Page 41 of The Winter Husband
He slid inside her a fraction and she couldn’t help wincing. Everything about Lucas was big. Her body strained to adjust, though she felt a warm dampness spread between her legs. He breathed hard as he stilled, his chest bellowing, his face strained with pleasure. Maybe he wouldn’t notice no maidenhead barred his way.
She was counting on it.
“I’ll try,” he said, adding slight pressure, “to be gentle.”
She expelled a breath as he pressed a little deeper, filling her sex. Her elbows gave way. The back of her head hit the furs as she canted her hips to accommodate him. With a low, rumbling groan, he paused. His member throbbed, she felt every pulse deep inside her. She could no longer keep her eyes open.
His hands hit the bed on either side of her as he thrust his hips. She sheathed him to the root. He muttered something strained and sharp, but she was beyond understanding. His forward movement pushed her legs higher on his arms, opening her sex even more. His hips tensed against her inner thighs.
“Please,” she whispered as the sweetness intensified. “Please.”
He whispered in her ear, “Moan for me, Marie.”
He rocked against her, and her pleasure surged. She seized his arms and dug furrows with her fingernails as he thrust, and thrust again, lifting her on a rising wave.
Then she could think no more.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lucas opened his eyes to a dim room and the sound of breathing.
He turned his head on the pillow. Marie lay with her back to him, nothing exposed above the furs but a pale shoulder and tangled braid. Breathing in the perfume of her, tinged with the scent of sex, his whole body went hot despite the chill of the early morning air. By the saints, she was a wonder. What happened to the prickly porcupine he’d brought to his cabin before the deep snows? His mind ran with so many questions.
But now—finally—he knew at least one of her secrets.
His wife was no virgin.
Jealousy flared, a sentiment shot from primitive deep. He knew he had no right to feel this way. Marie was his wife in name only. Though she had offered up her body of her own free will, he had no claim on her past, her future, or…anything but this moment. He’d be a fool to imagine she belonged to him for more than what remained of winter.
And yet…and yet…possessiveness gripped him and wouldn’t let him stop speculating. He wondered if her lack of sexual innocence had anything to do with Marie’s hurt, that pain Etta had perceived and Philippe had warned him about. Men could be monsters, especially to women. Such thoughts were torment to him, but he couldn’t stop wondering. How did a young woman cloistered in an orphanage come into contact with a brute heartless enough to steal her innocence and then abandon her?
Then again, maybe her innocence hadn’t been stolen.
Maybe she’d given herself freely.
Maybe she’d fallen in love.
Jealousy surged anew, threatening to consume him. Once again, he used his better sense to push it away. Marie wasn’this.Whatever had happened before Quebec, it was all in the past. Yesterday, she had offered him her body, her passion, and her trust. She’d chosen to share this bed with him. It was more than he’d ever expected. More than a man like him deserved.
He rolled to his side to cup her body close. Her hair smelled of rosewater. The scent filled his head, calming the gallop of his thoughts. Learning one of her secrets had unlocked a thousand more mysteries, but, with his body so near hers, his focus shifted to discovering the answer to one crucial unknown.
Would she give herself to him again?
The space between their bodies grew warm. He scooped up a curl lying across her cheek and slipped it behind the curve of her ear, revealing a nutmeg-colored freckle on her cheekbone. He’d never noticed that before, or the other fleck of a beauty mark perched on the tip of her shoulder. He moved a fraction closer, so her head slipped just under his chin. His cock strained between them but made an effort not to touch her with it. As much as he’d love to slide into her and gently fuck her awake, this new arrangement between them felt too fragile.
She was a woman who’d been hurt by a man.
She needed to be the one to make the choice.
Sighing in sleepy contentment, she shifted under the furs, brushing her bottom against him. His balls tightened. With one slight move forward, he could snug the length of his erection in the valley between her thighs. No sooner had the thought passed through his mind than the woman in his arms maneuvered her backside against him in just that position. His heart dropped a beat as his cock slid the length of her warm furrow.
He slid his arm across her waist and murmured, “You’re awake.”
Her soft laugh, muffled by the pillow, was as intoxicating as a swig of rum. He whispered her name into her hair. She answered by swaying her backside. That seemed like eager consent, so he slid his hand around her waist and down to the warm delta between her legs. She made the kind of sound that could be interpreted in any language as further encouragement. He nudged his fingers to open her sex. He circled the engorged little nub near the crest until she pressed her head back into his throat, her breath hissing between her teeth.
Wanting fogged his mind, but he kept a leash on his urges. He rolled his finger until her whole body undulated against his touch. Her rising pleasure fueled his own, straining his sex to tautness. His mouth watered at the sight of a pink nipple peeking just above the edge of the furs.
Her bottom pressed harder against him. A dangerous surge strained his sex.
