“Rafael,” she said in a very thin voice, “please put me down now.”
“All right,” he said, all agreeable, and slid her slowly down the front of his body. He saw her flush at the contact with him, and felt his own body respond instantly. “Ah,” he said, leaned down, and kissed her. She was as stiff as the baking paddle.
For about thirty seconds.
He was an excellent lover, he knew it, and she would come to accept it soon enough. He w
ould take her here, in the kitchen, in the bright daylight, and he would find this ugliness of hers.
“Come, sweetheart, part your lips for me. A bit more. Ah, that’s it.”
She felt his tongue gently touch hers, then retreat, stroking her lips. His hands were on her back, caressing her shoulders, then downward to mold her hips. Why him? She wondered vaguely, even as her own enthusiasm mounted alarmingly.
She felt his fingers untying her apron and he yanked it off her, hurling it to the other side of the kitchen. Then, without pause, he released her, pulled her back against him, and his hand cupped her fully. His other hand closed over her breast. He felt the heat of her through her muslin gown and groaned softly as he kissed her throat.
“Rafael,” she managed, knowing that soon, very soon, she wouldn’t care that the kitchen was filled with morning sunlight, that she was dreadfully sore from their mutual ardor of the night before. She wouldn’t care about anything except having him. “Please, do not . . . ah . . . “
“Now, Victoria. Here. Right here.”
“No, please,” she said, nearly sobbing with desire and frustration at her own helplessness with him.
He felt the heat of her beneath his probing fingers and his hands went wild on her clothes even as he lowered her to the kitchen floor. He had no thought to finding this so-called ugliness—he wanted only to bury himself deep inside her, love her until she screamed, and melted into him. He yanked up her gown, tearing it, and ripped open her drawers, ignoring her petticoat, stockings, and slippers. He was breathing hard as he quickly unfastened the front of his breeches.
“Victoria,” he said, his voice harsh, and with one powerful thrust he came fully and deeply into her. Her cry was the most beautiful sound his ears had ever enjoyed. She was small, tight about him, and ready for him. He tried to keep his weight off her, but she wouldn’t allow it. She was moving upward against him, bringing him deeper, and he obliged her. He lifted himself on his hands so he could press against her woman’s mound, and when he did, a scream choked in her throat. She whispered his name, and in that instant he looked into her eyes, the color of the ocean just before a storm struck—turbulent blue, shifting in hue and focus—and was lost, with her.
He held himself perfectly still, no thought of sleep entering his mind this time. After a few moments of recovery he came up on his elbows and smiled down at his dazed wife. Her eyes were closed, her thick brown lashes damp against her cheeks. She was beautiful, sated, and he was still deep inside her, and she was his. Only his.
“Very nice, wife,” he said, willing her to look at him. “I have the talent of a great politician. I am the master of understatement. Look at me, Victoria.”
She did. Her lashes fluttered open and she stared up at him with such a look of hopelessness in her eyes that he immediately felt fear sear through him. “What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?”
She said nothing.
“Victoria?”
She still said nothing, merely turned her face away from him. He pulled himself out of her, and felt her flinch. He’d known she would be sore after the previous night but he’d granted himself instant forgetfulness in his desire to assuage his own lust. “I’m sorry, truly. Just hold still, don’t move.”
He rose, fastened his breeches, then dampened a soft cloth with cool water. He came down on his knees beside her and gently pressed the cloth against her. She nearly jumped out of her skin. She lurched up, her face flaming. “Oh, no, please, Rafael. “She swatted at him ineffectually.
“Would you please just hold your tongue? Lie down. I’m sorry the bed is made of flagstone, but just a few more minutes, all right?” He bathed his seed from her, rinsed out the cloth, and pressed it against her once more. He stretched out beside her on the kitchen floor, still holding the damp cloth against her. “Look at me, Victoria.”
If possible, she turned her head even more away from him until he imagined that her nose was pressing against the flagstone. His eyes traveled down her body. Her drawers were neatly split down the center seam and his hand was inside, holding the cloth against her. Her stockings were held up with narrow black garters, her slippers a pale pink to match her now-ruined morning gown. Her petticoat was spread about her like ruffled icing on a cake.
“I didn’t realize before that you were a coward. It’s a disconcerting and disappointing discovery. I believe that before a man takes a wife, her courage should be proved. Not a deed of derring-do, mind you, just something that will show him that he can count on her. I can see it now—we will be attacked by a vicious highwayman and you will conveniently faint, leaving me to face the fellow alone. I won’t be armed, of course, because you faint at the sight of weapons, thus I am helpless against him. I can only imagine your guilt when you come to consciousness and I am sprawled out at your feet, long gone from these earthly delights.” At his final words, she felt the cloth press more closely against her.
“Will you feel guilty, Victoria? Or will you faint again at the sight of my bloody body?”
She turned her head and looked up at his smiling eyes. She said very clearly, “You are ridiculous, utterly and completely and irrevocably ridiculous, and awfully spoiled. I am not a coward, I’m embarrassed and mortified, and I want to crawl away and hide myself in a rabbit hole. You persist in mocking me, taunting me, and doing . . . well doing what you are doing right now. It’s shocking to me. And you persist in making me forget things, like your awful perfidy.”
He gave a whistle of admiration. “Good heavens, sweetheart, I haven’t heard that many words strung all together from you since . . . well, I can’t remember when. You have put me in my miserable man’s place. But I won’t move my hand just yet, unless it is to caress you again.” He followed words with deed and watched her eyes widen.
“Stop.”
“All right,” he said agreeably, and did. He watched the glint of disappointment in her eyes and smiled to himself. She was soon back to normal, more’s the pity, he thought, and said, “I don’t like you. I wish you would move your damned hand and let me pull down my dress—my ripped dress.”
“Your drawers are ripped as well. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a plentiful supply.”
She sucked in her breath. His flowing good humor seemed inexhaustible. She couldn’t compete with him.