Page 50 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

He rose up on his knees looking down at his hand. She glanced down to where his gaze was fixed on his hand, on her nightgown-covered breast. Her nipples stood out in two little peaks.

He rolled first one nipple between thumb and forefinger, then the other. The ache that tightened her body was so painfully sweet, she couldn’t move or think. He bent to take her into his mouth with a gentle suck through the fabric.

The arrow of sensation right to her core lifted her hips from the bed. She cried out with the pleasure of it.

And, with a sense of wonder, she knew there was more.

Graydon gazed into his wife’s face, her lips rosy from his kisses. The soft, dazed expression on her face, the hunger in her touch, all had him feeling quite off-kilter.

What had he said—take it slowly? Inwardly, he mocked his arrogance, given the way she’d responded with wild abandon to his every touch. He’d been on the edge of madness, trying to remain measured and deliberate, unhurried, when she’d unwittingly urged him onward.

This mix of innocence and carnal awareness, as inexperienced as it seemed to be, would ruin him utterly if he wasn’t careful. To be so enchanted by his wife was the last thing he had expected.

He lowered himself to cover her, feeling her fragile bones beneath him, resting the bulk of his weight on his side. He slid her robe from one shoulder and, clearly realising his intent, she slipped first one arm free and then wriggled out from beneath him, pulling the garment free.

He tossed it aside.

She sat up and undid the tie to his dressing gown, then gasped as she realised he wore nothing beneath it. He raised an eyebrow when she glanced up at him in surprise. Would she dare to go the rest of the way?

Her chest rose and fell with a quick, indrawn breath. She reached up and slipped his robe off his shoulders, taking in the sight of his chest with a slight upward curve of her lips. At least the sight of his heavily muscled shoulders, caused by working with an axe when necessary during the long Canadian winters, didn’t seem to take her aback. He had thought she might find him crudely formed after her music master. Gentlemen in England tended to be far more refined.

He shook his hands free of the sleeves and let the gown fall fully open. He was as aroused as any male could be and hoping to God she wouldn’t panic at the last moment. Because he wasn’t quite sure any more exactly what she’d meant when she’d said she was ruined.

To his infinite delight, she rose up on her knees, pulled her nightgown over her head and gave him the shyest, most alluring look from beneath her lashes that had ever come his way.

He gently pulled her down so she lay on his chest, her hands either side of his head, her hips off to one side. Oh, he was going to help her, and there was no way he was going to let her escape, but he would let her set their pace. He hoped.

Her gaze searched his face, as if trying to puzzle out what was going on, then she kissed his cheek, his chin, his throat. And was working her way down… What? He lifted his head to watch her long silken hair slide across his chest, and she licked and nipped at his nipples in turn, swirling her tongue around the hardened buds like some sort of practised courtesan.

If he’d been aroused before, now he was rock-hard and needed to sheath himself inside her body with an urgency that had him so hard by the throat, he could not speak a word.

He groaned and flipped her over on her back. Her eyes widened in shock. ‘Don’t you like that?’

‘I like it well enough,’ he managed to say. Or thought he did.

She gave a little giggle, and he felt pride at finding enough conscious thought to throw her own words back at her.

An effort that took what little brainpower he had left. Now was not the time for talk. He kissed her carefully, but harder this time, encouraging her lips to part, to open to him. He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, teasing her tongue with his, hearing her soft, panting breaths in counterpoint to his own harsh breathing.

She arched into him and he stroked his hand over her full breast, across her gently rounded, silken belly, and combed his fingers through the tight curls at the juncture of her thighs.

He felt the wet of her arousal against his palm. He pressed the heel of his hand against her mons. She ground against his hand, her hips undulating. Her little cries of urgency sent blood rushing from his head to his cock.

Slow… He must…

She curled her fingers tightly around his shaft in hard, short strokes that left him mindless. He came up over her and, brushing her hand aside, he entered her in one firm, wonderful glide, feeling hot, wet, tight softness, and buried himself deep.

She cried out, clutching his shoulders. Pain? How could he have hurt her?

He tried to pull away but her legs came up around his hips, holding him fast, even as tears leaked from the corner of her closed eyes.

And then he was done. He tried to be gentle, he truly did, but his body would not listen to what was left of his mind and his hips drove him deeper into her delicate, welcoming flesh. And he came and came and came, until he really thought he would die of it.

Consciousness returned with the feel of hands pushing at his shoulders.

He had collapsed on top of her. Hell’s bells. He could not recall ever passing out before… He gently withdrew from her body and collapsed.

His mind felt like mush. He couldn’t think or speak. She wasn’t moving, either. Was she well? Somehow, he grabbed the counterpane and pulled it over them, vaguely patting her arm.