Page 51 of The Redemption of Remy St. Claire

This time, when he moved toward her, she answered him by moving closer to him. There was no hesitation and, to his pleasure, she darted her tongue into his mouth. Her kiss was as unschooled as it’d been a week ago. He should’ve seen it then. That kiss hadn’t been awkward because it’d been the first one they shared. It’d been artless because she was inexperienced.

What kind of guys had she been with? Kissing was an art. One of those things in life that improved with practice. If she’d been with guys who passed over kissing and moved too fast? No wonder she was skittish.

So he continued to kiss her as if he had all the time in the world. And he did. They had a lifetime together.

Only when her hand wandered down to his chest, did he realize this was new territory for her. She explored as if she’d never done this before. Heady stuff. Good thing he wore sweatpants instead of jeans, because denim would be way too tight. He hadn’t wanted to react to her, as tonight was about her pleasure. But he was only human, and arousal swirled within him.

He pulled away, needing to draw breath.

“Please, let’s do it.” Her breath came in little gasps. “Let’s just do it.”

She placed her hand against his erection. Unsurprisingly, he hardened under her touch.

Maybe the best way to help her was just to make love to her. Show her how good it could feel. This time, when he kissed her, he gave it purpose. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, mimicking the more intimate act. He reached for her shoulders where two little spaghetti straps held up whatever she wore. His hand meandered down her side and the satin slipped beneath his fingertips. She pushed his hand away and pulled back.

She grunted as she raised her arms and pulled the negligee over her head. His mind wandered to those tendrils. Was her hair mussed or still keeping to its confines? When she reached for him, he went willingly. This time it was she who was pushy. She whose tongue demanded. She who pulled him closer.

She grabbed his hand and placed it on her breast. When he squeezed, she moaned. Her hand again snaked out to his crotch, rubbing against him so hard he worried about chafing. When she tugged at his T-shirt, he broke the kiss to slip it over his head. Her hands were cool against the heated skin of his chest, and when she raked her fingernails across his abdomen, he nearly bucked off the bed.

“You like that.” She repeated the action.

“Yeah, I like that.” God, did he ever. He placed his hand over her breast, and she arched against his palm. How could she think herself frigid? Her responses were exhilarating.

And then she encouraged him to move over her, arching her hips to press against him. When he levered himself down so he could take her breast in his mouth, she groaned.

“That feels amazing.”

He always appreciated feedback. He suckled more deeply, using pressure to harden the bud, nipping it with his teeth. A hissing sound assured him he was on the right track. Enjoying the reactions he was eliciting, he reached down to press his hand against her.

What the hell?

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Instead of being wet with desire, she was dry. Instead of pressing herself against his palm, she had no idea what to do. Her every reaction had been staged. Like she was following some script on how she was supposed to be reacting, instead of actually feeling something.

I’m going to be sick. He pulled back, ignoring her attempts to yank him back into whatever play she was acting in.

When he tried to still her arms, she kept reaching, grabbing flesh with her fingernails. She reached for his erection again, only this time he evaded her grasp. She wouldn’t have found much of interest anyway, because a metaphorical bucket of cold water had been dumped on his crotch.

“Remy.”

“Just do it.” She tried to press herself against him. “Just get it over with.”

“Remy.” He put more force into his voice.

And just like that, she attacked him. Raining down blows against his arms and torso. She grabbed his arms and her nails raked him. He tried to still her arms, but now she tried to kick him. He barely missed a knee to the groin, and his only choice was to pin her down using his bulk. He immobilized her arms above her head and levered his hips to hold hers in place.

It took a good two minutes before she stopped trying to claw and kick him. Her breathing was harsh, her sobs chilling. Once he wasn’t just reacting to her attack, he tried to piece together what’d just happened.

When she wasn’t a threat to either of them, he eased off of her. She curled into the fetal position, pulling in so tightly he was surprised she could even draw breath.

She shook so hard, her teeth chattered.

He reached for the comforter and pulled it over her, resisting the urge to use his own body heat to warm her. The last thing she needed was for him to touch her. He’d no doubt she’d shatter into a million pieces.

As he sat and watched over her, a helplessness enveloped him. His wife was strong, right? He hadn’t anticipated she’d fall apart in front of him.

Who have I married?

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