How long was one supposed to wait before heading to one’s wife’s room to consummate a marriage?
Ash, in the process of pacing before the hearth in his dressing robe and bare feet, stumbled.Wife. She truly was his wife. Good God, he was married, a fact that still had the ability to stun him nearly immobile.
But he was being ridiculous, he told himself brutally as he resumed his pacing, his footsteps quicker than before. People married every day. This particular occasion was nothing uncommon. If anything, it was incredibly ordinary.
And yet this did not feel ordinary. In fact, it felt quite unbelievably extraordinary.
Enough. This was getting him nowhere. He had promised Bronwyn they would consummate this union, and that they would live together as husband and wife for a fortnight. He could not remain hiding away in his bedchamber all that time.
Dragging in a deep breath, he looked to the connecting door that led into her chamber. Was she ready for him? He paused, listening, attempting to make out even a whisper of sound on the other side of the door. But no, there was nothing. Had she finished preparing for bed then? Was she waiting even now for him, sitting up in the huge four-poster bed, perhaps garbed in a soft nightgown that he would take great pleasure in removing from her body?
He groaned as his cock throbbed to life beneath his dressing gown. If he didn’t gain control of himself, he would finish before he even got started. Like some green boy bedding a woman for the first time.
Taking a deep breath, he strode to the connecting door and knocked.
Her voice, trembling and hesitant, reached him. “Come in.”
Before he could think better of it, he grasped the latch and opened the door.
The sight that greeted him was much more erotic than he could have imagined. And, ironically, he did not think she was even aware of just how utterly desirable she appeared. She was on the bed, yes, but she was not tucked under blankets. No, she was kneeling in the center of the mattress, in a nightgown that was much more revealing than he ever expected her to wear. No doubt the doings of her mother and Lady Tesh; judging by the deep red that stained Bronwyn’s cheeks and the way her hands fluttered over her breasts, she did not seem to be used to wearing such garments.
For the first time ever, Ash found himself fervently thankful to the two older women.
She looked about the room and to the pillows behind her. “I wasn’t certain where I should wait,” she began, her voice faint, barely reaching to where he stood. “This is all quite new to me.”
“I assure you,” he replied as he moved closer, “this is all new to me, as well.”
Her eyes flew to his, shock stamped across her features. “You are a virgin?”
“What? Oh! No, I have been with women.” His lips quirked. “Just not a wife.”
“Well, that’s good,” she said, her visible relief making her shoulders sag. “I had hoped at least one of us would know what they were about. It will make this whole thing much easier, don’t you think? Not that I don’t know the basics. As I mentioned, I have done a fair amount of study into the process through extensive research in books. But reading about it and seeing drawings are much different than experiencing it oneself.”
By God, she was a delight. And the pictures she was painting in his mind were achingly erotic. “Did you truly make a study of the sex act?” he asked, his voice turning husky as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“I would be a sad excuse for a naturalist if I did not,” she proclaimed, seemingly oblivious to his quickly growing desire. “Many of the pictures I viewed seemed simple enough. But others seemed impossible to pull off. I just cannot comprehend how limbs can twist in such ways.”
He moved across the bed, closer to her, until he could fairly smell the sweet citrus scent that seemed to follow her wherever she went. “I assure you,” he murmured, “the human body is capable of all sorts of things when in the throes of passion.”
Finally, she seemed to grow aware of his proximity, as well as the meaning behind his words. She blinked, swallowing hard, her eyes dropping to his lips. Her voice, when she spoke, was a mere breath of sound. “Is that so?”
“It is. May I?” he asked as he reached out, slowly lest he startle her, gesturing at her spectacles. At her jerky nod he gently removed them, placing them on the bedside table before cupping her cheek, dragging his thumb across it in a slow caress. “Though, of course, before we begin to experiment with positions—all in the name of your research, of course—it’s wise to make certain a woman’s body is ready for the man.”
“Ready?” she replied faintly, her eyelids drifting lower as his fingers trailed down the side of her neck. “Do you mean like when I touch myself and I grow wet?”
“God, Bronwyn,” he groaned, desire flooding him. Unable to help himself, he drew her against him and covered her mouth with his.
There was no surprise on her part this time; she was an eager participant from the first touch of lips. Her arms came about his neck, her breasts pressing flush to his chest as she lurched toward him. There was no maidenly modesty, no shyness as he had expected. Instead, she threw herself into the kiss with an enthusiasm that stunned and delighted him. He had guessed there might be deep passions hidden beneath her scholarly exterior; however, he had not expected them to be so explosively glorious.
Growling low in pleasure, he pushed her back against the pillows, covering her body with his own. Though there were no stays and layers of clothes between them, though they were separated by only his dressing gown and her lacy concoction of a nightgown, he wanted—no, needed—more. He needed to feel her skin against his, to sink into her delectable body, to touch and taste her until he didn’t know where one of them ended and the other began.
And judging by the way she squirmed against him, she felt the exact same. Her hands roamed over his back and shoulders, her tongue tangling with his, her legs rubbing against his own. He tore his mouth free, moving his lips across her cheek to trail kisses down her neck. She arched her head back, gasping.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Bronwyn,” he rasped against her skin. He dragged a sleeve off her shoulder, down, down, until he freed her breast. It was small and pert, a perfect plum with the most delectable strawberry tip. And he wanted to taste it so badly he felt he might weep.
But Bronwyn stilled. And then she tried drawing her nightgown back over her breast. The light was dim, yet when he glanced up he could see uncertainty in her eyes.
Mumbled words poured from her lips, falling over each other, mingling into an incomprehensible jumble. All but for two words that stood out from the rest.