Page 9 of The Betrothal

Snapping from a daze, I began to tentatively kiss him back, and instead of slowing, his kiss turned feverish. A gravelly groan leaving him as he forced his tongue into my mouth and brushed it gently along mine.

There had been no discussion of remaining untouched until our marriage. I was thirty years old, and despite recent consideration, I was not a nun. Unfortunately, however, comments had been made over the years that implied he believed I was innocent, and I realised he may be taking my tentative response as confirmation.

He caressed my cheek, my guts churning at the thought that I would be able to use his belief in my inexperience to justify any lack of enthusiasm.

“I can’t wait to make you mine.” His murmur was against my lips.

His hand slid around my back, yanking me against his body so the press of his erection met my body.

“We can’t wait long, Iz, but I want to make the most of you before you give me children.”

My body locked up, the need to remove myself urgently calling for my attention.

“We, uh. We haven’t talked about kids too much yet, Teddy.”

“Hmm?”

His hands were now palming my hips with increased force.

“Maybe we could talk about our future, you know? Maybe we could…” I took a deep breath. “Maybe we could have our kids quite quickly, maybe tick the box, you know?”

He looked up, his brows arching.

“And then we can live our lives without the pressure of pregnancy and stuff, like we used to talk about?”

He watched me, searching my face before flicking down to my lips again, he drew his own between his teeth, chewing on his plump bottom lip.

“I can go back to work? It’s just, it’s going to be an adjustment, and I want to, get excited. For our life.” I looked up at him, not sure I’d done a good job of explaining myself, but hopeful.

His eyes were hooded, pupils wide, his hands now resting on my ass, kneading.

“I don’t think so, Iz,” he muttered.

“Um, don’t think so, to which bit?”

His hands continued massaging my hips, hands slipping towards my thighs.

“All of it.”

He lowered his face, resting his head against the side of my throat and inhaling my perfume before resuming his kisses along my throat. My skin didn’t tingle or heat under his efforts.

I tried to step back, but his hold tightened, holding me in place. His teeth nipped the soft skin at my neck and I jumped.

“The kids, or the job, which bit, Theodore?” My tone was sharp, as a form of panic began to build, surging through me.

“Well.” He held me still as he lifted his head up enough to look into my eyes, keeping me close, his breath washed over my lips when he spoke, peppermint and whisky.

“The children box will be ticked, as you say, when you can either no longer have any, or when I think we have enough.” His palm found my stomach. “By my calculations, and we can have this verified, you have at least twenty fertile years.”

He suddenly softened at the horror I knew showed on my face.

“Iz, don’t worry I don’t want twenty kids, but perhaps we start with five.”

“Five?” The word was half shriek, half gasp.

“Well, Trevor has four.”

I frowned, what did his brother have to do with this?