Page 39 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
Eloise stood on the fur at the hearth, the firelight reflecting in her eyes. Then she began to undress.
“No!” he cried. Her eyes widened and she stepped back. He held out his hand and shame flooded though him as she flinched. He lowered his hand and spoke more softly.
“Tonight, let me undress you, if it pleases you.”
She nodded and grew still. He removed her garments, layer by layer, until she wore nothing but her chemise, the thin material rippling as she trembled.
The fire crackled and a log hissed. Eloise jumped at the sound.
“Shhh, wife, you’ve naught to fear tonight.” Though she stood firm, her eyes narrowed as if anticipating an admonishment. His own eyes stung with shame. Blinking back moisture, he held his palm against her face and caressed her cheek with his thumb.
“I am fortunate to have such a beautiful wife.”
She frowned, as if trying to understand him. What had her father called her?My sweet little lamb. That she was—a newborn lamb, skittish and wary, trying to understand the difference between the shepherd and the wolf.
He continued to caress her, moving his hand slowly down her neck, the tendons standing out the only evidence of her fear—before he ran a finger across the top of the chemise, pulling at the laces to reveal her breasts. They were perfect—small and round, dwarfed by his hand, the creamy pale skin contrasting with his roughened calloused fingers. He cupped a breast, as if cradling a delicate flower, marveling at the softness under his fingertips. He ran his thumb across the smooth skin until he reached her nipple, flushed a deep rose color, the color of her lips. Though the chamber was warm, the little peak stiffened under his touch into a pert little rosebud, begging to be tasted.
He smiled at the small gasp of pleasure which fell from her lips and she closed her eyes. His cock lunged forward in his breeches—a stallion eager for the hunt. He dipped his head and took her breast into his mouth and a low cry erupted from her throat.
He tugged at her laces until her chemise was wide open then he slipped it over her shoulders. The garment fell to the floor leaving her naked. He scooped her into his arms, and her eyes flew open, yet she lifted her arms around his neck as he knelt and placed her on the fur beside the fire.
“Lie still,” he said.
She nodded, watching him warily as he removed his own clothes. Wanting to extinguish the fear in her eyes, he began to caress her as Marlin had taught him, running his hands in soft, sweeping motions along her body. His fingers brushed a whisper over the puckered skin of her deformed arm. He caressed the scars lining the inside of her thigh and she whimpered, and tried to sit up.
“Shhh…” he pushed her back, “you have naught to fear from me.”
She nodded, but it pained him to see the tears in her eyes.
Edwin was right. He had wronged her. This gentle creature—the prize he had been granted— served his people, and him, uncomplainingly and with loyalty. And he’d treated her with contempt and brutality. But no more.
He placed his hands on her thighs but felt her resist.
“Nay, Eloise, let me tend to your scars as you tended to mine.”
He brushed his lips against the scars on her thigh. He longed to ask her how she had come by them, but had no wish to break the spell he’d begun to weave. His skittish little lamb was beginning to trust the shepherd.
He took a deep breath and inhaled an intoxicating aroma—the primal scent of her need—sweet and spicyas Marlin had described. He reached up to the juncture of her thighs and touched the nest of fair curls, hot and damp.
A woman will weep bitter tears from her eyes to show her sadness and sweet tears from her body to show her pleasure.
His own body tightened painfully with his own need—the sight and scent of her pleasure threatened to drive him into a frenzy. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to ease his torment, but Marlin’s words tempered him.
Wait, my lord. Bring her to pleasure before seeking your own. She will thank you for it, and reward you for your patience.
He groaned at his restraint and she shifted her thighs together.
“Nay, wife, be still for me. I wish to taste you.”
“My lord?” her voice held a note of panic.
“May I taste you?”
The very act of asking seemed to calm, her and she relaxed, letting him part her thighs. He kissed her curls before dipping in with his tongue, tasting her sweet essence.
The taste of a woman in love is better than the finest wine, my Lord.
Was Marlin right? Could his wife love him? He ran his tongue along her folds until he found what he was looking for, a perfect, round little flowerbud, ripe for him—and only him.
