Page 63 of Temptations of a Wallflower
Glancing up at the mirror, he noticed Sarah staring. At him. His back. Her gaze roved eagerly over his shoulders, his arms. She even let her eyes roam lower, to his arse and thighs.
She had no idea that he watched her watching him.
Knowing that she observed him with so ravenous a look, his heart sped up and his cock ached. So . . . his new bride liked what she saw. Rather than be repulsed by his muscular physique—so unlike most noblemen’s—she seemed to enjoy his form. Gratitude for his morning swims filled him, and he felt a nice little surge of masculine pride. The desire in her eyes stoked his own.
He didn’t want to embarrass her by drawing notice to her attention, yet he didn’t want her to stop looking at him as she did.
Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.But perhaps just a little bit of conceit might be a good thing. There was no real harm in it.
So he stretched a little and flexed the muscles of his arms and back, as though unaware of her gaze. Hereyes widened in appreciation. He struggled to resist the urge to preen and pose even more.
She loosened her grip on the covers. The blanket slid down to her waist, revealing her in a ribbon-trimmed chemise. The fine fabric did little to conceal the lush, full shape of her breasts, or the tight little buds of her nipples straining against the linen.
At this rate, he’d be lucky to make it to the bed before exploding.
He turned around, and, to his surprise, she didn’t look away. Instead, she continued to stare at his chest and arms. He would have thought an untested maiden like her would have shown more shyness—but her boldness filled him with his own sense of strength. She hadn’t looked away from the erotic Oriental art, and now she showed the same daring with him.
His hands strayed to the fastening of his breeches, readying to completely undress.
“Will you blow out the candle?” he asked, glancing at the light on the bedside table.
“Ah, my husband is shy,” she returned with a little smile.
He didn’t want her believing him timid or nearly as inexperienced as he actually was, sensing that neither emotion created much passion. “Leave it burning,” he said, summoning his own bravado.
Her widening smile showed that she did appreciate his courage.
After taking a deep breath, he began to unfasten the buttons on his breeches. This was only the second time in his life that he’d stripped before an audience, and the first time had been mostly in darkness. Sarahwatched his movements avidly, her gaze fastened on his stiff fingers as he slipped each button through its hole. The front flap opened. He peeled off his breeches. And then he stood before her in nothing but his smallclothes.
The fabric of his undergarments was very thin. There was little hiding the jut of his erection tenting the linen. His whole body was flushed and aflame. He thought to cover himself with his hands, lest he frighten her. But then he saw her looking straight at his cock, not with fear but with curiosity and excitement. His hands stayed at his sides.
“My wife is not shy,” he said huskily.
“Not with my husband, I’m not,” she answered, dragging her gaze back up to his face. “I’ve spent too long in the shadows. Now . . . with us . . . I want everything in the light.”
His heart—and other parts of his anatomy—leapt.
He wouldn’t keep her waiting—not when he could barely delay another moment. So he padded across the room toward her, his every muscle tight with wanting, his pulse hammering.
She edged over in the bed, making room for him. He let the candle continue to burn as he slid into bed. The sheets were warm from her body, faintly perfumed with roses. He felt big and ungainly as he climbed in beside her, but she merely watched him with that same eager look. They sat side by side, leaning against the headboard. Her near nudity was a tempest in his veins—her long, sleek legs, the curve of her belly, her bare arms. Everywhere was Sarah, filling his senses.
What would Marwood do in this situation? Masterfully take command, sweeping the woman into his arms and claiming her confidently. But Jeremy wasn’t his cousin, and never would be.
A moment passed. And then another.
“You’ve never done this before, either,” Sarah said.
He thought, briefly, about prevaricating or overstating his experience. “I have,” he replied. Then admitted, “Once.”
She exhaled, and her lips curved. “We can learn together. Step by step.”
He threaded their fingers together and pressed a kiss on the back of her hand. “God, Sarah—if you only knew how much I want you.” His voice was rough. “The prayers I’ve said . . . I’m afraid of scaring you.”
“Fear has no place with us,” she said softly. “You aren’t alone. I’ve been waiting for this—for you—for a long time.”
He leaned down and, with his free hand, cupped her face, tilting it upward. His mouth came down onto hers. She kissed him back feverishly, hotly, her lips as demanding as his. They devoured each other, consuming and taking. There was no part of him that did not feel and respond to her, urging him to take her, take her swift and hard.
But he would not give in to the commands of his impatient body. He needed to give her more than a fast, graceless fuck.
