Sinjin’s dark hair was still wet from his bath, the ends damp and curling. His sinfully handsome face was freshly shaved, and his eyes gleamed in the light of the lamps. He wore a black silk dressing gown that clung to the broad planes of his chest, revealing a vee of virile chest hair. Beneath the hem, his calves bulged with muscle.
His male sensuality was raw and uncivilized, and every part of her responded to his wild energy. Her breath quickened. Her nipples stiffened. Her pussy moistened in a damp rush.
He strode over to her. When he’d knocked, she’d had a sudden panic about how she ought to pose herself. Sitting on the bed might appear too forward—on the chair by the fire too prim. How should a bride greet her new husband? Paralyzed by indecision, she’d wound up where she was, frozen at the foot of the bed. Gawking at him, she realized belatedly, like a feather-wit.
He curled a finger under her chin. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kitten?”
“I understand why they call you the God of Revelry,” she blurted.
His brows lifted.
“The only thing you’re missing is a leopard skin and a thyrsus. And maybe a few Maenads and Satyrs following in tow,” she babbled on like an idiot.
“This room isn’t all that large. I’m not sure we could fit in a procession.” His lips quirked. “What’s a thyrsus?”
“It’s a kind of staff. With a pine cone on top. It’s supposed to be a symbol of fertility,” she said and immediately wished she hadn’t. What a time to mention the issue of fecundity… on her wedding night! It was as if her tongue had a mind of its own.
“You have an awful lot of knowledge in that pretty head,” he commented. “From your papa the schoolmaster, I take it?”
She nodded, deciding it might be better if she didn’t talk. Ever again.
Sinjin lifted a tendril of her loose hair, rubbing it between finger and thumb. “So if I’m Bacchus,” he murmured, “does that mean you’re my Ariadne?”
His words sparked an uncomfortable connection—not the one he obviously intended. Shewaslike the mythical Princess of Crete in that she’d once been duped by a man. Before being discovered and rescued by Bacchus, Ariadne had been dumped on an island by Theseus—the supposed hero whom she’d helped to slay the Minotaur and escape the labyrinth. Polly had known a similar betrayal: Brockhurst had used her to win a wager, then tossed her aside like yesterday’s newspaper.
Why was she thinking about that now? It was in the past and had no place in the present. In the future embodied by her outrageously attractive husband whose aura blazed with desire for her.Her—Peculiar Polly Kent. She could hardly believe that destiny had been so generous.
“I’m no goddess,” she managed.
“Aren’t you? You could have fooled me.” He released her hair to cup her jaw, and her breath caught at the fierce tenderness in his gaze. “From the moment we met, I thought that you had divine wisdom in those eyes of yours. That you saw in me something no one else had before. I must have recognized my own fate.”
He kissed her, and some of her nervousness fled. Passion nudged doubt aside. Heavens, she’d missed this—missed him. The reassurance of his firm lips moving over hers, the taste of him saturating her senses like the finest wine. He was intoxicating, real, and all hers. When the kiss ended, they were both breathless.
He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “I’m a scoundrel, but I can’t bring myself to regret what happened on the balcony. For it led to this, to you being mine—even though you deserved much more for your first time.”
“More?” She blinked. Recalling the riotous bliss, she said doubtfully, “I’m not certain I could have handled more.”
“Oh, you can, sweeting.” His lazy, wicked smile made her heart stutter. “I’ve never met a woman with your passion. There hasn’t been a time when you haven’t come at least twice for me—and I haven’t even had you on a bed yet.”
Her cheeks warmed. Was her response… normal? “Do you think me wanton?”
“Yes, love.” Before she could start to fret, he kissed her again, whispering against her lips, “You’re wanton and sweet, and I’m damned lucky I found you before someone else did.”
“I’m the lucky one,” she said earnestly.
“I’m glad you think so, but you’re wrong.” His gaze was solemn. “You’re a gift, sweetheart, the sort I never thought to have in my life, but I’m not a fellow who looks a gift horse in the mouth. I’d rather spend my time unwrapping you.” He toyed with the sash of her chintz wrapper. “No doubt a considerate husband would douse the lamps… but I’d prefer to see you, Polly.”
She realized that he was giving her a choice. And she loved him for it.
She also knew how she wanted to reply.
Taking a step back, holding her husband’s gaze, she reached for the belt that held her wrapper together. She inhaled for courage, gave a sharp tug, and pushed the modest covering off her shoulders, letting it pool at her bare feet. Pulse skittering, she felt his gaze traveling over what she wore beneath.
“Devil and damn.” He sounded stunned.
Those three guttural words—along with the leap of lust in his aura—boosted her confidence. Her sisters had been right in suggesting this particular choice for her wedding night. At first, she’d balked at the notion of wearing something this risqué: the white satin negligee dipped low over her bosom, leaving her upper back bare, its lace-trimmed hem ending just below her knees. The garment was held up by a single cherry-red bow tied at her nape.
She stood there, debating her next move, when he spoke up.
