Read Online Summer Moon by Jill Marie Landis - Free Book Online
Authors: Jill Marie Landis
Tags: Fiction
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her past this point of embarrassment, that she had grown used to him, to the
idea
of him and what being married to him meant. Now that reality was staring her in the face, she realized that she had been wandering around in a dream, unaware that this very night she would become his wife—in every sense of the word.
He was her husband. Their marriage had been recorded in Maine and Texas.
Reed slowly ran his hand down her shoulder and took her by surprise when he gently cupped her breast. She gasped, shocked at the intense sensation when his thumb found her nipple, teased it, stroked it. A moan escaped her, shocking her.
Wanting more, needing more, she pressed her hand over his. The fabric of her nightgown separated their hands, yet she felt the heat of his hand through the muslin.
“Take it off,” he urged. His voice was low. Their eyes locked.
She took a deep breath to steady herself, tried to calm her racing heart. He wanted her to undress, to lie beside him, to give herself, her virginity to him.
To seal their marriage vows.
Outside, the moon was on the rise. Round, brilliant, obliterating all but one lone star beside it. It shone down and drenched the rolling prairie, the gentle sloping land.
As Reed reached up and stroked her cheek, he ran his fingers through her hair, patient. Waiting.
Kate stared out at the man in the moon.
She had made something of her life at Saint Perpetua’s and then she had taken a chance on her dream.
She was no whore. She was not her mother.
She was a wife, and, determined to be the best wife a man ever had, Kate drew his hand away from her gown, clung to it as she rose to her feet. Then she gathered her nightgown in her hand and slowly drew it over her head. She let it fall across the arm of the rocker. Shivering despite the heat of summer, astounded by her own boldness, she stood before him in nothing but milk-white moonlight.
She was a dream wrapped in moonbeams. His wife. His love. Soft and gentle, warm as the ever-present breeze kissing the prairie.
He liked this newfound shyness in her. It gave him strength that may have otherwise failed him. She lifted the sheet and carefully slipped in beside him, somehow aware of the damn ache in his shoulder, even though the origin of it escaped him now.
He wanted his wife. Wanted to love her until she was certain she was his stars, his moon. The way Daniel was his sunshine, even on the darkest of days.
Her skin was smooth and silky. White as cream. Intoxicating. He drew her fingers to his lips, kissed them one by one, ran his hand up her arm and pulled her so close their bodies touched from shoulder to shoulder.
She trembled with excitement as he whispered love words against her neck, in the hollow of her shoulder, in her ear until she moaned. Then he placed his hand beneath her chin, brought her lips up to his. He brushed aside the fall of long hair and kissed her. He fell into the kiss, the heat and the wetness, and sucked her tongue.
Tonight, she kissed like a virgin. He took his cue from her, smiled against her lips and tried to roll to his side, but the dull ache became a searing pain in his shoulder.
“It hurts. . . .”
She went perfectly still. “If you would rather wait . . .”
“I would rather die than wait.” He kissed her deeply. He would find a way.
“See how much I need you?” He took her hand, drew it beneath the sheet, across his stomach, until he urged her to curl her fingers around his arousal. “Take me inside you.”
She gasped at his boldness, but she did not draw back. Nor did she let go. Instead, with a slow determination that bordered on torture, she began to trail her fingers over him, exploring by touch.
They had all the time in the world, and so he gave himself up to the sheer pleasure of the silky stroke of her hand, closed his eyes, let his senses gambol. A hint of roses swirled around her, reminding him of the old, red trailing rose his mother had brought all the way from Georgia before he
idea
of him and what being married to him meant. Now that reality was staring her in the face, she realized that she had been wandering around in a dream, unaware that this very night she would become his wife—in every sense of the word.
He was her husband. Their marriage had been recorded in Maine and Texas.
Reed slowly ran his hand down her shoulder and took her by surprise when he gently cupped her breast. She gasped, shocked at the intense sensation when his thumb found her nipple, teased it, stroked it. A moan escaped her, shocking her.
Wanting more, needing more, she pressed her hand over his. The fabric of her nightgown separated their hands, yet she felt the heat of his hand through the muslin.
“Take it off,” he urged. His voice was low. Their eyes locked.
She took a deep breath to steady herself, tried to calm her racing heart. He wanted her to undress, to lie beside him, to give herself, her virginity to him.
To seal their marriage vows.
Outside, the moon was on the rise. Round, brilliant, obliterating all but one lone star beside it. It shone down and drenched the rolling prairie, the gentle sloping land.
As Reed reached up and stroked her cheek, he ran his fingers through her hair, patient. Waiting.
Kate stared out at the man in the moon.
She had made something of her life at Saint Perpetua’s and then she had taken a chance on her dream.
She was no whore. She was not her mother.
She was a wife, and, determined to be the best wife a man ever had, Kate drew his hand away from her gown, clung to it as she rose to her feet. Then she gathered her nightgown in her hand and slowly drew it over her head. She let it fall across the arm of the rocker. Shivering despite the heat of summer, astounded by her own boldness, she stood before him in nothing but milk-white moonlight.
She was a dream wrapped in moonbeams. His wife. His love. Soft and gentle, warm as the ever-present breeze kissing the prairie.
He liked this newfound shyness in her. It gave him strength that may have otherwise failed him. She lifted the sheet and carefully slipped in beside him, somehow aware of the damn ache in his shoulder, even though the origin of it escaped him now.
He wanted his wife. Wanted to love her until she was certain she was his stars, his moon. The way Daniel was his sunshine, even on the darkest of days.
Her skin was smooth and silky. White as cream. Intoxicating. He drew her fingers to his lips, kissed them one by one, ran his hand up her arm and pulled her so close their bodies touched from shoulder to shoulder.
She trembled with excitement as he whispered love words against her neck, in the hollow of her shoulder, in her ear until she moaned. Then he placed his hand beneath her chin, brought her lips up to his. He brushed aside the fall of long hair and kissed her. He fell into the kiss, the heat and the wetness, and sucked her tongue.
Tonight, she kissed like a virgin. He took his cue from her, smiled against her lips and tried to roll to his side, but the dull ache became a searing pain in his shoulder.
“It hurts. . . .”
She went perfectly still. “If you would rather wait . . .”
“I would rather die than wait.” He kissed her deeply. He would find a way.
“See how much I need you?” He took her hand, drew it beneath the sheet, across his stomach, until he urged her to curl her fingers around his arousal. “Take me inside you.”
She gasped at his boldness, but she did not draw back. Nor did she let go. Instead, with a slow determination that bordered on torture, she began to trail her fingers over him, exploring by touch.
They had all the time in the world, and so he gave himself up to the sheer pleasure of the silky stroke of her hand, closed his eyes, let his senses gambol. A hint of roses swirled around her, reminding him of the old, red trailing rose his mother had brought all the way from Georgia before he
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