Page 15 of The Boys of Summer
It was an invitation that did not need to be issued twice. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to hers and mapping the soft contours of her full lips until he could have sculpted them from memory. It was different to kiss her when she was truly his. It was different to kiss her when they both knew that the kiss was simply a prelude to something else altogether.
Clarissa relaxed in his arms, leaning into him. When he felt the press of her body against his, soft and yielding, it was a victory. And when she sighed, he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue between her softly parted lips. After the briefest hesitation, she answered those soft strokes by mimicking them, kissing him back with the sweetest eagerness.
The kiss continued, growing and evolving into an expression of pure carnality. From the moment he’d seen her at Haverton Abbey, he’d wanted to possess her. And that longing, that desire that she’d inspired in him from the beginning, had become an uncontrollable fire burning inside him. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and laid her upon it. Stripping off his boots and his damp shirt, he joined her there and returned to the wonders of her perfect mouth. But as he kissed her this time, he allowed his hands to roam freely over the lush curves of her figure, acquainting himself with every inch of her.
Dragging his mouth from hers, he kissed her jawline, her neck, her ears. When he reached her collarbone, visible just above the modest neckline of her nightrail, he nipped and licked until she shuddered beneath him. And when he brought his hands up to cup the fullness of her breasts, bare beneath that thin cotton, she gasped. The hardened points of her nipples were a temptation he could not resist. Dipping his head, he closed his mouth over one taut peak, drawing it deeply into his mouth and laving it gently through the coarse fabric. Every soft sigh, every gasp, every strangled cry was committed to memory.
When he slid one hand down to the hem of her nightrail, she offered no protest. Even when his hand slipped beneath it, inching upward over the silken skin of her thigh as he dragged the garment with him, she never flinched. And when he reached the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, she simply parted for him, welcoming his touch. Instinct and desire were a wonderful combination.
Slipping his hand between her thighs, he found her flesh slick with need, but that was not enough. He wanted to see her lost in pleasure, to see her fully taken by it. Parting those delicate folds slightly, he stroked her gently, easing her way as he drove her closer to that precipice.
“What are you doing to me?” she asked breathlessly.
“Making love to you… discovering all the things that bring you pleasure,” he whispered against her ear. “And this, Clarissa, is only the beginning.” Before she could ask what he meant, he moved down the bed until he was kneeling between her parted thighs. The first brush of his mouth over those soft curls had her crying out. But when he stroked the small bud of her pleasure with his tongue, that cry faded into a desperate whimper. Her hands found his shoulders, her nails scoring his flesh as she clung to him. Exploring her, savoring the sweetness of her body, he was relentless.
Augustus reveled in her responsiveness, in the wantonness of it. With his hands gripping her thighs, he used his mouth to bring her to the edge of release again and again. Only when every muscle went taut, when her thighs trembled and her body quaked, did he offer mercy. He closed his mouth over her, suckling gently until she cried out. The spasms of her release wracked her, leaving her trembling beneath him.
Releasing the buttons at the fall of his breeches, he levered himself upward until he was nestled between her thighs, their bodies perfectly aligned. He could feel the damp heat of her flesh. One nudge, and he parted her soft flesh. A shallow thrust and he was poised to take them beyond the point of no return.
“We can stop right now,” he said. “It may kill me, but we can.”
“No. Do not stop.”
He let out a shuddering sigh. “This may be the slightly unpleasant part. But only this once… and then it will be glorious. I promise.”
She smiled up at him, lifting her hands to his face. She stroked his cheeks and then threaded her fingers into his hair. “I believe you. It’s already glorious.”
Closing his eyes, hating that he had to cause her pain for any reason, he flexed his hips, surging into her. She didn’t cry out. There were no tears. But she went very quiet and very still, a different kind of tension suffusing her body. He dared not move in that moment. His control was hanging by a thread. The heat of her, the tightness of her body around him was the sweetest torment he’d ever experienced.
After a moment, when he felt some of the tension leave her, he asked, “Does it still hurt?”
She seemed to be taking stock, considering her answer. “No. It doesn’t hurt now. But it does feel very strange.”
“I think we can do better than just strange.” And then he began to move, gently at first, setting a gentle, rocking rhythm.
It did not take long for that moment of discomfort to give way to something else entirely. He saw it in her face, and it was wondrous. When she began to move with him, matching his rhythm perfectly, it was more than he could stand. Faster, deeper—the easy rhythm was forgotten in the face of stark need and he was unable to hold back. His release was quick and furious, leaving him shuddering against her.
Spent, but fully aware that he had not brought his new bride to the same shattering release he’d just experienced, he eased himself from within her. While she did not appear to be disappointed, he could see that she wasn’t quite swept away by the experience. “That was unfortunately brief,” he admitted. “And terribly selfish of me.”
“It was nice.”
He winced. “Damned by faint praise, Clarissa. Dinners are nice. A bottle of wine is nice. What we just did should be spectacular… and the next time, I promise that it will. But for now, let me help you finish.”
Before she could ask what he meant, Augustus slipped his hand once more between her thighs, easing two fingers inside her as he stroked the hardened nub with his thumb. He continued those caresses until he felt the gentle spasms of her release. “There… that’s what I meant by finishing.”
“Oh,” she said breathlessly. “And I can do that when you are—we are supposed to both finish together?”
“Ideally, yes,” he said. “And the more often we do this, the more we learn what brings one another pleasure. This, Clarissa, is what I want our marriage to be—loving, passionate.”
“Loving?”
Augustus looked down at her. “Yes. Loving.”
“We hardly know one another.”
“I don’t know the details and facts of your life. I can’t say what your favorite dishes are or what your favorite book is… but I know your soul. And you know mine. So yes, Clarissa, I do love you. And whether you wish to admit it or not, you love me. We have loved one another since you tended my wounds on a beach fifteen years ago. Now, we have all the time in the world for you to get comfortable with that,” he said with complete confidence.
“Maybe I do love you. But as I have no idea what love is, it’s hard to say.”
