The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

His wife, whom he had not even properly bedded, was . . . She was kissing his . . . Good Lord, she had her mouth on his cock, and what she lacked in skill she was making up for in enthusiasm, and—

What the hell was he saying? She wasn’t lacking in skill. Did skill even matter? This was every man’s erotic dream. And this wasn’t some courtesan, this was his wife. His wife.

He should stop her. But he couldn’t, dear God he couldn’t. He’d been aching for her for so long, and now, as she knelt between his legs, kissing him in the most intimate way imaginable, he found himself enslaved by his desire. With every hesitant flick of her tongue, his hips arched off the bed, and he was brought treacherously closer to release.

“Do you like it?” Iris whispered.

She sounded almost shy. Good God, she sounded almost shy, and yet she was taking him in her mouth.

Did he like it? The innocence of the question nearly unmanned him. She had no idea what she was doing to him, didn’t know that he’d never even dared to dream she might give of herself in such a way.

“Richard?” she whispered.

He was a beast. A cur. A wife wasn’t meant to do such things, at least not before she’d been given time to be gently initiated into the ways of the marriage bed.

But Iris had surprised him. She was always surprising him. And when she cautiously took him into her mouth he was lost to all sanity.

Nothing had ever felt so good.

Never had he felt so loved.

He froze. Loved?

No, that was impossible. She didn’t love him. She couldn’t. He did not deserve it.

But then an awful little voice from deep inside—a voice he could only conclude was his wayward conscience—reminded him that this had been his plan. He would use their brief honeymoon at Maycliffe to seduce her, in heart if not in body. He had been trying to get her to fall in love.

He should not have done that. He should not have even contemplated it.

And yet, if she did . . . if she did love him . . .

It would be wonderful.

He closed his eyes, allowing pure sensation to wash over him. His wife’s innocent lips were bringing him unimaginable pleasure. It shot through him with electric intensity, and at the same time bathed him in a warm, contented glow. He felt . . .

Happy.

Now there was something he wasn’t used to experiencing in the throes of passion. Excitement, yes. Desire, of course. But happiness?

And then it hit him. It wasn’t that Iris was falling in love with him. He was falling in love with Iris.

“Stop!” he cried, the word wrenching itself from his throat. He could not let her do this.

She backed away, looking up at him with bewilderment. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he said quickly, moving away from her before he changed his mind and gave in to the harsh need raging through his body. She had not hurt him. Far from it. But he was going to hurt her. It was inevitable. Every single thing he’d done since that moment he’d first seen her at her family’s musicale . . .

It had all been leading to one moment.

How could he let her give of herself so intimately when he knew what was about to happen?

She would hate him. And then she would hate herself for having done this, for having all but serviced him.

“Was I doing it wrong?” she asked, her pale blue eyes steady on his.

Good God, she was direct. He’d thought that was what he loved so much about her, but right now it was killing him.

“No,” he said. “You weren’t . . . that is to say . . .” He could not tell her that she’d been so utterly perfect, he thought he might lose his mind. She’d made him feel things he’d never imagined possible. The touch of her lips, her tongue . . . the soft whisper of her breath . . . It had been transcendent. He had been clenching the sheets beneath him just to keep himself from flipping her over and burying himself inside her warmth.

He forced himself to sit up. It was easier to think that way, or maybe it just put a little more space between them. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out what to say. She was staring at him like a lost little bird, waiting with an almost preternatural stillness.

He pulled the sheet up, covering his arousal. There was no reason he could not tell her the truth now, no reason except his own cowardice. But he did not want to. Was it so very weak of him to want just a few more days of her good opinion?

“I don’t expect you to do such a thing,” he finally said. It was the worst sort of evasion, but he didn’t know what else to say.

She regarded him with a blank stare, followed by a soft furrowing of her brow. “I don’t understand.”

Of course she didn’t. He sighed. “Most wives don’t do”—he waved a pathetic hand in the air—“that.”

He face instantly flushed. “Oh,” she said, her voice achingly hollow. “You must think—I didn’t know—I’m so—”

“Stop, please,” he begged, grasping her hand. He did not think he could bear it if she actually apologized. “You did nothing wrong. I promise. Quite the opposite,” he said before he thought to censor himself.

She scrambled off the bed, but not before he saw the confusion on her face.

“It’s just . . . it’s quite a lot . . . so early in our marriage . . .” He let his words trail off. It was the only thing to do. He had no idea how to complete the sentence. Good God, he was an ass.

“This is all too much,” he said, hoping she did not hear the slight pause before he added, “for you.”

He jerked himself to his feet, cursing as he hastily refastened his breeches. What kind of man was he? He’d taken the worst sort of advantage. For the love of God, he still had his bloody boots on.