“Always,” she whispered, half promise, half plea.
He aligned himself with her, and then he was inside her. The tip of him at first. Slow and shallow. She inhaled swiftly, shocked at the size of him, so different from his fingers and tongue. So much more, in every way.
“More?” he asked against her lips.
“More,” she agreed.
He moved again. Deeper. A small thrust. She burned. But still, she did not feel any pain. Only a slight discomfort at the newness of it all.
“More,” she said again, moving her hips beneath him in an attempt to seat him fully.
But he was stronger than she was and, in this instance at least, possessed of greater control. He kissed her furiously, his tongue lashing at hers. Then he caught her leg and hooked it over his hip, bringing their bodies flush. He sank inside her a bit deeper. His encroachment was painstakingly slow. Helena was desperate for him. Her entire body clambered for more. Instantly.
She could not wait.
Growing impatient, she planted her right foot on the mattress and pushed herself upward. Huntingdon had not anticipated her sudden movement. The action lodged him farther inside her.
He grunted, then shifted, thrusting deeper still, and groaned. “Helena, I am trying my damnedest not to cause you pain.”
She did not think pain possible. Discomfort mingled with ridiculous, all-consuming bliss. The feeling of him within her was wondrous and strange and good. So very, very good. But not good enough. Because beneath it all, she could not shake the sensation that he was withholding from her, that there was more to be had, more to be felt. She was not fashioned of porcelain, and she would not break. No, indeed. She was Helena Davenport, and she had been made for this man.
He only had to realize it.
“Just bed me, Huntingdon,” she gritted. “Waiting is more torture than anything you can possibly do.”
As she said the words, she bucked her hips again. The friction of him inside her sent a current straight through her. Rapturous agony. That was how she could best describe it.
“Damn you, Helena,” he growled, and then he plunged inside her.
All the way. Deep. She knew it because of the sharp sting followed by the undeniable rightness. Pain mingled with pleasure, the two entwining into a heady, odd mix.
He felt so good inside her. Filling her. He reached a place she had not realized existed. Sparks skittered. She held him to her tightly when he would have withdrawn, the leg hooked around his waist keeping him lodged within her.
“Make me yours,” she commanded against his lips.
On a growl, he began to move again. His hips withdrew, then slid inside her once more. Between their bodies, his knowing fingers played a steady rhythm on her pearl. All the while, he kissed her. Lips and tongue and teeth. In and out. The pain receded and all that remained was the pleasure.
And it blossomed and grew. Another tremor of ecstasy quaked through her. She tightened on him, kissing him hard as she reached her pinnacle. He groaned into her mouth, his body stiffening over hers, and then he was plunging deep, and a spurt of warmth filled her.
Huntingdon broke the kiss, his face dipping to her neck, his breathing ragged and hot. Helena clutched him to her, heart pounding, love and awe warring within her for supremacy, along with the remnants of pleasure.
Their marriage had been consummated.
He was hers now.
Finally.
Chapter Fifteen
Those who feel women should be denied the Parliamentary franchise because of their intellectual inferiority should, perhaps, have their own mental acuity examined instead.
—FromLady’s Suffrage Society Times
He woke tohis wife, naked and glorious, sleeping peacefully beside him. Even in her slumber, she encroached upon him, her slim ankle crossed over his calf, tendrils of golden hair on his pillow, her fingers grazing his shoulder. It was, he thought, rather symbolic of their marriage.
A marriage which he had made permanent and inextricable last night.
Excellent restraint, Gabe. Two days into your marriage, and you have already bedded her.
