“And then I had the temerity to play along.”
“Did you ever,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding like that growly duke he’d been playing.
“If we’re making confessions,” she said, her eyes on the blanket. “I didn’t mind that commanding, rude duke.”
“Is that so?” Peter smirked.
“It might be a bit much to encounter him at the breakfast table each morning, but he made me feel things,” she said.
“Did he now?” asked Peter, working to remove his nightshirt again. Lucy followed, opening all the buttons down the front of her nightgown.
She looked to her new husband and took the risk of shamelessly drawing the whole gown from her body, pulling it over her head.
Peter drew in a breath, almost like a gasp. “Is the room too cold?” he asked. “I could have the servants put more logs on the fire. Or I could. It could be much warmer here—”
“It’s plenty warm,” said Lucy, aware that the blankets did not cover her breasts and liking that she was pouring oil on the fire kindling to life in their bed.
“It’s just that you look so cold,” said Peter, his eyes not straying from her hardened nipples.
“You’re welcome to warm me up.”
Peter’s hand was tentative, his fingers trembling slightly until they made contact with her skin. He settled his palm over her nipple and let it rest.
“You’re so lovely, Lucy,” he said, moving his hand to her other side.
“It feels good.”
“Warmer?”
“Yes, everywhere,” she said, wiggling beneath the bedclothes to slide closer to him.
“I’m glad something I do tonight might bring you pleasure,” said Peter, his face clouded with doubt. “I’ve heard the most terrible things about the wedding night.”
“For grooms?”
“For brides. Pain and…and…well.”
“I think you’ll find it in your heart to be gentle with your bride,” she said, casting him a sly look.
Far from the ducal persona he’d affected at balls or the facade of a libertine he’d worn in the sitting room where they’d been engaged, Peter in his home, in his bed, was just the considerate lover she’d longed for when reading the books that had so captured her imagination.
He brought his lips to her nipple and pressed them to it.
“Oh, Peter,” she sighed, her legs nearly kicking in pleasure.
“You like it?” he asked, giving her peak a lick.
“Do I…” Lucy grabbed his hand and pulled it below the blankets, right to the apex of her legs. She felt hot and soft for him, slick enough to ease the way for their consummation, but she wanted more before the inevitable end of this encounter. “Feel how much I like it.”
And Peter — dear, dear Peter — didn’t need further instruction before he slid his hand between her thighs and gently stroked her seam. Lucy couldn’t stand waiting, and she spread her legs, bringing them to her chest so she opened for him.
He stroked over the place where she was wet and swollen with desire, earning a keening cry.
“Like that?”
“Exactly like that,” she said, her breaths coming in pants. His fingers slid over her clitoris, that bump she’d explored so thoroughly on her own, but somehow his touch felt entirely different. His feathery touches had her twisting against the mattress.
“Feeling you has me fit to burst,” he murmured into her hair on the pillow they now shared. “I’m terrified to move.”
