A boot hit the floor, then another. She heard the slide of clothing against skin.
The mattress gave as he placed his weight upon it.
The spiciness of his shaving soap mingled with the scent of masculine need—and then he stretched out beside her.
His hand cupped her breast. Her nipple tightened, responding to the warmth of his touch.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. His voice had deepened, and instinctively, between her legs, she felt a need. Her mind might be shrieking to be wary, but a part of her responded, and that frightened her all the more. No good came of losing control.
No good came of stalling the inevitable.
Without opening her eyes, she spread her legs. Cold air brushed the most delicate folds of her body.
She expected him to pounce on her then. She knew he was ready. She anticipated the weight of his body, the intrusion.
And yet, he did nothing.
In fact, his hand on her breast had not moved. She’d been so overwrought, it had taken her a moment to realize how still he’d become.
She kept her eyes closed. She knew what was coming. He would be disappointed. Roland had always had sharp words when they reached this stage. Angry barbs that he hurled before he pounded himself into her, claiming her dry and haggard.
“Sarah?”
Baynton did not sound angry. He sounded confused.
Be quick. Be done quick, she wanted to whisper . . .
“You’re trembling.”
She didn’t answer. She kept her eyes closed.
His hand caressed her breast again. She waited for him to do more, the tension almost beyond what she could bear—and the mattress dipped as he rolled off the bed.
Sarah opened her eyes, surprised.
He was pulling on his breeches. She frowned, not understanding. She reached for the coverlet to hide her nakedness before sitting up. “What is the matter?”
She knew the answer. She feared it. He found her disappointing.
Baynton reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. She could see he was still aroused and probably uncomfortable. Roland had always told her that being hard and unfulfilled was a very painful state for a man.
He turned to her, ready to say something and yet he did not speak. Those all-too-seeing eyes assessed her. She held the coverlet to her breasts. She shook her hair back out of the way.
Baynton sat on the edge of the bed, and she tensed.
He leaned toward her, and she stiffened.
“It isn’t me, is it?” he said, his voice low as if he was reasoning more with himself than expecting an answer from her.
“What isn’t you?” She threw the words out as if they were a challenge.
“The way you are right now. You are afraid.” His expression wasn’t one of repulsion or anger. Instead, he appeared concerned—and she couldn’t stand it.
“Do this. Have me,” she ordered, anger making her voice harsh, ugly . . . as ugly as she felt inside. She threw herself back on the bed. She tossed aside the coverlet and focused on the ceiling so that she wouldn’t have to look at him. “Do it.”
“You act as if I will hurt you. Why, Sarah?” He spoke with empathy, and she hated him for it.
She rolled away from him and stood, the bed between them. Heedless of her nakedness, her fury all-consuming, she ground out, “Now I know why you are still a virgin. If this is the way you are around women, is it any wonder the deed hasn’t been done?”
