And, she still wore her silk stockings. She was bringing him to his knees.
“You are a beauty, Cass.”
Doubt came to her eye. “Is that something you are just saying—?”
“No, I mean every word. And I assure you, I will be a good husband to you.”
She nodded, but her gaze drifted to his proud arousal. “It is different than I had imagined.”
“Hopefully in a good way?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughed, delighted. She was candor and innocence and completely herself. Had he thought to go slow?
That idea was gone. His Cass was full of anticipation. Their mating would be good. He threw himself on the bed beside her and drew her to his side. He stretched his body against hers and kissed her ear. Her answer was a soft gasp of pleasure, and then she kissed his ear.
She did it well.
Soren was down to business now. His wife was a perfect student. Whatever he did that she liked, she copied on him.
He bit her lower lip; she nipped at his. He nibbled her neck; she nibbled him.
But what he really wanted were her breasts. They were round and pink and responsive to his touch. How many hours, even when they’d been young, had he spent trying to imagine them? And here they were. His fantasies had not done them justice.
He now gave them proper attention.
Cass breathed his name in surprise at the sensation of his mouth upon her. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair as if to hold him to her. He paid her close attention. First one, then the other... even as he let his hand dip lower.
The heat of her was a beacon. He moved to her core, rested a moment for her to relax, and then he slid one finger inside, testing her.
She’d tensed. Her hands went still.
He found her ear. “Easy.”
Cass swallowed and then turned to him, their lips inches from each other. “Will there be pain?”
“Not if I can help it. And if there is, it will be only an instant.” At least, that was what he’d heard—and hoped. He stroked her. Her legs opened as if of their own accord. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll never hurt you.”
“I believe you.”
He lifted himself up over her to settle against her heat. “Help me, Cass.” He slid his hand under her buttocks to curve her toward him. He knew exactly where he must be to make it easiest on her. He wanted to do this right.
But his wife was not one to wait. She moved against him. Her arms tightened around him, her movements a touch frantic, as if she distracted herself. She kissed his hair, the side of his eye, the middle of his forehead—and he did what must be done.
In one fluid movement, he entered her. He did not pull back but thrust deep. The thin barrier was nothing against the force of his need, and he easily claimed her.
She inhaled as if there was a bit of pain. He held himself still, waiting for her to signal whether he could go on.
Dear God, she was so tight, he prayed he wouldn’t embarrass himself. His primal urge was to drive on, to take what he wanted. He employed every bit of control he had—
“Is that it? Are we done?”
Her questions broke his concentration.
Soren looked down at her. She had the most puzzled expression on her face. “How are you?” he countered. “Have I hurt you?”
“There was a needle’s prick of uncomfortableness.” She ran her hand along his shoulder as if admiring the play of muscles that were doing everything in their power to hold him back from pillaging her. Her lashes lifted up to him. “But if this is all there is, why do poets go on about it?”
