Sir Rupert watched the mist swallow the other man before turning his own gelding toward home and his family. His leg was giving him the very hell, and he’d pay for this ride by having to put it up for the rest of the day. Walker or Iddesleigh. It didn’t much matter at this point.
As long as one of them died.
Chapter Twelve
A soft snoring was the first thing Lucy heard when she woke the day after her wedding. Eyes closed, dreams still drifting in her mind, she wondered who was breathing so sonorously. Then she felt the weight of a hand on her breast and came fully awake. But she didn’t open her eyes.
Warm. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this deliciously warm in her life, certainly not in winter. Her legs were tangled with masculine, hairy ones, even her toes, which never seemed to totally thaw between October and March, were toasty. It was like having her own private hearth, with the added bonus that this hearth came with smooth skin, snuggled all along her right side. The warm air rising from the covers had a subtle smell. She recognized her own scent mingled with a foreign one she realized must be his. How very primitive. Their body odor had mated.
Lucy sighed and opened her eyes.
The sun was peeking through a crack in the curtains. Was it as late as that? Hard on the heels of that thought was another. Had Simon locked the door? In town, Lucy had become accustomed to a maid drawing the curtains in the morning and stirring the fire. Would the servants have expected Simon to return to his own room last night? She turned her head to frown at the door.
“Shh.” Simon squeezed her breast in reprimand at her movement. “Sleep,” he mumbled, and his breathing evened out again.
Lucy watched him. Fair stubble glinted on his jaw, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his short hair was smashed to one side. He looked so handsome, she nearly caught her breath. She tilted her head until she could see his hand wrapped around her breast. The nipple poked through between his first and second fingers.
Her face heated. “Simon.”
“Shh.”
“Simon.”
“Back . . . sleep.” He brushed a kiss against her bare shoulder without opening his eyes.
She firmed her mouth. This was a serious matter. “Is the door locked?”
“Umm.”
“Simon, is the door locked?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
Lucy squinted at him. He’d started to snore again.
“I don’t believe you.” She moved to slide from the bed.
Simon twisted and suddenly he was lying on her. He opened his eyes finally. “I should have expected this when I married a country miss.” His voice was gravelly with sleep.
“What?” Lucy blinked up at him. She felt very naked beneath him. His organ pressed into the softness of her lower belly.
“Early hours.” He frowned sternly and shifted so his weight was off her chest. Which only made his hips bear down harder.
Lucy tried to ignore the male anatomy impressing itself onto her stomach. It wasn’t easy. “But the maid—”
“Any maid who comes through that door before we quit this room, I’ll let go without reference.”
“You said it was locked.” She tried to frown but was afraid her lips may have curved in the wrong direction. She should’ve been mortified.
“Did I?” He traced her nipple. “Same thing. No one will interrupt us.”
“I don’t think—”
He covered her mouth with his, and Lucy forgot her thought. His lips were warm and gentle in contrast to his bristles scraping her chin. Somehow the two different touches were erotic.
“So how will you entertain your new bridegroom,” he murmured in her ear, “now that you’ve woken me, hmm?” He pressed his hips into hers.
Lucy shifted restlessly, then stilled with a gasp—a small one, but he heard it nevertheless.
“I’m sorry.” Simon leaped off her. “You must think me a ravenous beast. Does it hurt terribly? Perhaps I should have a maid sent up to tend you. Or—”
Lucy pressed her hand to his lips. She’d never get a word in otherwise. “Shh. I’m all right.”
“But surely your—”
“Really.” Lucy closed her eyes and contemplated pulling the coverlet over her head. Did all married men speak so frankly to their wives? “I’m just a little sore is all.”
He looked at her helplessly.
“It was quite nice.” She cleared her throat. How to get him back to her? “When you were lying next to me.”
“Come here, then.”
She inched closer, but when she would have faced him, he gently turned her so that her back was to his chest.
“Put your head here.” He stretched out his arm to make a pillow for her.
She was even warmer than before, cradled and held all around by his body in a comfortable, safe embrace. He brought his legs up behind hers and groaned softly. His erection was against the small of her back, insistent and hot.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
“No.” He chuckled rustily. “But I’ll survive.”
“Simon—”
He clasped her breast. “I know I hurt you last night.” His thumb flicked her nipple. “But it won’t be like that again.”
“It’s all right—”
“I want to show you.”
Lucy tensed. What, exactly, did showing her entail?
“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered in her ear. “It’ll feel nice. Relax. Let me show you heaven; you’re an angel, after all.” His hand smoothed down her torso, tickling across her belly, and reached the hair below.
“Simon, I don’t think—”
“Shh.” He walked his fingers through her maiden hair. She trembled and didn’t know where to look. Thank goodness he wasn’t facing her. Finally, she closed her eyes.
“Open for me, sweetheart,” he rumbled in her ear. “You’re so soft here. I want to pet you.”
Surely he wouldn’t . . .
He wedged his knee between her thighs, parting them. His hand traced the flanges of her sex. She caught her breath, waiting.
“I’d kiss you here.” He stroked up. “Lick and tongue you, memorize your spice, but I think it’s too soon for that.”
Her brain froze as she tried to imagine. Her hips shied.
“Shh. Be still. It won’t hurt. In fact”—he reached the top of her cleft-—“I’ll make you feel very, very good.” He circled that bit of flesh there. “Look at me.”
She couldn’t. She shouldn’t even be allowing him to do this. Surely this wasn’t what was normally done between man and wife.
“Angel, look at me,” he crooned. “I want to see your beautiful eyes.”
Reluctantly she turned her head. Raised her eyelids. He stared at her, silver eyes glittering as he pressed with a finger. Her lips parted.
“God,” he groaned. Then he was kissing her, his tongue stroking over hers as his fingers slid more rapidly. She wanted to move her hips, to beg that finger. Instead she arched back, rubbing against him. He mumbled something and bit her bottom lip. She felt her wetness now, seeping, making his fingers slippery.
He pushed his penis hard against her bottom.
She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t think. She shouldn’t let this happen. Not in front of him. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and relentlessly circled her below. He was a silver-eyed sorcerer who held her enthralled. She was losing control. She sucked on the thickness of his tongue and suddenly it happened. She arched and felt pleasure shake her. He moved more slowly then, raised his head to watch her, but she no longer cared. Warmth was diffusing through her, spreading from the center of her body. It did indeed feel good.
“Simon.”
“Angel?”
“Thank you.” Her tongue felt thick, as if she were drugged, and her words were a mumble. She closed her eyes and drifted for a bit, but then she thought of something. He was still hard against her back. She wiggled her bottom, and he sucked in a breath. Did it hurt him?
Well, of course it must. “Can I . . . ?” She felt her face heat. How to phrase the question? “Can I . . . help you?”
“It’s fine. Go to sleep.” But his voice was tight, and his male organ was almost burning a hole in her back. Surely that wasn’t good for his health.
She turned until she could see his face. She knew her own was flushed with shyness. “I’m your wife. I’d like to help you.”
A tinge of red chased across his cheekbones. Funny, he wasn’t so sophisticated when it came to his own needs.
The sight strengthened her resolve. “Please.”
He looked into her eyes, seemed to search them, and sighed. “I’m going to burn in hell for this.”
She arched her eyebrows and touched him gently on the shoulder.
His hand caught hers, and for a moment she thought he would push her away, but he guided her palm under the covers and drew it close to his body. Suddenly she held him. Her eyes widened. He was thicker than she’d imagined. There was no give to his flesh, and strangely his skin was soft. And hot. She wanted very much to look at him but wasn’t sure he could take that right now. Instead, very gently, she squeezed.
“Ah, God.” His eyelids drooped and there was a dazed look on his face.
It made her feel powerful. “What should I do?”
“Here.” His fingers delved into her feminine parts and she jumped. Then he was smearing her moisture over himself. “Just . . .” He wrapped his hand over hers and together they slid up the length of him. And back down again.
And again. This was absolutely fascinating. “May I?”
“Uh. Yes.” He blinked and released her hand.
She smiled, secretly pleased that he’d been reduced to monosyllables. She kept up the pace that he’d showed her and watched his dear face. He closed his eyes. A line had burrowed itself between his eyebrows. His upper lip was curled back from his teeth, and his face shone with sweat. Watching him, she felt warmth returning to her sex. But more than that, there was a feeling of control and, underneath, the realization of intimacy that he was letting her do this. That he’d made himself vulnerable to her.
“Faster,” he grunted.
She complied, her fingers slipping over his length, gripping his skin, hot and slick beneath her palm. His hips rose to meet her hand now.
“Ahh!” Suddenly his eyes opened, and she saw his irises had darkened to a steel gray. He looked grim and driven and almost as if he were in pain. Then he sneered and his big body began jerking. Cream spurted into her palm. He convulsed again, his teeth gritted, his eyes still staring into hers. She held his gaze, pressing her thighs together.
He slumped back into the bed as if terribly weakened, but she knew already from just last night that this was usual. Lucy withdrew her hand from underneath the covers. On it was a whitish substance. She examined it curiously, spreading her fingers. Simon’s seed.
He sighed beside her. “Oh, God. That was unbelievably crass of me.”
“No, it wasn’t.” She bent to kiss the corner of his mouth. “If you can do it to me, surely, then, I can do it to you.”
“Wise, my wife.” He turned his head to take control of the kiss, his mouth hard and possessive. “I am the luckiest of men.”
Moving more slowly than usual, he grasped her wrist and wiped her palm with a corner of the bedding. Then he turned her so her back was once again to his chest.
“Now”—he yawned—“now we sleep.”
He wrapped his arms around her and Lucy did just that.
“WOULD YOU LIKE TO DRIVE ABOUT TOWN this afternoon?” Simon frowned at his beefsteak and sawed off a bite. “Or perambulate up and down the paths of Hyde Park? Seems boring, but ladies and gentlemen go there every day, so they must find it enjoyable. Once in a while there’s a carriage wreck, which is always exciting.”
