How could he tell her thoughts were busy?
“It is nothing,” she said, not wishing to dispel the enchantment of the moment with her wayward fears.
“It is something.” He kissed her ear, the hollow beneath it, the side of her throat where she was sure her pulse pounded against his knowing lips. “As husband and wife, we must speak to each other with honesty.”
He had a valid argument, but how was she to concentrate when his tongue flicked against her skin and desire, new and simmering and wondrous, shimmered through her? She swallowed as his hand glided to her breast, kneading the sensitive flesh. He rolled her nipple, tugging it, and an answering ache bloomed between her thighs. Lovemaking was still new to her, and she was sore in strange places after last night, but she wanted him again in spite of it.
“Was I too rough with you?” he asked when she did not respond, his voice hesitant.
Most definitely not. She wondered, not for the first time, what his marriage had been like with his former duchess, before shoving all thoughts of it from her mind. She did not wish to allow whatever had come before her to intrude upon their burgeoning marriage.
“I will not share you,” she blurted.
He stilled. “Share me?”
Oh, drat. She had rather bollixed it up, hadn’t she? She took a steadying breath, grateful she did not face him. “I asked you before if you had a mistress, and you told me that you did not. I wish to make certain that you will not seek one out now. I know it is the way of things for many husbands and wives, but it is not what I want. I hope it is not what you want either.”
He was silent for a beat too long for her comfort, and then he kissed her shoulder. “I do not stray from vows, princess.”
She closed her eyes, allowed herself to revel in the sheer bliss of his body against hers, his mouth upon her skin, his masterful hands at work bringing her to life. “Good.”
“What of you?” he asked with deceptive calm.
Bo knew how much weight lay behind his question, for she recalled all too well his revelation that his wife had been unfaithful. She rolled over, facing him at last, meeting his seeking green gaze, and took his face in her hands. An unexpected burst of tenderness shot through her at how vulnerable he looked, how far removed he was from the supercilious Spencer Marlow she had come to know.
“I am yours,” she said softly, “and yours alone.”
The tension ebbed from his body. “Good,” he said in an echo of her one-word response.
“Very good.” She traced his lips with her fingers. How odd that in the span of a day, she was now free to touch him as she pleased without fear of recriminations. She could lie naked in bed with him, do whatever she wished, and she had no one to answer to. Propriety could go hang. Everyone else be damned. This man, this beautiful, complicated man, was hers at last. In every way. He had told her so. Just as she was his. “You were not rough with me, Spencer. You could not be. It is not in you.”
His expression shifted, growing shuttered. “You do not know what lies within me, Boadicea. Perhaps it would shock you. Appall you, even.”
There it was again, Bo was sure of it, the specter of his former wife. She wished she could undo all the wrongs, erase every hurt the woman had dealt him. With time, perhaps he would confide in her. Perhaps she could help him to heal. But not yet, not with their union being so new, all this territory between them uncharted.
She kissed him instead of answering or questioning him any further. Leaned into him, closed the distance, set her lips upon his. It was not the first time she had initiated a kiss, but its effect was nevertheless incendiary. He caught her to him as though he feared she might disappear unless he anchored her to his body, his mouth opening, their tongues tangling. The kiss was voracious. Consuming, needy, and rough.
His hands swept over her body, and he turned them as one, never breaking the kiss, so that she was on her back with him atop her. Her legs were spread open, his cock already nestled against her where she wanted him most. He reached between their bodies, fingers finding the bundle of flesh that was so responsive to his touch. What her bawdy books referred to as a gem.
As he worked her, it felt like a gem, bright, sparkling, bold. He already knew how to please her so well, understanding when to stroke her fast, when to touch her slow, when to increase his pressure. She was wet for him, so wet that she could feel the slick evidence of her desire. How she hungered. He made her mindless, weightless, so that all she could think and feel was him and what he did to her.
How he undid her.
She moved against him. Their mouths clung. Her breath caught, and she gripped the sinewy plane of his back, reveling in its smooth, hard strength. He pressed harder, faster, and she was close to the edge, about to unravel. Her nails sank into his skin. She sucked his tongue. And she was on fire in a way she had never imagined possible, all for him, because of him. He completed her.
He…
Oh.
She lost control, raked her nails down his back until she found his tight buttocks and gripped him, her climax spiraling through her, rushing upon her, taking her with the force of a locomotive. She spent, upon his wicked fingers, his tongue in her mouth, and she shook and tremored and savored every second of the release he gave her. But it wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. She still wanted more. All of him.
Bo tore her mouth from his, arched against him, gave him the forbidden words that had so aroused him before. “Fuck me, Spencer.”
With a primitive growl, he guided himself to her center and thrust, seating himself deep, complete, straight to the hilt. One thrust and she was filled with him. Stretched, hungry, more alive than she had ever felt. He kissed her again, deep and dark and devouring. His left hand sank into her hair, fisting in it, his right remaining on her folds, teasing her gem, making her so wild that she feared she would splinter into a thousand shards of herself at any second. He slammed into her, hard and rough. She gripped him to her, urged him onward, angled her hips to match his every thrust.
It was inevitable.
She was combustible.
