“Damn these tears. I’m a bit of a watering pot tonight.”
“I don’t mind. Soak my shoulder anytime.”
He meant it. His deep voice offered no alternative.
And she meant it, too.
She took the other ring, the larger one, and slipped it on his finger to the first knuckle. She held his gaze as she slipped it the rest of the way on. She had claimed him first, and he didn’t seem to mind. He closed his eyes as a soft smiled took his lips, and he slipped her ring home. It fit perfectly and before she knew what she was doing, they’d twined their fingers together. Their rings were nestled side by side on their threaded hands, warm and humming.
He backed her toward the bed until the backs of her legs hit it. He was going to make this their wedding night. And she was powerless to stop it.
Because she wanted it. She would allow it. Not powerless.
Powerful.
She fell to the bed, and when his knees hit the mattress on either side of her, she felt the heat rolling off his body.
He dipped his head to kiss her, but before his lips touched hers, she stopped him, her fingers pressed against his mouth.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
He pushed her hand away. “Do not thank me, woman. I’m getting what I want.” His grin was a Christmas Eve one—cheeky, confident, entirely too naughty. He pushed the side of her wrapper open. His dancing silver eyes devoured what he could see of her. The wide neckline of her shift untied and pouring down one shoulder, the slope of a single breast revealed, the rest of her shift molded against her every curve. “Everything I want.”
A dark thrill ran down her spine as a blush of self-consciousness bloomed across her body. She was a virgin. Not for long, it seemed. But…
“How do we do this?” she asked. “How do I do this? What are the rules?”
“Only one: Do as you like.”
Terrifying. Exhilarating. Because in the absence of rules crackled… absolute power to do as she pleased. “What if… What if I make the rules?”
“Then make them, brave heart.”
“Where do we start?” She wanted to make the rules for once, but desire could not entirely banish decades of learned hesitation.
His gaze drifting over her body, he said, “Where can I touch you?”
“I… I suppose where you already have.”
“Cheek, then.” His hand landed there, then his thumb rubbed over her bottom lip. “The mouth. Hand.” His hands met hers, palm to palm, fingers threading as he pressed then into the mattress. He nuzzled down her neck and across her chest where the bodice of her shift gaped. “I’ve even touched here, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” she breathed, trying to give him more skin to explore because everywhere he touched, desire leaped up to meet him.
“And I musn’t forget here.” His hand was on her ankle. It froze. He lifted just enough to pin her with a stare. “Stockings. Do I dare look?”
She bit her lip.
He looked, groaned. “Red.Mystockings.Myleg.MyJane.” He sounded so very pleased with himself.
“How? Did… did you simply have red lady’s stockings lying about? Are they… did they belong to your mistress?” Desire, turned out, could die a swift death with the right thought.
“No.” He barked a laugh. “Is that what you’ve thought this entire time? No, no, no.” He returned to kissing her lightly, allowing himself to speak between kisses. “The first day I met you, I saw them in a window in a shop. Had an unaccountable and sudden flash of you in them. Bought them without thinking I’d ever give them to you. It was an… impulse. Another impulse when I grabbed them from a drawer and stuffed them in my sack on Christmas Eve. Why buy them if their owner could not wear them. After all, you’d never know who really gave them to you.”
“I do know. Now.” It had taken her months to drum up enough courage to put them on. And usually she wore them only in her bedchamber. Usually. She’d been braver of late.
He squeezed her calf—my, his fingers were strong—and drew his blunt fingernails higher, dipped them beneath the top edge of her stocking.
My stocking. My leg. My Jane.
