Sitting upright, she arched her back and shifted herself in an attempt to take him deeper. The moonlight reflected in his gaze as it flicked from her eyes, to her lips, and then her breasts, and then her eyes again. His parted lips glistened and a bead of sweat appeared on his brow. When he reached up and cupped her breast, she experienced a hint of pain, but something else, a burning need. She raised one of her hands and pressed it over his.
A squeeze and then another profound thrust drew a moan from her.
His breathing hitched as they moved together, each creating and then satisfying the other’s need.
He taught her how to ride him, urging her upward, forward, and backward. And he placed his hand down there, too, creating even more need, making her dizzy with sensation, almost hysterical in her motions.
Finally, Hugh grasped her thighs tightly with both hands, increased their rhythm, seemed to search for her very center, and then pinned her tightly against him. His seed poured into her at the same time she dissolved into a million pieces.
When he stilled, she collapsed into a boneless heap of woman. She could do nothing but lie there and attempt to catch her breath.
His hands caressed her backside, rubbing and massaging her buttocks before eventually pulling the covers up and over them both. When she finally could summon the strength to slide off of him and curl up to his side, she was startled at what she saw.
One tear drop had escaped from Hugh’s closed eyes.
A tear?
He would not want for her to ask him about it. He would most likely be mortified.
She inched higher onto the pillow and wrapped her arms around his head. Ah, she felt another drop of moisture fall upon her breast. But he was silent. He did not move or say a word.
They slept. Made love again. Slept and then made love a third time.
Chapter 20
Hugh awoke to the gentle sound of snoring. Peaceful, rhythmic, and soothing. It reminded him of when, as a child, he slept with an old hound.
Soft hair tickled his nostril and a smooth leg nestled under one of his thighs.
He’d married yesterday.
Penelope Crone.
Penelope Chesterton, now. His wife. And not in name only.
He slid his arm out from beneath her head and untangled himself from the rest of her body and the covers. He did not want to talk with her this morning.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about anything anymore.
Gathering his clothing from the floor, he tiptoed across the room. Once inside his own chamber, he let out a deep breath and closed the door behind him.
His muscles ached, which was ironic, since Penelope had done much of the work… if one could call it that. She’d been on top of him for all but that little while, when he’d used his mouth…
He did not really wish to admit it to himself, but Penelope Crone’s sexual appetite was nearly as ravenous as his own. Good God! No wonder she’d found herself with child!
Her passion had nearly overwhelmed him, if that’s how he wished to describe those mortifying moments when he’d felt like weeping. He’d not expected the torrent of emotion that engulfed him when they’d climaxed together.
It had not been because of the sex.
It had simply seemed like he’d found a release, at last, for the pent-up grief he’d felt since his mother’s death. And for the fact that the children his wife would bear were from the seed of another man. It had all… caught up to him.
And she’d noticed.
She’d held him.
He tugged at the bell pull three times before he remembered he’d given his valet the night off. The entire house was quiet for that matter. He pulled on breeches and managed to wrestle his feet into his boots before realizing that he was no longer alone.
Penelope, with her hair falling wildly around her face, stood peeking through the doorway, once again dressed in that tent of a nightgown she’d worn last night. He’d never seen her so terribly disheveled. Her lips were plump and swollen and her eyes had a sleepy look to them still. He grew hard almost instantly.
