All but nude, in her nearly transparent chemise, she washed quickly. He appeared unconcerned as he went about his own business. Without any of her modesty or shyness, he stripped to his smallclothes and with another cloth began to wash himself.
Abbi had just donned his shirt and he a dressing gown, when Mrs. Wolcot came to the door. The old women ambled in, bearing a fresh pitcher and basin, leaving them near the hearth to keep the water from chilling during the night. When she left, and they were once again alone, Michael turned to Abigail and saw her eyeing the bed with concern. He had no intention of resuming their earlier activities. Neither of them had the energy for it at the moment. Still, sharing a bed, regardless of how platonic it might be, was an intimacy that she would never before have encountered.
In spite of his assertions that his motives were pure, Michael's gaze traveled over her, savoring the way his shirt molded to her body. It was long enough to cover her to her knees, but the fabric stretched tightly over her hips and the rounded curve of her bottom. She did truly have a delightful bottom; he thought. It was a perfect, inverted heart, full and lush. He wanted to fill his hands with the firm globes, but that was for another time, when they weren’t exhausted and traumatized, and he didn’t have an equally traumatized patient just down the hall.
He strode toward her, and with first one of her arms then the other, rolled up the sleeves of the shirt. “It lacks a bit of tailoring for you.”
Abbi blushed. “It’s a bit indecent, as well.”
It was. The fabric stretched taut around her hips, revealing far more than it would ever conceal. With the deep V of the neck, it bared much of her breasts to him, as well. In spite of his best intentions, his body stirred. “So, it is. Come to bed, pull the covers up, and no one shall ever know.”
“You’ll know.”
He nodded. “Yes, but I intend to see you in even less, as soon as it can be managed without killing us both… Sadly, that will not be tonight. So, again, come to bed. We are both tired, and we have all the time in the world for our amorous pursuits with one another.”
With her hand clasped in his, Abbi allowed him to lead her to the bed, where she climbed in, and he was right behind her, sans dressing gown. She could feel his hair roughed legs against her smooth ones, the crisp hair on his forearms where he held her against him. His sex was a hard ridge pressed against her bottom, but as he seemed perfectly willing to ignore it, she decided to do the same. He kissed her shoulder and whispered good night against her ear. Within minutes, he was asleep. In the circle of his arms, she remained awake for some time, marveling at the sort of man she had married.
Who was he really? The devil's own scoundrel the gossipmongers described, or the gentle and caring man who soothed a battered girl? The question plagued her endlessly, and sleep, even in her exhausted state, was hard won.
~*~*~
When Abbi awoke the next morning, it was far later than she was accustomed to. Michael was gone, and she was stranded without clothing. Her only option was to wander the halls in his shirt, which was no option at all. It had barely covered her in the darkness. In the bright light of day, it would conceal nothing.
So she remained abed, staring up the ceiling and contemplating her husband. Having gone to sleep thinking of him and woken up still thinking of him, Abbi knew she was treading dangerous ground. But the man was such an enigma, his behavior, and his reputation so often at odds. Electing to forgo what others had said of his character and focus only on what she knew of him, she realized that it was very little.
Prior to his treatment of Sarah, she’d had no idea that he was a physician. Recalling the scar on his shoulder and the other one on his side, she knew that he’d been wounded in battle. He was a notorious seducer according to town gossip, and yet never once had he been linked to the ruin of an innocent. He had always restricted his activities to married women and widows, along with the occasional demirep and opera dancer. He was not a saint by any stretch, but he was not the devil the world portrayed him to be. He was most certainly not the devil that he appeared to imagine himself.
The chamber door opened, and the subject of her musings entered. He wore only breeches and a shirt identical to the one that covered her. Even as he crossed the room, he was stripping it from his magnificent body. His boots and breeches followed. She closed her eyes and tried not to shriek in embarrassment when he doffed his small-clothes.
He truly had no modesty, but as she peeked at him beneath her lashes, she knew that he had no reason to be modest. His body was perfect. Broad shoulders tapered to a well-defined chest and taut stomach. As he moved, she could see the rippling of the ridged muscles of his abdomen. She had no idea what the muscle was called, but there was a perfect line at the top of each hip, demarcating his upper body from his lower body. His lower body proved to be even more distracting.
The dark hair that curled on his chest tapered to a thin line that bisected his ridged stomach, and arrowed down to the juncture of his thighs. The hair grew thicker there, surrounding his sex, which under her shuttered gaze, seemed to thicken and grow longer.
“If your eyes were truly closed, you’d have no reason to blush,” he said. Even as the flippant words escaped his lips, he was climbing back into the bed, heedless of his nudity.
It was a far different experience to in bed with him, knowing he was naked and now appreciating exactly what that looked like. “You are incorrigible.”
He smiled against her ear, kissed it, and in a whisper laced with humor, said, “I’m not a peeping tom. That would be you, dear wife.”
Wife. The word hung in the air. She wasn’t a wife yet, not truly. Desperate to think of anything else, she asked, “How is Sarah this morning?”
He sighed. “She’s still frightened, though less so in the bright light of day, but about the same as last night— bruised, battered and has seen the worst of mankind. Also, she's no wish to return to her family. She said that her father would never permit her back in his home, given that she has been ruined.”
It could have been her; Abbi thought. How many times had she fended off Rupert's clumsy advances? How many times had she hidden from him when he was not so drunk that his advances were tempered by his inebriated state? She shuddered softly, her empathy for Sarah growing exponentially. “What will happen to her?”
He sighed wearily. “As of this morning, she’s taken the position of lady's maid to you.”
Of course, she thought. She was quickly beginning to realize her husband had a very soft heart. “Thank you… for helping her, and for helping me. You seem to rescue people quite frequently.”
Michael felt the burden of her praise. It was heavy on him, so he shrugged it off quickly, “Need I remind you that you are the one who rescued me? Were it not for your willingness to corroborate my alibi at the cost of your own reputation, I would more than likely be swinging at Tyburn Hill now.”
“Don’t joke about that. It’s horrible.”
“Then let’s talk about something else,” he suggested as he stroked her back, his hands moving in deceptively lazy circles. With each pass, his touch grew bolder, more insistent, and more far reaching. At last, his hands were coasting over her shoulders and arms, over the swell of her hips and down her thighs.
Abbi continued her questions, though her voice quavered tellingly. “How is it the son and heir of a viscount is trained as a physician?”
Michael had no wish to delve into his past, not even for her. But putting her off would only encourage distance between them, and distance was the last thing he wanted at that moment. It was time to consummate their union, to claim her as his wife. He didn't acknowledge that there was an element of fear to his intense desire. The thought of going back into the vipers den of Rupert and Lavinia's home with their relationship not fully bound in the eyes of the law was too dangerous, by far.
Answering her question as succinctly as possible, he said, “I became interested in medicine because someone dear to me died, and I could do n
othing to help them. I remained interested in medicine because my father despised it and felt that what I was doing was little better than going into trade.”
“And when you joined the army, was that also to irritate your father?”
She was worse than the bloody professors at Cambridge. Why, when, where, who—it was endless! “No. That was because I couldn’t allow my best friends to run off to war without me. We managed though just barely, to keep one another alive and reasonably in one piece. Can we not talk about my past anymore?”
“What should we talk about then?” Abbi asked though she was fairly certain she knew what his answer would be. The lazy strokes of his hands, soothing at first, had taken on a very different tone. They had become more insistent, more deliberately arousing. Even as the thought entered her mind, his hands were sliding over her ribs and up to her breasts.
“I don’t think we should talk at all,” he said. “I want to make love to you, and regardless of any nervousness you may feel, I believe you want that too.”
There was no denying it. He was right. She had wanted him the night before, when the Gray Lady had warned them, before they had rescued Sarah. After watching the way he had cared for Sarah—his gentleness with her, his fierce anger at what had happened to her—Abbi only wanted him more.
With a boldness that surprised them both, she turned in his arms, coming to face him, and pressed her lips against his. It was the first time she had ever initiated a kiss between them, and while her efforts were slightly clumsy, they were also greatly appreciated.
Michael’s response was immediate. He claimed her mouth hungrily in return; tasting and teasing her until they were both breathless. His clever hands were at her breasts, delving beneath the thin fabric of the simple shirt she wore.
The sensation of his fingertips moving so skillfully over her tender flesh, cupping and shaping the softness of her breasts while artfully teasing the furled peaks, had her straining toward him. She cried out softly, the sound lost in a kiss.
When he pulled his mouth from hers, and trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses over her neck and down to her breasts, she moaned. Her hands threaded into the silken hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to her. The intensity of her desire for him, the rapid ascent of passion should have frightened her. It would have frightened her had she not been robbed entirely of the ability to think. She could do nothing but feel and revel in the sensual onslaught.
He was determined. An army of ghosts could march through the room, and he wouldn’t care. He was no longer capable of stopping. He had never desired a woman the way he desired Abigail, and the interrupted lovemaking from the night before had left him on the edge of madness.
With lips, teeth, and tongue he teased her breasts to aching attention. He flicked his tongue over the sensitive peaks, first one then the other, before suckling them in turn. It only stoked the fire that raged in her. Every touch inflamed her until she was arching up to meet him, desperate to be even closer to him.
The shirt she’d worn was pushed down her shoulders, over her arms until it bunched at her waist. He tugged it down, over her hips, then off of her entirely. When he tossed it aside, she was left completely naked. Everywhere he touched; she blazed. His body was hot and hard, the muscles bunching beneath her hands as they roamed over his back, his sides.
When her hands stroked his chest, tangling in the springy hair, he groaned. Recognizing it as a sound of pleasure, she continued her exploration. Her fingers grazed the flat, coppery discs of his nipples, and he hissed her name between clenched teeth before claiming her mouth again. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her thighs. It excited her as much as it frightened her
She felt his hands on the inside of her thighs, and she opened for him immediately. His hand moved over the mound of her sex, possessively. But his touch was gentle when he parted the slick folds and began to touch her intimately. His fingers danced over her with skill, leaving her breathless and gasping. When he pressed deeper, his fingers sliding into her tight sheath, she uttered his name on a breathless sigh.
Michael was near the breaking point. His control had never been so tested. His erection had progressed to the point of pain, and all he wanted was to sink into the silken, heat of her body and ease himself. In spite of her passionate response, and the glorious wetness that had greeted his questing fingers, he knew that she wasn’t truly ready.
With that in mind, he moved a second finger inside her. She moaned at the increased pressure. The sound dragged at his nerves, spiking his desire even further. With his fingers pressing deeply inside her, readying her, he moved so that his thumb pressed against the small, hardened bud that was the center of her pleasure. He circled it slowly, then began to stroke it slowly. Every sigh, every breathless moan that escaped her softly parted, kiss-swollen lips ratcheted his own desire to even higher levels.
When she moved her hips against him, countering the rhythm of his hand, he simply could not wait any longer. He parted her knees, sliding his body between the sweet haven of her thighs. She tensed beneath him, but offered no protests. Michael kissed her neck, tugged at the lobe of her ear with his teeth, before uttering a whispered command, “Open for me, sweet.”
She shifted slightly, her knees parting further as she opened to him, welcomed him. He teased her again, parting the soft folds, and then he guided himself into her, parting her damp flesh. She had tensed against him though, clearly not quite ready for the next step..
Her slightly widened eyes were her only indication of alarm. She didn’t make a sound but bit her lip. He knew she was in pain, that he was hurting her, but he also knew that there was no other option, or at least not an option he could accept. “How familiar are you with what’s supposed to happen?”
Abbi shivered, “I know enough…It’s just that you are larger than I expected.”
Michael felt his pulse leap in response, felt his member harden further. “That can actually be a benefit,” he said.
She raised her eyebrow, “I wouldn’t know.”
He smiled back at her. “You will.”
He inserted his hand between them, touching her where they were joined. Each stroke of his skilled fingers over the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of her cleft eased his passage. The liquid heat that answered his touch resulted in her body softening, easing to allow him to sink deeper inside her.
With a fervent prayer of thanks that she had relented, he surged forward. When he encountered the small barrier of her hymen, he breached it quickly. He had always thought delaying the process could only make it more painful. Her startled cry and the tension that gripped her told him that he had hurt her. He forced himself to still, to allow her time to acclimate to the intimacy of their joined bodies. She moved beneath him, and he clenched his teeth. “Please, for the love of God, be still… just for a moment, be still.”
Abbi hadn’t anticipated that it would hurt quite so much. She’d been told that it would be painful the first time, had heard as much from Lavinia, but then Lavinia lied about so many things. Apparently in that one instance, she had been uncharacteristically truthful. She did try to remain still, but the sensations were so foreign. Gradually, the discomfort began to fade, leaving in its wake the sensation of fullness, of feeling her body stretched to accommodate him, filled with the part of him that was such a mystery to her.
Michael felt her relax beneath him, the tension fading from her body. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks, as his control had stretched to beyond the breaking point. He kissed her then, touching his lips to hers with a gentleness that belied the raging desire he felt. He stroked his lips over hers, coaxing.
He flexed his hips, moving within her as gently as he could, though the effort cost him dearly. He wanted nothing more than to sink fully into her heat, to lose himself in the softness of her. The soft sigh that escaped her was the sweetest of rewards for his restraint. She brought her knees up, cradling him in the haven of her thighs. He gloried in her response--
the soft flush of her skin, her lips parted on a low moan. He trailed his lips along her neck, over the swell of her breast, before closing his lips over the furled peak.
Every stroke of his tongue over her flesh, every pull of his mouth, elicited some response from her. Soft sighs. Hoarse cries. The arching of her back or the thrust of her hips. He cataloged every response, committing to memory everything that incited her passion.
Michael reveled in her powerful response, in every tremble and breathless cry. Instinctively, she had locked her legs around his hips. Her hands curved over his shoulders, and when her nails dug into his skin, he felt triumphant. He wanted to see her pleasure, to see her face as she cried out with her release. He moved his hips, driving into her more forcefully, going deeper into the welcoming heat of her body. She was like liquid fire around him, hot and tight, engulfing him.
With his hand still between them, he moved his fingers quickly, driving her to the edge until she was gasping and shivering beneath him. Her heels pressed into his back as she raised her hips, taking him even deeper. An oath escaped him, as sweat beaded on his skin. His own release threatened. He simply couldn’t wait. The familiar ache settled in, the heat and tension finally bursting through him, as he poured himself into her.
Abbi felt the heat, the rush of his seed inside her. He thrust a few more before he stilled, and she felt a vague sense of disappointment. That elusive something remained just out of reach, unknown to her. It wasn’t entirely disappointing. For the most part, it had felt incredible. There had been a few brief moment of discomfort, but it had paled in comparison to everything else. Still, she felt there was more.
Michael withdrew from her; his body spent and lax. He had never left a partner unsatisfied, that the one woman whom he had not brought to shattering release was his own wife was not a fact to be borne. On legs that shook, he rose from the bed, withdrawing from the blissful warmth of her body and moved to the washbasin. He returned with a damp cloth and gently began to clean the blood from her thighs. There wasn’t much, for which he was thankful.
The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) Page 8