Page 73 of My One and Only Duke
A long, thin ridge across one shoulder blade, a puckered star on his biceps, a dent at the base of his spine. The wounds were many and varied, and she wished he’d trust her with each one’s story.
Quinn bore her investigations, bracing himself over her on all fours, his forehead against the crook of her neck. His hair was damp and cool, his breath warm.
She had the sense her curiosity pleased him more than any erotic cleverness might have. “I am your wife,” she said, kissing his temple. “Make me your lover.”
He hitched nearer, and his cock brushed her belly. His kisses were soft and meandering—a failed attempt at distraction—and by lazy little nudges he eased inside of her.
Jane was sorting through ways to urge him on—she wasn’t a blushing virgin—when she realized there was more of him than she’d anticipated. Much more.
“Breathe, Jane. We’ll get there if we go easy.”
She let out a breath, and Quinn sank deeper. He was diabolically patient, pausing to brush her hair from her brow with gentle fingers, to tug at her earlobe with his teeth. She was ready to pull his hair when it occurred to her she needn’t remain passive.
She met his next languid thrust with a roll of her hips and Quinn gathered her close.
He liked when she moved with him. The tension in his body told her that; the slight rasp of his breathing confirmed it. His loving consumed her, narrowing her awareness to movement, pleasure, sensation, and him.
With the sliver of her mind that could still reason, she realized Quinn was waiting for her, monitoring her reactions even as he pushed her more and more deeply into yearning. He was being intimately considerate, and Jane was infinitely frustrated.
“You too, Quinn. Together.” Four words was the limit of her coherence. She locked her ankles at the small of his back and went after his monumental self-control with every physical argument she could command. Hips, hands, mouth, breath—everything.
The joining became fierce, and mutual, as pleasure cascaded through Jane in a roaring torrent. Quinn never sped up, never gave quarter, and thus Jane could not relent either. He groaned softly against her shoulder, then shuddered and shook as he hilted himself inside her. When Jane was convinced the storm had passed, Quinn ambushed her with another series of powerful thrusts, and she soared again, high and hard.
He was making a point, for which she’d thank him once she could form sentences again. In the absence of words, Jane settled for letting her legs fall open as she stroked his backside.
Quinn stayed with her for long, sweet moments, breathing in counterpoint, keeping her warm.
“I’ll fetch you a flannel,” he said, easing away.
Jane rolled to her side, the better to watch her husband prowling across the bedroom in the altogether. He was a magnificent specimen of manhood, though she suspected he didn’t see himself that way. While he wasn’t self-conscious about his nakedness, he also had none of the swagger Jane had seen in her first husband.
As if Gordie had invented the marital act himself, clever fellow, and bestowed its blessings on all of creation.
A cloth sopped in water, then Quinn was frowning by the bed, a damp flannel in his hand. “I was trying to be considerate.”
He was unhappy—after that?
Jane took the cloth and used it beneath the covers—awkward business—but she wasn’t about to flip the covers back so a brooding, scowling Quinn could watch her wash.
“You were very considerate,” Jane said. “If you’d been any more considerate, I’d be witless and panting into next week.” She tossed the cloth in the direction of the privacy screen. “Get under the covers, Quinn, and explain what has you in a swither.”
He remained silent by the bed, likely his version of a protest at being told what to do, then he obliged by walking around to his side of the mattress.
“You are with child,” he groused. “I’m not a rutting bull.”
Oh, for the love of…Jane bounced across the bed and insinuated herself against his side, which was like cuddling up to a block of granite.
“Maybe I am a rutting heifer,” she said. “I hadn’t realized one can move. Two can move. Gordie hadn’t your…he couldn’t last, and I wasn’t to move lest I cause him to spend too soon, and it was all very awkward when it went awry, which it usually did, and now you’ve made me blush.”
This marriage would doubtless involve a deal of blushing. “You’ve demanded honesty of me,” she went on, “and by heaven you shall have it. I liked being passionate with you, I liked being free to touch and talk and let go. I liked that we pleased each other. I liked it a lot, Quinn.”
He wrestled her over him, so Jane was straddling her naked husband. His sex was cool and damp against her tender flesh, which seemed to bother him not at all.
“A rutting heifer? I married a rutting heifer?”
“Apparently so.”
Quinn snorted, then rumbled, until he was laughing outright. Jane smacked him on the shoulder, then tucked herself against his chest and smiled herself to sleep.
