He pushed into her slowly. Not because she needed the care — she was slick and ready and her body took him with an ease that nearly ended him on the spot — but because he wanted to feel every inch of it. He wanted to remember this. The first time he enteredhis wife. The first time there was nothing forbidden about it.
She gasped when he filled her completely, her nails biting into his back, her head tipping into the pillow. He held still, buried deep, and pressed his forehead to hers.
“All right?” His arms shook with the effort of not moving.
“If you don’t move I will kill you.” She dug her heels into the small of his back.
He moved. Slow at first, long deep strokes that drew ragged sounds from both of them. He angled his hips the way he’d learned she liked — tilted upward, pressing against the spot inside her that made her go quiet before she went loud. Her nails dragged down his back, leaving welts he would wear like medals in the morning.
“Harder.” She gripped his shoulders, pulling him deeper. “Dominic. Harder.”
He obeyed. The pace shifted, his hips driving into her with a force that made the bed frame protest beneath them. The soundof skin against skin filled the room, punctuated by her gasps and his low, guttural groans. Her breasts moved with each thrust and he dipped his head to take one into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make her cry out and clench around him so tight his rhythm faltered.
“I’m going to—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her thighs locked around him, her body drawing taut as a bowstring, and he reached between them, his fingers finding the swollen bud of her and pressing firm circles against it.
She shattered. Her whole body seized beneath him, her back arching, her walls gripping him in rhythmic, pulsing waves that dragged him to the edge. He held on — barely, his jaw clenched, his arms trembling — because he wanted to watch her face. He wanted to see the moment when everything else fell away and there was nothing left but pleasure and him and the knowledge that she was his wife and this was their bed and nobody could take this from them.
When the tremors eased, he let himself go. Two more thrusts, deep and desperate, and he followed her over, burying himself to the hilt as the release tore through him. Her name left his mouth, broken and raw and reverent and she held him through it, her arms wrapped around his back, her fingers stroking his damp hair while his body shuddered against hers.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest, their legs tangled in sheets and scattered rose petals. Their breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps that gradually slowed. The fire crackled. A candle guttered and went out, dimming the room to a warm, honeyed glow.
She pressed her lips to his chest, just above his heart. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” His arms tightened around her. “Lady Westmore.”
“That is going to take some getting used to.” She traced the line of his scar with one finger, from his temple down to the corner of his mouth, and he turned his head to press a kiss to her palm.
“You have the rest of your life.” He drew the coverlet over them both and tucked her closer against him, her back to his chest, his chin resting on the top of her head.
She was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “Dominic?”
“Hmm?”
“This bed is absurdly comfortable.”
He laughed against her hair — a real laugh, warm and unguarded, the kind of laugh he’d forgotten he was capable of before she walked into his life with flour on her sleeve and fire in her eyes.
She settled deeper into his arms, her breathing slowing, her body heavy with satisfaction and sleep. He held her in the quiet, listening to the fire and the soft fall of snow against the windows and the steady, trusting rhythm of her breathing.
She was staying. She was his. And tomorrow, when the sun came through those windows and found them still tangled together, there would be no guilt, no rushing, no pulling away.
Just this. Just them. Just the rest of their lives.
Epilogue — One Year Later
It was Christmas morning again.
Nell woke slowly, dragged from sleep by the familiar weight of Dominic’s arm across her waist and the pressure of her swollen belly against the mattress. Eight months along now, the baby was a constant presence — making sleep difficult and breathing a challenge. Edmund monitored her weekly, his careful hands and careful eyes watching for every sign of trouble. The risk had not gone away. She had simply decided it would not decide for her.
She shifted carefully, and Dominic’s arm tightened. “Stop squirming.” The words came out rough with sleep, muffled against her hair. “Too early.”
“Your child is using my bladder as a cushion.” She pushed at his arm with a weary laugh, though she did not truly struggle. “I need to get up.”
“Five more minutes.” His hand slid around to rest on her belly, warm and possessive, fingers splayed wide.
The baby kicked — a solid thump against his palm — and he laughed, low and delighted. “Good morning to you too.” He pressed a kiss to her neck, stubble grazing her skin. “Tell your mother to stay.”
The door burst open.
