Him.
He was smiling, so she just went by instinct, turned to the bed and climbed onto it. His hand brushed over her bottom and she thought she heard a little groan, like a curse. She lay down slowly and then turned over.
He was there, on the edge of the bed, his eyes dark. “What would you like now, madame?”
“Kisses,” she said, stretching again. She’d discovered that if her hands were over her head her breasts looked bigger.
He crawled toward her and she couldn’t take her eyes from his. She was shivering all over. He swung a leg over hers and she was trembling so hard she was afraid he would see so she put on her French smile and said, “Monsieur?” Which happened to be the only word she could think of.
“Poppy,” he said, and then his mouth came to hers. It was like a gift. They’d kissed hundreds of times before, years’ worth of brisk kisses and longer kisses, but never like this. Never when her desire met his, when his mouth tasted like the sweetest nectar. Never when she—not he!—pulled him against her body.
“Do you want the candles snuffed?” he whispered into her neck.
Poppy wasn’t listening. She’d discovered that even running her fingers over the muscles in his back made currents of desire sing in her blood.
“The candles?”
“Hush,” she whispered. And then: “Kiss me again.”
Finally, some time later, with a gasp: “Harder!”
There were so many discoveries. That laughter was part of it all, the way Fletch laughed when he was kissing the sweet slope of her breast and she thought he might make better use of his time.
“You told me that I should tell you what I want,” she said, catching her breath. And then with a little moan, “Oh—”
Fear was part of it, too. Because Fletch was laughing and panting and afraid, all at once. Afraid it was some sort of a dream that had caught him waking, because the reality of it was so much better than all those dreams he’d had. She twisted under his hands and sobbed a little, and even screamed, but she was so Poppy at the same time. She told him one thing, and then forgot and started her own explorations. And when he tried to push her back into place so that he could minister to her, and drive her mad with desire as he planned, she got fierce and before he knew it, he found himself flat on his back with his little wife doing her best to drive every logical thought out of his body.
“I meant—I want to—” he gasped, his body arched at the feeling of her soft lips kissing him everywhere, even biting him, tasting him, exploring him.
“Quiet,” she said, and he humored her (all right, he lost his mind for a while), until finally he flipped her over and didn’t entertain any more objections. Just feasted himself on her sweet apples of breasts, memorizing the way she squealed when he used his teeth, just a little bit, the way she tasted when he kissed his way down her body.
Until neither one of them could stand it any more, when she was sobbing for his possession, and fire was raging in his legs—and yet he was afraid, afraid it wouldn’t be right, she wouldn’t like it—
Afraid—
She pulled him down onto her curvy velvet little body and said in her fiercest tone, “Fletch, if you don’t make love to me right now—” But then she arched against him and seemed to lose track of her threat.
And just like that, he forgot his idiotic worries. By some miracle, some Christmas miracle, he had their wedding night back. It was their first time.
He rubbed against her, teasing her, kissing her.
She started scolding him again, his sweet little shrewish wife, and so he finally took her face in his and kissed her while he sank into her…the first time, the best time, the only time.