Page 17 of Marrying the Gardener
Dry as the Sahara desert, she says, “No.”
“Maybe we should start there?”
Somehow more disgust wrinkles her nose. “There’s less shared saliva involved in copped feels.”
A fair point, surely, and—yet—one is first base and the other is second. So. She’ll have to pardon me for not charging through the pitcher’s mound.
“I could start at your neck,” I murmur, planting my hand over the sting of where her teeth got me, repeatedly, just minutes ago. “Leaving a few scattered marks wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
Her hands ball into fists. “Right.”
“We don’t have to rush anything you aren’t comfortable with, Crimson.”
The edge of a pointed smile lifts one corner of her mouth. “I am afraid that sentiment defeats the entire purpose of why you’re here, Kaleb.” She composes herself, managing to appear regal and tortured. “Thank you for your discretion, patience, and caution. It does not go unnoticed, and it is far more consideration than I anticipated.”
Very little could have sobered me more effectively than words like those.
Lifting two fingers, I set her hair back behind her ear and bare her throat to me. “May I?”
Her eyes fall closed, resignation in her every inch.
When I lean in, freckles fill my vision. So many. Everywhere.
Prying my attention off them, I look at her face, her puckered brows, her clenched jaw. Disgust remains etched into her flesh, quieter, as though she’s taken great effort to shove it below the surface of her skin.
“You’re sure you want to do this, Rose-red?” I murmur.
“Bit late now, isn’t it? We’re already married.”
“I signed papers that make becoming unmarried rather painless for you. It’s far more important to me that you’re okay.”
Her eyes open, skepticism writhing in their depths. “You’rebeing awfully hesitant given how many times you’ve asked to bed me in the past two days.”
“Some men do prefer willing partners. I’m one of them.”
“What a bare minimum concept.”
Truly. It frightens me that she seems unfamiliar with it.
“Please hurry up,” she says, as gently as I believe she can manage right now, so I obey.
Dipping my face, I kiss her neck, feel her shudder against my mouth. I lift a hand to brace her waist before I go deeper.
She tenses beneath my fingers.
“All good?” I ask.
“Can’t you go faster?”
“I said I’d be gentle.”
“Just bite me and get it over with.”
I kiss again. “Respectfully, no.”
She grips my wrist, digging her nails into me.
Cautiously, I walk her back toward her dresser, brace myself against the smooth white surface, and cage her in. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this exactly the sort of thing we’re practicing for you to get used to?”
