back as his crisis raged over him. His seed boiled up his shaft, shooting out with such force that his teeth clattered, his hips grinding desperately as he gave her everything he had ...
He collapsed atop his wife, breathing hard.
Her breath puffed softly against his jaw, her fingers brushing his nape. Time suspended; he could have stayed that way forever. For even as pleasure began to ebb, peace took its place and a satisfaction he'd never felt before.
Even better than winning a match, he thought drowsily.
His eyes grew heavy, and he barely had the wherewithal to roll off of her. He tucked her against him and dragged the coverlet over them both.
She made a soft sound, snuggling deeper into him.
A perfect fit, came the hazy thought. My wife ... mine.
His eyelids closed, and he swirled and vanished into her sweet fog.
TWENTY
Charity awakened sometime later to a flickering fire in the hearth and an even warmer presence next to her in bed. My husband, she thought in wonder. Mr. Fines—no, Paul—lay on his side, head propped up on his left hand where his wedding band gleamed. When their gazes met, his mouth tipped up, and an answering smile formed on hers.
They'd done it. They were well and truly married.
"Hello, sleepyhead. Didn't know if you were done in until the morning." His thumb swept over her bottom lip. The casual intimacy made her heart skip a beat.
"I must have dozed off. But I'm feeling quite awake now," she said. It was true. Being with him like this, snug in their intimate cocoon, she didn't want to miss a thing.
"Good. Because there's something I forgot to do earlier," he said.
Thinking of his thorough lovemaking, she couldn't imagine anything he'd missed.
He must have read her thoughts because he laughed. "What a wicked little baggage I've married, to be sure."
Flushing with sudden embarrassment, she averted her gaze. Had she been too wanton? Helena and Marianne had said husbands preferred honesty, and so she hadn't tried to hide her response to him. In truth, she thought with growing worry, she wasn't certain she could conceal her desire for him.
He tipped up her chin. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
"Nothing," she said quickly.
She couldn't bring herself to admit her concerns. To ask Paul what he'd thought of her ... in bed. For her, their lovemaking had been magical, but she wasn't experienced like he was. By reputation, he was a connoisseur in these matters, and she'd seen for herself the kind of women who'd attracted his attention. Ladies far more beautiful and worldly than she ...
"Onto your wedding present, then," he said.
This took her from her worries.
"You ... you have something for me?" she said.
With a wink, he got out of bed, treating her to a spectacular view of his backside. Now that, she thought wistfully, is the only present I need. But she had her own surprise and went to fetch it. By the time he returned, she was back in bed wearing her robe and holding out a small package she'd painstakingly wrapped in paper and twine.
<
br /> "I have a gift for you, too," she said.
Climbing in next to her, he said with a grin, "You shouldn't have"—and snatched it from her.
Charity watched with amusement as he proceeded to tear off the wrapping with the glee of a boy on Christmas Day. It was a Fines trait, this playful love of presents, for Percy was the same way. Paul withdrew the set of handkerchiefs. She'd chosen the finest quality linen and embroidered his initials upon each one. He examined them in silence.
Growing nervous, she said, "I hope you like the colors that I used. They're meant to match your outfits."
He ran a finger over the monogram on the top handkerchief. Using gold silk thread, she'd sewn the AF in a bold, masculine script and set it within a diamond-shaped frame.
"Your handiwork is exquisite. I shall carry these with pride. Thank you, sweetheart."
The appreciation in his eyes made her feel adrift on a warm, blue sea.
"You're welcome," she whispered.
He deposited a small, black velvet box into her palm. "Your turn. It's a belated gift, actually."
With care, she lifted the lid, and ... her breath stopped.
There, on a bed of white satin, lay a ring of unimaginable splendor. A flawless opal cabochon blazed at the center, flames of iridescent green, blue, and gold dancing upon its surface. Surrounding the opal was a circle of pearls, each one snowy and flawless.
Emotion clogged Charity's throat.
"Happy engagement," Paul said, "though I'm afraid it's too late for you now, Mrs. Fines. Would have gotten the ring sooner, but given that our engagement lasted a blink of an eye, and I had to look high and low for something that suited you, I hope I can be forgiven for being late."
She still couldn't find the words.
"And I have another confession to make," he went on. "The ring came from a competitor. No choice, I'm afraid. A first-rate opal is hard to find—never mind one brilliant enough to match your eyes."
A sound finally did escape her: a sob.
"Christ, you don't like it?" He frowned. "Well, there's no need for a leaky bucket, we can find you another ring—"
"I love it." She threw her arms around his neck, planting her face against his hard chest. His arms closed instantly around her as she wept, "It's the most b-beautiful ring I've ever s-seen. In the entire world."
"Then why the waterworks?"
"Because," she said between sniffles, "you thought me ... worthy of it."
A pause. He drew back, a notch between his brows. "Well, of course you are. You're worth a thousand such baubles. Why would you think otherwise?"
His incredulous tone almost started her tears again. She couldn't convey what the ring meant—to her, the weed, on whom adornment was wasted. For whom nothing but plainness and modesty would do. It was fantastical enough that this beautiful god-like man had given her his name; for him to give her this ring, to say that in his eyes she was worthy of this treasure ... she was overwhelmed.
"This is the most precious gift anyone has given me," she managed. "Thank you, Paul."
He gave her a tender smile. "You're welcome. Let's see it on, shall we?"
Taking her hand, he slid the ring onto her finger above her wedding band. The ring flashed fire and magic, too beautiful to be real. Charity knew that she would cherish it forever.
Her vision grew blurry again. She dabbed desperately at her eyes with the bed sheet. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm never a watering pot."
"It's a wedding night tradition, I'm told. The bride's prerogative after the shock wears off." His expression grew thoughtful, and, winding one of her loose waves around his finger, he said, "Speaking of shock, I was rather astounded myself when I saw this hair of yours in its full glory. Why in blazes do you hide such an asset? Other females pay their friseurs a pretty penny to achieve such perfection."
More praise. She didn't know how much more she could take.
"It's unmanageable ... and immodest," she tried to explain.
"Who told you that?"
"My father." Guilt stabbed her at how disloyal that sounded. She hastened to add, "He raised me on his own, after my mama died. It wasn't easy, what with the shop and all his responsibilities. Some fathers might have given up an infant daughter, but not mine." She'd been so lucky, having a papa who let her stay by his side. "He's always done his best by me, and for that I shall forever be grateful."
"He's the one who ought to be grateful to have a daughter like you." Sifting his hands through her hair, Paul said, "No more gunk and nun's knots. Your hair is beautiful, a part of you, and as your husband 'tis my privilege to see it in its natural state."
"I suppose ... I could wear a looser style." The simple twist and fall of her coiffure at the wedding ceremony had felt better. It was nice not to have the tautness at her temples and the itchy paste against her scalp.
"That's my girl," he said.
Tension lingered, however, and she knew that more than her hair was at issue. She didn't know how to address the mutual animosity that had sprung up between her father and new husband; she found it difficult to speak up for one without feeling as though she were betraying the other.
Awkwardly, she said, "Please don't think badly of Father. He's just worried about Sparkler's. And, of course, our wedding took him by surprise."
"There's an understatement," Paul said.
"He'll come around, you'll see. The two of you just need to spend time together." She pushed away her unease. Paul was so wonderful—her father had to see it eventually. "And when you help Father make Sparkler's a success, he'll be so pleased."
A shadow fell across Paul's face.
"I meant after the tournament," she said quickly. "Your boxing must come first, of course. I know how important winning the title is to you."
"It isn't that." He hesitated. "I just hope that I'll be able to help make the shop a success."
She looked at him in surprise. "Of course you will."
Over the years, she'd observed that Paul was a man who, once he set his mind and heart to a thing, did not falter. 'Twas why he excelled at pugilism; 'twas why he loved Rosalind Drummond ... she shook away the thought. She wasn't going to ruin the night's happiness.
He cupped her cheek, the pad of his thumb following the slope of her cheekbone. "Such a loyal thing, aren't you?" he murmured. "I hope to God I don't disappoint."
"You couldn't," she said. "You won't."
Something drifted through his eyes like clouds over a clear sky. She wondered what he was thinking and would have asked, but his lips were suddenly on hers, banishing further thoughts from her head. When his tongue touched her lips, she opened to him immediately, hungry for the wordless intimacy, hungry again for his kiss.
Laying her back, he murmured, "Sore, sweeting?"
Her head rocked against the pillows.
His eyes were heated. "I'll be gentle. And it'll be even better this time, I promise." He caught the tip of one breast, lightly pinching, and her insides melted like wax.
"Is that even possible?" she managed.
He gave her a rakish grin ... and proceeded to show her that it was.
TWENTY-ONE
The morning after her wedding night, Charity woke at her usual hour just before sunrise. Seeing that Paul's long lashes rested against his lean cheeks, she just lay there admiring him. She loved how boyish he looked with his angelic features relaxed and his hair tousled. She had to restrain herself from brushing back his willful forelock. She didn't want to disturb him. When she tried to slip from the bed, however, his arm snaked around her waist.
"Where are you going?" His drowsy murmur filled her ear.
"To put a kettle on," she said breathlessly. "I'll make your breakfast."
"You've wed a slugabed and one who enjoys company. Now get over here, wench,"—he yanked her playfully against him—"and I'll show you what I want for breakfast."
His wandering hands made her giggle until he brought her bottom flush against his front. Then she wasn't
laughing anymore. Clearly, he was awake ... a particular part of him fully alert. A hum began in her blood, and what progressed next, whilst still new to her, made a convincing case for lingering in bed.
Afterward, she dozed off and woke, disoriented, to find that it was nearly noon. Paul, freshly shaven and in his shirtsleeves, sauntered into the room with a tray, explaining that the maid from the village had already come and gone. Propping himself next to her on the bed, he began to feed her from the array of foods he'd brought: thickly buttered bread, crisp bacon, juicy slices of tomato. When she protested that she couldn't eat another bite, he handed her a cup of tea—milk and no sugar, the way she preferred—and polished off the food whilst she sipped her beverage with a dazed kind of joy.
What had she done to deserve such a husband?
The days passed with a surreal quality. Charity was used to being busy, but here at the cottage there were no tasks to complete, no chores to do. Nothing on the agenda but getting to know the man she'd loved from afar for so long.
It was remarkable to her, how at ease they were becoming with each other. Or rather, how at ease Paul was with himself—which, in turn, began eroding some of her natural awkwardness. He was undoubtedly a sensual creature and seemed to relish physical contact, touching her often and not just during lovemaking. They spent lazy hours curled up together on the parlor sofa. While she worked on her embroidery, he made a pillow of her lap, reading or napping. When they went to explore the outdoors, he kept a hand on her waist, his stance almost ... possessive, she thought wistfully.
If their lovemaking brought them physically closer, their talking fostered a growing intimacy of another kind. One night, as they lay facing one another in bed, they discussed the topic of their childhoods. She described growing up at Sparkler's, her desire to help her father, who worked so hard despite his ill health. She also admitted to Paul how much she'd missed having a mother and the silly dreams she'd secretly woven about Mary Sparkler someday returning. Surfacing, like a long-lost survivor of a shipwreck.
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