“You’re… still aroused,” she whispered.
“I know,” he cocked his head. “Do you want to help me with it?”
“How can I?”
He took her small hands and placed both palms on his chest, then gently guided them lower while keeping his eyes latched onto hers. He noted her quick intake of breath when she brushed over his flat nipples, and then down over the flat ridges of his abdomen.
Drawing them from his body, he swept his thumbs over her palms before he wrapped her right hand around his turgid length. Under her silken touch, he swelled even larger.
William’s eyes held hers as he moved their hands over him, teaching her to stroke him the way he liked. She learned how much pressure he enjoyed; what rhythm tore sounds from the back of his throat.
Her grip tightened over his weeping head and William hissed, and she eased her hold, then touched a tentative finger to the base of the purple-veined shaft. Instinctively, her other hand closed over his base, curling around the thick rod.
“You are so… thick.” She could barely contain him within her circling fingers.
His head rolled back, “Never heard any complaint about that before.”
Bravely, she reached with her other hand to cup lower, finding him heavy and surprisingly supple.
“You’re doing just… fine.” His neck arched as he savored her firm yet gentle strokes. “Stop being such a polite young Miss. I am not going to break under your hand,” he muttered, a muscle in his cheek jumping.
“All right, then.”
She fixed her grip and her fist glided faster and faster along that thick truncheon of flesh; the water around them sloshed harder. She would not have dared to stroke him with such ferocity if he had not especially asked for it—but after last night, he did not need tender touches.
Pleasure jabbed through him like a red-hot stab of lightning and his blood swept through his body in a rush. With his heart pounding, he felt like a stallion nearing his finish at the Derby.
Peeling his eyes open, he saw the tip of her tongue clamped between her teeth; her hair was askew, and the steam misted her skin into a pearlescent sheen. Devil and damn, she was a sight to behold.
Her fists tightened around him. Her breasts quivered as she stroked him faster, harder—his vision blurred. “Bridget, I—!”
He yelled out as his seed shot up his shaft. The climax erupted from him, surging through him in a rush of heat and thickpleasure. His head fell back on the towel behind him as he sucked air into his lungs, dispelling the burn in his chest.
When he regained his senses, he gazed upon her. Satisfaction hummed in his veins, and yet his pulse took a wayward leap at how she examined her fingers. “Your hands are devious, sweetling.”
She giggled coyly, then asked, “What happened last night?”
His stomach roiled at the memory of the man he had—with no other explanation—killedin the ring last night, and the tortured message Ricky had whispered to him. He had won the match by default, but something about the ensuing victory felt hollow.
“Were you assaulted?”
“No.”
“I hardly think you slipped and fell hard enough to make you black-and-blue,” she pressed. “Did someone try to rob you?”
His gaze sharpened, “Cease from asking me these questions. It is no matter of yours!”
His angered snap stunned the both of them, and Bridget’s head jerked back as if she had been slapped. She sat back, staring at him white-faced. Exhaling, he said more calmly, “Do not press me further on this, please.”
Collecting herself, Bridget gingerly climbed out of the tub, her garments wet and dripping. “I suppose we will see each other at the church then.”
“Take a towel,” he added, calmer than before. “You do not want to catch a cold, not today.”
Silently, she took a towel from the rack and wrapped it around herself, then headed out.
Aggrieved, conflicted, and tired beyond measure, William slumped back to the towel pillow. “Happy wedding day to me.”
With the Special License acquired, the choice to have the wedding ceremony in a chapel or at his estate had come about, and William had instinctively chosen his home. Presently, he was glad for that choice, especially since he was rather conspicuously bruised and battered. While dressing, he pointedly avoided his reflection, and when Lane came to assist with the rest, his valet did not even blink an eye.
