“Come to bed,” he said.
“Yes.”
She lay down and he came to the side of the bed and leaned over her. “Do you want darkness or candlelight?” he asked.
Oh. Would it not be a bit embarrassing... But she could not bear not to see him. “Candlelight,” she said.
He drew back the covers she had pulled up to her waist and she realized his intent when he took hold of the hem of her nightgown. A moment later the garment was on the floor at his feet and she wished she had opted for darkness. But only briefly. His eyes moved over her, and it seemed to Abigail that he liked what he saw. And as he looked, he undid the knot in his belt and shrugged out of his dressing gown. He was not wearing a nightshirt beneath it.
Oh my!
He came around the bed and lay down beside her. He did not draw the covers over them. And she began to find out what it felt like, this nameless experience for which she had yearned in secret through all the years since she had grown past childhood and into womanhood.
His hands, slightly rough, even calloused, and dark against the paleness of her body, moved over her in what might have seemed a leisurely exploration except they left in their wake a longing that became as physical as it was emotional and a raw need for something more. He leaned over her and kissed her as his hand moved between her thighs and his fingers explored secret places that surely ought to remain secret—except that the rawness of her need became almost a pain. And then, quite shockingly, the feeling moved beyond pain into something unutterably pleasurable as his thumb pressed upon part of her and she said something incoherent and he murmured something equally unintelligible into her mouth.
Yet there was still the leftover ache of longing, and he came over her and pressed his knees between hers and brought her legs up to twine about his own. His hands came beneath her, and she felt him there where she throbbed withneed again, and he came into her. She expected shock. She expected pain. And there were both. But there was wonder too and the desire to feel it all, even the pain, and to enjoy every single moment of it.
When he was deeper in her than she had ever known was possible, he held still and she sighed. He lifted some of his weight off her onto his forearms and looked into her eyes, mere inches from his own.
“I am sorry,” he murmured. “I am heavy.”
“But every pound feels good,” she said.
He began to move then, out to the brink of her and in deep. And again and again while she closed her eyes. Hot, wet, hard. With steady, firm rhythm. She matched it after a while by flexing and relaxing inner muscles and then rotating her hips the better to feel him. And she opened her eyes again and looked at him in the flickering candlelight, at his muscled shoulders and chest slick with sweat, at his closed eyes, a frown of concentration between his brows, at the terrible scar left behind by a cavalry blade.
He dipped his head, and his weight came down on her again as his hands slid beneath her to hold her still and steady while the rhythm of his loving increased. And then he held deep and she felt the hot flow of his release inside her.
There was no great moment of release for her, but she did not believe she had ever been happier in her life. Which was how anyone would wish to feel on her wedding night at the moment of consummation.
He sighed, his breath warm against her ear, and lifted his weight away from her and off her. He moved to her side and lay there, his shoulder heavy against her own.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked. The back of his hand was over his eyes, she could see.
She knew she would be sore tomorrow. She already was. But how was she to explain that some pains were also pleasure, that even her soreness was something to savor?
“Silence is my answer,” he said softly. “I am sorry, Abby.”
“I am not,” she said. “And I was silent because I could not find the words with which to say that pleasure and pain can sometimes be the same thing. A strange paradox. There was pain, Gil. There was also pleasure. More pleasure than pain.”
“Do you want me to return to my room?” he asked.
The candles were still burning. His shoulder was warm against her own. Actually it was slightly above the level of hers. She could tip her head sideways and rest it against his shoulder.
“If you wish,” she said. She had not thought about it as a possibility. It would be horribly bleak if—
“What doyouwish?” he asked.
She laughed suddenly and he removed the hand from his eyes and turned his head to look at her. “We could go on this way all night,” she said. “What doyouwish? No, what doyou?”
“Hmm,” he said.
“Stay,” she told him. She laughed softly. “If you wish.”
“Oh, I wish,” he said. “Mrs. Bennington.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed and felt the bedcovers come up over them. She nestled her head against his shoulder when he lay down again. And he reached for her hand and laced their fingers together.
Tonight...
