Page 55 of Almost a Bride
Roselyn felt surrounded by Spencer: his half-naked body pressed down the length of her, his hard arm beneath her neck. Their legs were caught together, and when she tried to move, it only made them more intimately entwined.
Deep in her heart, she knew this was what she’d been longing for, this closeness to him. His gentle touch, his humor, were things she’d never had with Philip. They drew her far more than fine promises and misleading words.
But how to admit to him that even after marriage, she had never been kissed?
Spencer loomed above her, mysterious and dark as the shadows. She wanted to touch him, to feel his strong face between her hands, to run her fingers across that broad, sheltering chest.
She wouldn’t touch him—but she didn’t stop his hand from cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth and she shuddered.
He leaned over her and pressed his mouth gently to hers. She’d never thought her lips could be so sensitive, as she experienced the pleasure of light, butterfly kisses. The wonder of it was almost painful. She closed her eyes and let the sensation shiver through her. Slowly, he applied more pressure, angling his head. Was she doing this right? Could he tell that she was innocent of such a normal part of marriage?
The first touch of his tongue made her gasp and open her eyes. He lifted his head the slightest bit, grinning teasingly down at her.
“You didn’t like that?”
Roselyn didn’t know what to say, or even what to think. Her mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts, of panic and desire, but the one that chorused most strongly was, Don’t stop!
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, to her cheek, then hovered just above her lips. “Touch me, Rose,” he whispered, his breath fairy-light on her skin.
She didn’t stop to think, just placed her hand on his bare arm and let herself feel the warm, smooth hardness of him. Yet his mouth remained just above hers until she yearned for his lips with an ache that centered with shocking warmth between her thighs.
Her gaze clung to his face, as she ran her hand across his shoulder and up to the back of his head. He was breathing just as hard as she was, but still he didn’t kiss her. She knew what he wanted, and she gave in, pulling him down to her.
His shining grin faded as he tilted his head and covered her mouth with his. His tongue slid urgently between her lips, and a hot and sinful feeling shook her as she willingly opened her mouth. The feel of him stroking inside her made her quiver even more as she clung to him. His thigh slid between hers, and she wished there were no garments between them.
He moved on top of her, freeing both of her hands to touch him as she wished. She slid her palms up his back, felt the damp heat of him, and as his kiss deepened again, she stroked his tongue with her own.
A groan rumbled through him, and he clasped her face between his hands, kissing her deeper, harder than she could have imagined. Did he feel the same way, full of wildness and daring and desire?
She had never felt like this in her life, and she reveled in it, touching him freely, moving restlessly to be ever closer to something new, something wonderful, just out of reach.
His mouth followed an invisible path across her jaw and down her neck, and she tilted her head back to give him the access he wanted. His hands slid down her ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts, before he filled his palms with them. The pleasure that suffused her was overwhelming. Her nipples were hard and aching, and she knew that soon she’d be lost in these new sensations, letting him do anything he wanted.
Hadn’t the first touch of Philip’s hand on her bare skin made her quiver with excitement? But on their wedding night he’d been drinking, and his needs were all that mattered—all that ever mattered.
She stiffened beneath Spencer, and he raised his head to look at her with a frown.
Were his needs all Spencer considered, too? How could she so easily forget the child who’d suffered and died because of her flaws, this wildness that made her forget herself?
“We must stop,” she said hoarsely, dislodging his hands and covering her chest. “This isn’t what either of us wants.”
“You don’t know what I want,” he said in a low voice.
He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away.
“Then tell me,” she whispered. She wanted the truth, all of it, but his silence was as eloquent as the thrust of a knife.
He rolled off her.
Roselyn stood up, straightening her clothing with shaking hands, trying not to feel empty and alone without Spencer holding her. She turned to start down the ladder, and couldn’t resist looking at him.
He was propped on one elbow, his hair in disarray, his mouth wet. My God, had she done that?
His eyes glittered at her in the darkness. “Is John Heywood the next boy you’ll replace me with? Does he know you’re already betrothed?”
“John knows everything about me,” she said wearily, “which is more than you can say.”
She went down the rope ladder quickly, her chest tight with tears she refused to shed. She gathered linens and a change of clothing and went out into the night to bathe.
