The Widow Wager

by Jess Michaels

  She didn’t respond, but pressed her hand flat against his chest. “So beautiful,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She moved closer, dragging her fingers against him. “I want more.”

  He nodded, barely able to maintain his composure with her looking at him like he was a cake she wanted to devour.

  “You’ll get it, but once we remove these trousers, I shall be naked and I will have a very hard time not plunging inside of you right away, so why don’t we focus on you for a moment?”

  She let her gaze hold his again. “Should I remove my chemise?”

  He held back a strangled moan and managed to squeak out, “Yes, I think that would be best.”

  Slowly, she grasped the edge of the last scrap of her clothing and tugged it up, up, over her thighs, over her hips, over her breasts and finally up and over her head to toss away. She stood before him, naked, blushing slightly but not making a move to cover herself.

  Of that fact, he was eternally grateful because all he wanted to do was stare at her. She was perfection, utterly beautiful in every way. Her breasts were full with dusky, hard nipples. They swelled over a trim waist and slightly flared hips. It was the kind of body men had been sketching and waxing poetic about for all time. The kind of body men dreamed of when they pleasured themselves. The kind of body men had killed for.

  His hands shook as he reached for her. He caught her hips and moved her closer, close enough that he could explore without effort. Then he began to touch her, sliding his hands over her hips, cupping her backside until she hissed out a surprised gasp of pleasure. He kneaded the soft flesh there, exploring her reaction of bliss and filing it away for later use.

  He slid his hands upward now, across the smooth line of her spine, around her ribcage, and finally he cupped each breast. Her head tilted back in surrender. When she did so, her back arched and the unintended offering she made was just too much. He leaned down and sucked one tight nipple between his lips. She moaned as he swirled his tongue around her, over and over.

  She quaked in his arms, her soft moans growing louder with every suckle, every hot sweep.

  “Oh God, Crispin,” she finally managed on a strangled gasp. “I can’t—I want—”

  He pulled back reluctantly to look up at her. She still had that desperation on her face and perhaps he was beginning to realize why. She was a sensual creature, one who liked sex even if the world told her that was wrong. And she had been without for a very long time.

  He gently steadied her, then released her. “Lay down,” he said softly.

  She blinked as if coming back to reality, then nodded, taking her spot lying across the settee a second time. She stared up at him, watching every movement as he found the waist of his trousers and freed what seemed like far too many buttons. Finally, he pushed them away and stood before her, erection curling against his belly.

  She sat up on her elbows, and he was nearly undone when she licked her pink lips.

  “That is…impressive,” she murmured.

  He couldn’t help it—he tilted his head back and laughed at her compliment and the shaky way she delivered it. How long had it been since he laughed like that with a woman…hell, with anyone? It seemed like forever. But his humor didn’t stop him from bracing an arm on either side of her head and lowering himself against her.

  “It’s what a man does with what he has, my dear,” he said softly, his mouth a fraction of an inch from hers. “But I thank you for the compliment.”

  “You’re welcome,” she choked out, her voice trembling.

  He smiled. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded, but he still snaked his hand between them and found the soft outer folds of her pussy. He opened her delicately, never tearing his eyes away from hers, and stroked his index finger across her entrance. She was not lying when she said she was ready. She was wet and hot and as he touched her, she arched for more with another of those beautifully needy moans that seemed to directly tug his cock.

  “Good,” he panted. “Because I’m more than ready to be inside of you.”

  “Please,” she whimpered, her arms coming around his shoulders. “Please hurry.”

  It was all she needed to say. He pressed the head of his cock to her slit and pushed. There was no resistance as he glided inside, except for the inner muscles of her body, made tight by months of being unused. They relaxed swiftly enough, though, when he flexed his hips against her and she welcomed him inside fully with a sigh of pleasure.

  “My God, you are perfect,” he grunted, trying very hard to control himself so he wouldn’t just fuck her like an animal. It hadn’t been that long since he had a woman, but he felt as if it had been forever when he was inside of her.

  “Then take me,” she pleaded, lifting to force his movement. “Please take me. I need you to.”

  That was all. Those words stole all his control, all his good intentions to take his time. His hips began to move, almost without his permission, and he took her with long, hard strokes. She gasped, arching with every one, meeting him and squeezing him both as he entered and withdrew. She mewled with pleasure, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, her cheeks darkening with a blush and finally she let out a keening cry and her body spasmed around his in one of the most powerful orgasms he had ever seen a woman experience.

  He pounded harder through her crisis, hoping to drag out her pleasure longer, but all the while her body milked his release to the surface. As she thrashed beneath him, he had little choice—with a roar he came deep within her. The pleasure was so intense that his vision went dark and his arms shook as he lowered himself on top of her to allow for a moment of respite.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I think our argument is over,” Gemma said from beneath him, her voice slightly muffled by his shoulder.

  Crispin shifted to look down at her. “Was that an argument? Because if it was, I shall pick fights with you twice a day.”

  He smiled as she blushed, her eyes bright with her recent release. She seemed much more at ease in that moment, and how could she not be? The tension she’d been carrying for a year must have been heavy indeed.

  “Perhaps an argument is not the best word,” she conceded. “The discussion, about whether we would stay married.”

  “It is over,” he admitted, a bit of solemnity returning to the situation as he slid from her body with a soft groan of displeasure. “We have consummated the union, which would negate any argument I would have thought to make about the fraud that brought us here.”

  She watched as he stood and searched around for his trousers on the floor. Propping herself up on one elbow, seemingly unaffected by her state of nudity, she said, “And are you sorry, then? That you took away your out?”

  He looked down at her, beautiful and tousled by lovemaking. Normally he was bored of a woman the moment he found release, but Gemma did not bore him. Not yet. He wanted to explore her a bit more, not just her lush body…but everything else.

  “I’m not sorry.”

  She shifted and for the first time doubt returned to her face. “And you…you didn’t find it difficult to want me?”

  His brow knitted with confusion. “You couldn’t tell by my ardor?” he laughed. She didn’t join him with even a smile, so he perched himself on the edge of the settee and looked down into her face. “Gemma, there is no difficulty whatsoever for me in wanting you. There may be difficulty in stopping so that we can do mundane things like eat and drink and get dressed.”

  Her lips parted slightly in surprise, but then she turned her face with a bashful smile. “Good, I’m glad that at least for now this is not a…a chore for you.”

  He frowned, for he wasn’t certain that it wouldn’t someday become a chore. There had only been one woman in his life he had pictured spending more than a few nights with. That had not worked out. The others…well, they were in and out of his mind and his bed swiftly.

  But then, Gemma didn’t want him beyond sex a

ny more than he did. They could work this out.

  “I think we need to discuss the parameters of this marriage,” he said.

  She sat up, the relaxation that had been on her face now fading and returning to anxiety. He hated to do that to her, but there was little other choice now.

  “Very well,” she said, grabbing for her chemise. She didn’t put it on, but laid it over herself like a blanket. He was almost happy for it—her naked body was a fair distraction when discussing something so serious.

  “What do you expect from a husband, Gemma?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before.”

  “Well, you’ve never had a choice in seemingly anything before,” he replied with a shrug.

  “Including this, to be fair to both of us,” she said with a faint laugh.

  “Yes, but with us the difference is that we were both forced into this circumstance, but now we can decide our fate together.” He smiled to reassure her. “So be honest. What would you like from a husband?”

  She shifted. “When I was a girl, I would have said a man who loved me.”

  Crispin tensed. Great God, she couldn’t ask him for that. He couldn’t give it to her. He wasn’t certain he was even capable of such a thing ever again.

  “But,” she continued, “I think I am more practical now, with time and experience. And in this situation, I think it would be expecting too much from both of us. So instead, I think I would like respect from my husband.”

  “And what does respect mean to you?” he asked, tilting his head.

  “Exactly what you are doing right now, Crispin,” she admitted. “You ask me my opinion and it seems you care about it.”

  “I do,” he said softly.

  She smiled. “I would like a little freedom, since I have been in what amounts to a gilded…and sometimes far less gilded…cage for the past five years.”

  “Freedom to do…” he began, wondering if she meant she wanted to go off and pursue other lovers. His stomach began to knot.

  “Not to look at every penny spent of my pin money, should I receive any,” she said with a frown that told him that was exactly what her so-called husband had done. “The freedom to spend time with my sister or my friends. The freedom to run some elements of the household without being watched and judged.”

  “Great God, you were in a prison,” Crispin muttered.

  She shrugged. “But can you do those things?”

  “You will have pin money, of course,” he said, trying not to think about his depleted resources. He would have to talk to Rafe about that, he supposed, his brother was doing very well now, as was Marcus. “And you may spend it as you please, because it is yours. I want you to spend time with your friends and your family and hopefully my family. I would never count your hours. As for running the household, take it all. I care very little for such things and I know poor Fletcher is often frustrated by my unwillingness to participate in conversations about silver or menus.”

  “And you will introduce me to the household, then?” she asked.

  He jolted. “Damn, I suppose I should have done that today.”

  “Well, we weren’t certain of our future, were we? But now that we are to remain married, it would be a courtesy to them to do so.” She tried to smile, but it wavered. “And hopefully it will reduce a bit of the humiliation I feel when they enter a room and look at me.”

  “Gemma, God, I’m a clod,” he said, reaching for her hands. “I was not raised under particularly normal circumstances, though I think you can see that my mother is the picture of gentility. But I sometimes don’t think beyond myself. You will have to bear with me and perhaps gently point out when I am being an idiot of the highest order.”

  She laughed. “Will it happen often?”

  He grinned. “Likely every damned day. But let me further assure you that my servants have seen and dealt with some…well, we will just say circumstances that have likely scandalized them more than this one.”

  Her mouth twisted. “Worse than a bride you had to marry after you lost a bet?”

  “This would be the first time I did that, of course,” he said. “I think.” He expected her to laugh again, but when she didn’t, he rushed to continue, “But all I’m trying to say is that I think they’ll be relieved to have a lady in the house. A true lady who will put things in order. You will have no trouble or judgment from anyone in my employ. If you do, they will no longer be in my employ.”

  She drew back. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  She slid her hands from his. “Crispin, do you often drink so much that you don’t recall what you’ve done?”

  He was accustomed to seeing her blush by now, but he was taken aback when he felt his own cheeks begin to fill with embarrassed heat. “I—many men drink, Gemma. All the men in my acquaintance.”

  She held his gaze. “That wasn’t the question.”

  He sighed. “I didn’t always do this, if that is what you want to know. But in the last year, yes, I have likely been too deep in my cups and far too often.”

  “Why in the last year?” she pressed.

  He scowled as he turned his face. “I think that is enough confession for this evening.”

  He knew she was watching him as he stood up and walked away. He knew she wanted to question him further, but the subject she had just broached was not one he discussed with anyone ever. No one knew the answer to her question and he wasn’t about to start giving over his soul to her about something that was none of her damned business.

  He moved away and found himself stopping at the sideboard. He had only had that one drink all night and despite what he had just said about imbibing too much, his body ached for the bottle. Any bottle.

  But before he could do anything about it, he felt a gentle touch on his still bare elbow. He turned to find Gemma behind him. Utterly naked Gemma, her delicate hand sliding up his biceps as she held his gaze evenly.

  “We are all entitled to some secrets, Crispin,” she whispered. “Please don’t think I will pursue yours like a bulldog. I have no interest in making your life difficult, especially since you seem to be willing to extend the same courtesy to me.”

  He found himself nodding, though he couldn’t have formed a word to respond in that moment. Not when she eased closer and let her breasts flatten against his chest. Now when she tilted her lips up in clear offering. Offering he couldn’t deny. Offering that made him forget everything and anything else.

  He ducked his head and kissed her, breathing her in, drinking her in like he would have done brandy in the hopes it would empty his head. She did it, oh so much more pleasurably. And as he backed her toward the settee a second time, he pushed away all thoughts of anything but this woman and how much he wanted to be inside her.

  Gemma didn’t think her body had ever been so satisfied, even as her mind raced. She lay in Crispin’s bed…well, their bed, at least for the time being, staring up at the ceiling. They had made love twice in the parlor and once here before he drifted off to sleep. She hadn’t thought that was possible. Certainly Laurelcross had never made the barest attempt at such a thing. If she had asked to be touched more than once in a night, he probably would have looked at her in utter disgust.

  But Crispin…Crispin seemed to like bringing her pleasure. He was aroused by it, that much was clear from how his body reacted.

  And yet despite all that, she could not sleep. All she could think about was their talk in the parlor about the design of their marriage going forward. Crispin had said the right things when it came to her requests in a husband. But he was hiding something. Something dark. Something deep. It was a secret she found herself wanting to know even though she’d told him she didn’t care.

  “You shouldn’t care,” she whispered out loud.

  Beside her Crispin stirred, and she froze. Was he so light a sleeper that her quiet admonishment to herself had woken him? Would he confront her? Could she pretend he had dreamed what he heard?

  He moaned a little and she relaxed. He was moving in his sleep due to a dream. He wasn’t awake. She held still and waited for him to fall back into deeper slumber, but he didn’t. He moved more, his legs and arms reaching for something that wasn’t there as incoherent sounds of distress left his lips.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his tone broken and shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

  She reached out, unable to resist when he was in such obvious distress. She touched his bare arm and found a thin sheen of sweat on his body. “Crispin,” she said gently. “Crispin, wake up.”

  He did just that in a burst, sitting bolt upright with a heartbreaking cry of, “No!” He sat there, panting for a moment, his fists clenching at the bedclothes. Then he turned toward her. “I-I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need,” she reassured him, wanting so desperately to touch his face but resisting. He still looked rocked by whatever horror had entered his sleep. “You were dreaming. It was just a dream.”

  “That’s what they say,” he breathed, flopping back on the bed and covering his face with his forearm.

  She frowned. What did he mean by that? Was his dream about something that had truly happened? Perhaps that dark secret that had been troubling her in the moments before he woke?

  She lay down on her side and finally allowed herself to touch him. She smoothed a hand over his bare chest. He tensed at first, but then he exhaled slowly.

  “Do you want to tell me what it was about?” she asked softly.

  Any tension that had left his body with her touch returned as he stiffened beside her. He was quiet for a long moment, then he grunted, “Don’t remember.”

  He was lying. She was certain of it, but if he didn’t wish to tell her, she had no right to demand more. But it hurt her to see him so upset. Hurt her to know that he needed comfort that she couldn’t provide.

  She glanced down at his body, half-hidden beneath the sheets. Unless she could provide that comfort somehow.

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