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Authors: Tracy Anne Warren
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didn’t know who she really was.
Her fault.
Just as he hadn’t known about the innocence that had been hers alone to give. Her fault again, she supposed. She turned her face aside, another tear sliding over her cheek.
He kissed it away, lips tender against her flushed skin. His body held in the grip of a fierce, unsatiated desire. Poised halfway between heaven and hell. He should probably withdraw, he thought, leave her alone. Only, he couldn’t quite bring himself to. Not now. Not when it felt so extraordinarily exquisite. Not when he knew it could feel even better still.
She was his wife, he told himself. He had a right. The thought made his body harden further. Besides, if he let her go now, he might never get her into bed again. Not without force. And that he did not want. All she knew now was the pain. He needed to show her there was more. Needed to show her there could be pleasure too.
“Relax and it will be better,” he said.
She made a small sound like a squeak.
He reached down a hand to reposition her hips, then gently eased himself the rest of the way inside.
She whimpered.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he urged.
Violet didn’t think she could. But if it would satisfy him, get him to finish whatever it was he intended to do, then she supposed she would comply.
She raised her legs, hooked them around his hips. Moments later, he began to thrust. Shallow strokes at first, then longer ones. She sensed his restraint, as if he was denying his own urgings in favor of her own.
She held on to him, sliding her arms over his shoulders. Then stroked her palms across the fine, warm skin of his back. She reveled in the fluid texture she found, the tensile strength.
Yearning swept over her again. That same lovely rush she had experienced before when he had touched her with his hands. Building, swelling, leaving her body literally weeping for relief. Ripples of exquisite need pulsed through her system. Tingling in her toes. Exploding in her brain. Aching in her deepest depths.
She moaned.
Not from pain this time but from desire. Wanton, willing and ripe. A high, thin thread of sound that floated upward into the room.
Adrian’s breath sang warm and heavy in her ear as he continued to move within her. Suddenly his body stiffened and shook. His head arched back, a look of intense, almost feral satisfaction etched on his features. A wet warmth filled her before he collapsed upon her. Lungs pumping for air. His face cradled against her neck.
She waited. Was it over? Was that all? It seemed to her there should have been something more.
As if sensing her thoughts, he levered himself onto his elbows. Took most of his great weight off her small frame. “I couldn’t wait. Next time will be better, I promise.”
He rolled away from her. Less than a minute later, he climbed from the bed.
She tugged the coverlet up over herself, high under her chin.
Was he leaving?
There came the unmistakable sound of water being poured, followed by a soft hush of movement. Next, the light clink of porcelain on porcelain. Old water dumped in the waste basin, exchanged for fresh. With his feet all but silent on the carpeting, he crossed back to her, a china washbasin painted with cheery yellow flowers held in one hand.
He stopped beside her, naked and completely unashamed. The skin along his thighs, and that other unmentionable part of him, damp from where he had obviously bathed. After a hasty look, she turned her eyes away.
“Would you prefer I put on my robe?”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.
Setting the basin on the side table, he took up a spot next to her on the bed.
She didn’t react until he reached out to pull back the covers. She clutched them to her, fought a silent tugo’war.
“Let me,” he urged, his tone gentle. He dunked a clean washcloth in the basin, rang out the excess water. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
Did he mean to wash her, down there?
Heat flooded into her cheeks, embarrassed
Her fault.
Just as he hadn’t known about the innocence that had been hers alone to give. Her fault again, she supposed. She turned her face aside, another tear sliding over her cheek.
He kissed it away, lips tender against her flushed skin. His body held in the grip of a fierce, unsatiated desire. Poised halfway between heaven and hell. He should probably withdraw, he thought, leave her alone. Only, he couldn’t quite bring himself to. Not now. Not when it felt so extraordinarily exquisite. Not when he knew it could feel even better still.
She was his wife, he told himself. He had a right. The thought made his body harden further. Besides, if he let her go now, he might never get her into bed again. Not without force. And that he did not want. All she knew now was the pain. He needed to show her there was more. Needed to show her there could be pleasure too.
“Relax and it will be better,” he said.
She made a small sound like a squeak.
He reached down a hand to reposition her hips, then gently eased himself the rest of the way inside.
She whimpered.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he urged.
Violet didn’t think she could. But if it would satisfy him, get him to finish whatever it was he intended to do, then she supposed she would comply.
She raised her legs, hooked them around his hips. Moments later, he began to thrust. Shallow strokes at first, then longer ones. She sensed his restraint, as if he was denying his own urgings in favor of her own.
She held on to him, sliding her arms over his shoulders. Then stroked her palms across the fine, warm skin of his back. She reveled in the fluid texture she found, the tensile strength.
Yearning swept over her again. That same lovely rush she had experienced before when he had touched her with his hands. Building, swelling, leaving her body literally weeping for relief. Ripples of exquisite need pulsed through her system. Tingling in her toes. Exploding in her brain. Aching in her deepest depths.
She moaned.
Not from pain this time but from desire. Wanton, willing and ripe. A high, thin thread of sound that floated upward into the room.
Adrian’s breath sang warm and heavy in her ear as he continued to move within her. Suddenly his body stiffened and shook. His head arched back, a look of intense, almost feral satisfaction etched on his features. A wet warmth filled her before he collapsed upon her. Lungs pumping for air. His face cradled against her neck.
She waited. Was it over? Was that all? It seemed to her there should have been something more.
As if sensing her thoughts, he levered himself onto his elbows. Took most of his great weight off her small frame. “I couldn’t wait. Next time will be better, I promise.”
He rolled away from her. Less than a minute later, he climbed from the bed.
She tugged the coverlet up over herself, high under her chin.
Was he leaving?
There came the unmistakable sound of water being poured, followed by a soft hush of movement. Next, the light clink of porcelain on porcelain. Old water dumped in the waste basin, exchanged for fresh. With his feet all but silent on the carpeting, he crossed back to her, a china washbasin painted with cheery yellow flowers held in one hand.
He stopped beside her, naked and completely unashamed. The skin along his thighs, and that other unmentionable part of him, damp from where he had obviously bathed. After a hasty look, she turned her eyes away.
“Would you prefer I put on my robe?”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.
Setting the basin on the side table, he took up a spot next to her on the bed.
She didn’t react until he reached out to pull back the covers. She clutched them to her, fought a silent tugo’war.
“Let me,” he urged, his tone gentle. He dunked a clean washcloth in the basin, rang out the excess water. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
Did he mean to wash her, down there?
Heat flooded into her cheeks, embarrassed
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