by Emily Larkin
Cecy’s pulse gave an odd, eager little leap, as if impatient for whatever came next. She rather thought she might enjoy riding St. George.
She glanced at Gareth’s face. He looked as if he felt as alive as she did; his skin was flushed, his eyes bright in the candlelight. “Is it time to pull up your nightshirt?”
“Yes.”
Cecy unwound her arms from around his neck and sat upright. One of the pillows tumbled sideways. They both reached for it, Cecy with two hands, Gareth with his amputated arm.
Cecy captured the pillow. “They’re determined to get away from us tonight.” She said it lightly, cheerfully, but that futile left-handed grab of his had been painful to see—and even more painful had been what had come afterwards: the fleeting expression on his face, vivid for a split second and then gone, shock and loss and grief combined together, as if he’d forgotten he had only one arm and then been suddenly reminded of it.
Gareth smiled at her comment, but it was perfunctory, not reaching his eyes, and the emotion that leaked off him was . . .
Shame?
Is he ashamed of having only one arm?
It was such a horrible thought that for a moment Cecy lost the power of speech. She looked at Gareth, that tight smile, that amputated arm, and she literally couldn’t speak.
She swallowed, and offered him the pillow, and found her tongue: “Would you like it back? Or shall we consign it to the floor?”
Gareth took it with his right hand and tucked it behind his shoulders, and another pillow tumbled down, jostling his truncated left arm.
This time he didn’t try to catch the pillow; he flinched with his whole body.
Cecy caught the pillow instinctively, and clutched it to her chest, aware that something was very wrong. Gareth was tense, every muscle in his body tightly clenched, and he appeared to have stopped breathing.
“Gareth? Are you all right?”
He exhaled a shallow breath, and stretched his lips in another smile. “Yes, of course,” he said, but Cecy knew he was lying. The lines at his mouth and eyes weren’t laughter right now; they were pain.
Cecy tossed the pillow on the floor and reached for his right hand. It was tense. “That hurt your arm, didn’t it?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It was just a pillow.”
She held his hand, held his gaze. “Gareth . . .” she said softly.
He sighed, and some of the tension in his hand eased. “It hurt a little.”
Cecy squeezed his fingers gently. “Does your arm often hurt?”
Gareth sighed again and looked away from her, towards the fire. “Sometimes it does.”
“What makes it hurt? Tell me, Gareth. Please.”
He sighed a third time, and met her eyes. There was a long moment of silence, and then he said, “It hurts if I knock it, or if I put pressure on it—I can’t lie on it at night—and sometimes . . . sometimes it just hurts for no reason at all.”
Cecy bit her lip, and nodded. “It’s hurting now?”
Gareth looked away from her again. “A little.”
Cecy substituted the words “a lot” for “a little.” She sighed, too, and released his hand and put her arms around his neck again, stroking his nape soothingly, stroking his hair, and leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “My poor Gareth.”
He stiffened.
Cecy drew back, so that she could see his face. “Gareth? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
It was another lie. A lot of things told her that. His smile, for one—too tight, too thin. His tension for another—the rigidity of his shoulders, the rigidity of his jaw. The way he looked at her without quite meeting her eyes.
His thighs were tense beneath her. She stole a glance down.
Gareth’s organ was no longer tenting his nightshirt.
“Shall we kiss again?” Cecy said, aware that things had gone wrong between them and uncertain how to fix it.
Gareth hesitated, and she thought he was going to say no, but instead he said, “If you wish.”
Cecy leaned closer and kissed him, but their mouths didn’t fit together this time. The kiss was wooden and awkward, and instead of feeling alive and eager, she felt anxious. She tried harder, desperately trying to recapture what they’d had only a few minutes ago, the heat, the pleasure, the deep sense of connection . . . but it didn’t work.
After a moment, Gareth drew back. His hand on her hip didn’t pull her towards him; it pushed her away from him. “I’m sorry, Cecy, this isn’t going to work.”
She glanced down at his lap. His nightshirt still wasn’t tenting.
Gareth caught her glance. He’d been tense before; now he became tenser. Color rose in his face, and there was more than embarrassment in that flush; there was shame.
“It’s all right,” Cecy told him. “I don’t mind. Honestly.”
Gareth’s mouth tightened and his gaze turned away from hers and he patently didn’t believe her. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and he sounded bitter and defeated. “I wanted it to be good for you.”
“It was good,” Cecy assured him hastily. “I like kissing you.”
“Not the kissing. The rest.”
“The rest?”
“You know.” He gestured to his groin. “I wanted you to enjoy it.” The note of bitterness was stronger in his voice and the shame even more evident on his face: that tight mouth, that averted gaze.
“But women don’t enjoy physical congress.”
His gaze jerked to her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Women don’t enjoy physical congress,” Cecy repeated, surprised that he didn’t know this truth. “Only men do.”
Chapter Five
Gareth stared at his wife in disbelief. Not the dreadful, nauseating disbelief of waking up in a sickbed and discovering that he no longer had two arms, but something milder, like an unexpected slap across the face. Mild or not, it left him speechless for several seconds. He found his tongue, and said, “Women don’t enjoy physical congress? Who told you that?”
“No one,” Cecily said. “I learned it for myself.”
“But . . .” Gareth said, and then he closed his mouth and thought back to what she’d said earlier: that she and her first husband had only had sex five times. “How old were you and—” What was his name? “—Frederick when you married?”
“I was sixteen, Frederick was nineteen.”
“That’s . . . young.” Younger than he’d realized. Dear God, the pair of them had been little more than children.
“My great-aunt knew she was dying,” Cecily said, matter-of-factly. “She was worried what would happen to me when she was gone, and Frederick was worried, too. He had very little money—he was only an apprentice—but we agreed that marriage was better than the alternatives, so my great-aunt gave permission and we were married.”
Gareth nodded, and thought about those alternatives—going into service, going into the poorhouse—and was glad that Cecily had had people to worry about her. He felt a twinge of regret for the unknown Frederick, doing his best to protect her, and failing only because he’d died.
He wondered how to phrase his next question. There really was no way of asking tactfully, so he went with bluntness: “Cecy . . . do you know whether Frederick had ever lain with a woman before?”
She shook her head. “He hadn’t. He told me. He was a little nervous about it.”
Nervous? Yes, Gareth could well imagine that Frederick had been nervous. He felt sympathy for the man. Boy, he corrected himself. Frederick had been little more than a boy. Nineteen, and a virgin.
He imagined the pair of them on their wedding night, awkward and inexperienced, fumbling their way through an act that neither of them knew anything about. It could have been magical, marvelous, but clearly it hadn’t been, because Cecily thought that women didn’t enjoy sex.
Gareth grimaced inwardly, but perhaps he didn’t hide it as well as he’d thought, because Cecily tilted her head slightly and a t
iny crease formed on her brow. “What?”
Gareth wrinkled his own brow while he considered how to answer that simple question. He decided to go with bluntness again. “Physical congress is often pleasurable for women. In fact, where there’s mutual attraction and a certain level of proficiency, I’d go so far as to say it should always be pleasurable.” Although he’d completely failed to prove that tonight, hadn’t he? “Almost always,” he amended, and then he paused and said, very gently, “If your marriage had lasted longer, if you and Frederick had become more skilled at congress, you probably would have discovered that for yourself.”
Cecily bit her lip. She looked as if she didn’t quite believe him. And if she’d never experienced fulfilling sex, why should she believe him?
In that moment, Gareth realized that it was possible to salvage something from this disaster of a wedding night—and there was no denying that it was a disaster, far worse than anything he’d imagined—but even if he wasn’t able to perform tonight, he could at least give Cecily something she’d never had before.
Determination took hold of him. Not just I can do this, but a fierce I will do this. He was not leaving this bedroom until Cecily had experienced sexual pleasure.
Although, given that he had only one arm, it might take a little creativity.
Gareth sat for a moment amid the litter of pillows and thought, and then he took a deep breath. “Cecy, I’d like to show you something.”
She glanced at his groin, where his cock lay quiescent beneath the nightshirt.
Gareth flushed. “No, not that. I mean show as in, uh, demonstrate.” He forced himself to put his humiliation to one side. Tonight is about Cecily, not me. And that was liberating in its way. To not worry about whether he could fire his shot and give her pleasure at the same time, to take himself out of the equation entirely and focus only on Cecily.
He rearranged the pillows behind him with awkward one-handedness and leaned back against them. “Turn around,” he said. “So that you’re facing away from me.”
This request made Cecily frown slightly. “Away?”
“It will be easier for me to touch you the way I want to.”
She eyed him for a moment, her expression faintly dubious, and then did as he’d asked, turning around on his lap, facing away from him, her legs on either side of his.
Gareth gently slid his right arm around her waist. “Lean back against me.”
Cecily obeyed. She was warm and slender and so much smaller than him. Gareth’s heart seemed to swell with love for her. Tenderly, he gathered her even closer, his arm around her waist. Her golden hair tickled his jaw. “Relax,” he whispered, stroking her hip through the nightgown, following the soft curve with his hand. “I’m going to do something that I think you’ll enjoy.”
Cecily’s nightgown had hiked up to her knees. Gareth slid his hand beneath the hem and touched her knee, stroking, tracing a little circle with his fingertips, light and tickling.
Cecily shivered.
Gareth traced another circle. Her skin was smooth, warm, silky. “Is that all right?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she whispered back.
Gareth spent long minutes becoming better acquainted with his wife’s legs, her knees first, then her inner thighs, stroking, stroking, making her tremble and squirm in his lap, making her breath catch. He pushed her nightgown upwards inch by slow inch, his hand sliding higher, higher . . . until a soft thatch of hair tickled his questing fingertips.
Cecily tensed slightly.
“Relax,” he breathed in her ear, and after a moment she did. Gareth took that to mean that she trusted him, and his heart swelled even further. He pressed a kiss to her temple.
He teased the uppermost reaches of her thighs for several minutes with his fingertips, while Cecily’s breath became shallower and more ragged. Tension gathered in her. Anticipation, he thought, not nervousness—and when he finally let his fingers wend their way through that soft nest of hair he was proven correct: she caught her breath in a gasp that was almost a moan.
Gareth smiled to himself, and pressed another kiss to her temple, and gently cupped her quim in his hand, barely touching her. She was warm and soft and plump. “Still all right?” he whispered.
Cecily seemed to struggle to find her voice. “Yes,” she said, after several seconds, and the word held a little, breathless quaver.
Gareth smiled again . . . and set himself to the task of introducing his wife to sexual pleasure, cupping her quim, moving his hand in leisurely circles, kneading gently and rhythmically. No rush. Taking it slowly.
Cecily grew warmer . . . and warmer . . . and warmer. She squirmed slightly on his lap. Her breathing was ragged. A tiny whimper escaped her. Her legs fell more widely open.
Gareth parted her plump outer lips with his fingers and delved gently inside, tracing her folds. Cecily gasped, and then whimpered again.
His own breathing became a little ragged. “Do you like that?” he whispered.
“Mmm.”
Gareth explored slowly. She was hot and deliciously damp. He learned the shape of her inner lips—and then dared to dip one finger inside her.
Cecily stopped breathing for a moment.
“Do you like that?” he asked again.
“Mmm.”
He slid his finger deeper, flexed it slightly—and her whole body trembled.
Gareth withdrew . . . and then did it again: sliding his finger inside, flexing it, hearing her breath catch, feeling her shudder. He wished, quite desperately, that he had two hands. No, three hands. One to delve inside her, one to play with her quim, and one to caress her breasts.
And then he realized that he did have three hands.
Gareth withdrew his finger. “Cecy,” he said. “Put your hand on mine.”
Their bodies were nestled so closely together that he felt her incomprehension—and then her understanding . . . and her embarrassment.
“Put your right hand on mine,” he whispered again.
After a moment, Cecily did.
He cupped her warm, plump mound and squeezed gently and rhythmically. “Do what I’m doing.”
Cecily hesitated, and then obeyed him, her hand on top of his, moving in time with him.
“Good,” Gareth said, after a minute had passed. “Keep doing that.” He slid his hand out from under hers, and now it was she who was pleasuring herself, and he whose hand rested on top.
After another minute, he lifted his hand from hers, and burrowed gently beneath her nightgown, climbing up over her hip, her belly, until he found one of her breasts—smooth, round, taut, perfect.
Gareth stifled a groan. Cecily’s hand faltered on herself. “No, don’t stop,” he said, and when she’d picked up the rhythm again, he skimmed his hand over her breast, teasing and caressing, pinching the nipple lightly, feeling her tremble. Heat began to gather in his loins. “Your left hand,” he said. “Do what I’m doing.”
This time Cecily didn’t hesitate. She fumbled beneath her nightgown and touched her other breast.
Together, they played with her breasts until she was breathless and squirming and very, very warm.
Gareth was getting rather warm himself, in his chest, in his belly, and especially in his groin.
“Perfect,” he said. “Exactly like that.”
He removed his hand and slid it back down her body, between her legs. Cecily faltered.
“No, don’t stop, I’m just going to . . .” He parted those hot, plump, juicy lips and dipped a finger inside her.
Cecily gasped, and froze.
“Keep going,” he told her. “Don’t stop.”
Cecily groaned, deep in her throat. Her back was slightly arched, her head pressed against his right shoulder.
“Keep going,” Gareth repeated.
Cecily huffed out a breath—and did as he’d asked. Her right hand moved on her quim, her left hand moved on her breast . . . and Gareth allowed his finger to slide deeper inside her. God, she was hot. Hot, slick,
tight, and utterly perfect.
It didn’t take long, after that. He felt the tension build in her, the eagerness, and he slid a second finger inside her. Cecily shifted breathlessly in his lap—and then every muscle in her body tensed, including the ones around his fingers, and he felt great pulses of pleasure surge through her body.
It was a good orgasm. Granted, he wasn’t experiencing it, but it seemed to go on for a long time. Afterwards, Cecily gave a shaky sigh and relaxed bonelessly against him.
Gareth withdrew his fingers and rested his hand over hers, between her legs, cupping the residual pleasure to her. He laid his cheek on her temple. “Did you like that?”
Cecily sighed again, a little less shakily. “Yes.”
They sat like that for several minutes, and then Gareth removed his hand and smoothed her nightgown down to cover her, and snugged his arm firmly around her waist. He held her tightly to him, enjoying the closeness, the warmth, the intimacy, and most of all, enjoying the knowledge that he’d just given his wife her first experience of sexual pleasure. He couldn’t exactly name the emotion he felt right now. Not smugness. Not pride. Satisfaction? Yes, satisfaction was part of it, but equally there was relief, and as well as that, a tiny seed of confidence. Confidence that he could do it again. That they could do it again. Confidence that their marriage was going to work.
Cecily stirred on his lap, sighed, laced her fingers with his, turned her head so that her lips touched his jaw. “That was . . .”
He waited for her to choose a word.
“Unexpected.”
Gareth laughed. “Unexpected?”
“Yes. I didn’t know that my, um, could feel like that.”
“Your um?”
He couldn’t see her blush, but he knew that she did. “I don’t know what to call it,” she whispered.
Gareth held her closer and pressed a kiss into her hair. “It has quite a few names. I prefer quim, myself.”
“Quim?” Cecily sounded dubious.
“Or you could call it your monosyllable,” Gareth said. “Or . . .” The problem was that most of the words for a woman’s private parts were crude or unflattering. He wracked his memory. “Muff. Tuzzy-muzzy. Miraculous pitcher.”