“Douglas!”
“Sarah,” he said, kissing her mouth now, attempting, futilely to direct her attention some place other than where his hand was and what his fingers were doing.
Dear heavens, her legs were opening.
Her body wanted to arch upward, into his touch. As if her body was as separate an entity as his instrument. As if she had no will to direct it to behave.
“Douglas,” she said.
“Lady Sarah,” he answered. “Relax and enjoy.”
How could she possibly enjoy something as invasive and intrusive? How could she enjoy something so hideously embarrassing?
Her hands clutched at his shoulders as he deepenedthe kiss. It was not enough for him to lead her somewhere forbidden and exotic. He had to send her there as well, catapulting her through a starlit sky or rainbows, or the mist of a waterfall—all places with which she had no familiarity except in dreams.
His fingers stroked forbidden places; her body warmed and seemed to swell. Her heartbeat raced, and every sensation, every thought, every feeling was centered on where his hand was and the action of every separate finger.
He stroked through her swollen folds, played with the dampness there, pressing on one certain spot that summoned a gasp, followed by a moan.
He smiled against her lips and did it again, teaching her that he hadn’t been repulsed by her earthiness, but delighted, instead.
Her hands gripped him tighter as the rhythm of his fingers increased. Slow, at first, then faster, and just when she had anticipated the quickness of his touch, he slowed again, leaving her wanting more.
Her legs spread, her body opened, even as his kiss deepened.
She was a novice and he the expert, and she could only hold on to him, helpless.
Sarah placed her hands against the back of his head. In an effort to halt him? Or in an entreaty for him to continue, only quicker, please? She wanted to be done with this innocence of hers, as if it were a cloak enveloping her, shielding her from him. She wanted to know everything, to have done everything, to have felt it all before only for the joy of feeling it again.
He was suddenly over her, his body warming hers, settling onto hers so perfectly it was as if he could see in the dark. He was braced on his forearms, his fingersplaying with her hair, his chest pressing against her breasts, his back arched so that his instrument was at the opening of her body.
“I’m ready,” she said in a voice too breathless to be hers.
“Are you?”
She nodded.
He bent and kissed her, and entered her at that moment.
She braced herself for the pain. He was large, his sheer size causing her to gasp aloud. But there was no pain as he entered her inch by inch. Just a feeling of being invaded, and a curious feeling of being stretched. Her hands grasped him at the waist, slid to his hips, before curving to hold his buttocks. Her legs widened as if her body instinctively knew how to welcome him.
He pressed against her, and a shiver traveled through her body.
“Are you ready?”
She could only nod.
Now the pain would come. Would she scream? Would the inhabitants of Kilmarin know that she’d been made wife? Was that why everyone tried to ply a bride with spirits on the occasion of her wedding? To numb her for what must surely happen?
He pulled out of her slowly, and she lost her grip on his buttocks. Her hands fell to the sheet before she placed them back on his hips. His skin was soft and hot, as if a furnace burned just below the surface.
When he entered her again, it was as slow. Nor would he speed up the pace no matter how fiercely she pulled him to her.
She really couldn’t tolerate this. The tension in her body was nearly unbearable.
“Douglas, please.”
He drew back. “Am I hurting you?”
