Page 65 of Marry in Secret
“And what about now?” He gathered her hard against him. Through their clothes she could feel the firm evidence of his desire.
She smiled and reached down to stroke her hand over him. “Much better.”
His mouth lowered to hers and she hummed in pleasure and opened to him. He tasted dark and masculine, familiar and yet wildly, excitingly different.
They kissed and caressed, exploring each other, tasting, relearning each other, remembering and discovering, but all too soon the urgency to make love built.
Rose tried to unbutton him, but it wasn’t easy, and he tried with her, but what with petticoats and pantaloons and chemises and corsets and ties and hooks and laces, she was not so easy to unwrap either. They slid off the bed and worked feverishly to strip each other of their clothing, until they stood facing each other, eyes locked, naked.
He devoured her with his eyes. She devoured him, first with eyes, then with mouth and hands. His body was proud, erect—he was magnificent, her Thomas.
And then they were kissing, and touching and stroking and squeezing. And somehow they were on the bed, rolling, writhing, shuddering, and it was all heat, and hardness, and wetness and aching, yearning desperation.
“I can’t—it’s not going to be pretty, Rose. Four years, remember?”
She wrapped her legs around his waist. “I remember. Hurry.”
He surged into her, and she arched beneath him, feeling her body stretch to accommodate him. Ah, Thomas, it had been so long. Too long.
He started moving within her then, and the ache and stretch and pull, and oh, oh, the power. It built and crested, too soon, too fast and he collapsed, shuddering on top ofher. She didn’t care, for Thomas was hers again and it was glorious.
She lay, legs locked around him, his head buried in the curve between her neck and her jaw. She stroked his hair, his poor ruined back, his magnificent shoulders.
He stirred. “I’m sorry, I came too soon—”
“Hush. It doesn’t matter.”
“It might take a while—”
“Don’t worry. I’m fine.” And she was, more than fine. She was just happy to have him here, naked and sweaty and sated in her arms. Skin to skin. Her Thomas.
She lay, dreamily content, running her hands over his body, feeling his breathing gradually slow, and the loosening of the big, hard body as he drifted into sleep.
The scars around his ankles were ugly, purplish. Obscene. She ached for him. He was so thin, every rib distinct, yet the muscles on his arms were hard and powerful. And brown. His whole upper body was brown. What kind of work had he been doing?
She tried to imagine it. And couldn’t.
And then she too drifted off to sleep.
***
Thomas woke some time later. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, only that he’d slept, after failing to bring her to climax. She was sleeping now, lying bonelessly half beneath him, one slender leg hooked over his. His wife. Lord, but she was a dream come true, all silken skin and warm, soft curves.
He gently caressed the silken curve of her hip and bottom, and felt her waken and shiver beneath his touch.
His hands. Dammit. He pulled them back. When would he remember?
“Don’t,” she said sleepily. “I like the feel of your hands on me.”
He didn’t believe her. She was just being kind. He didn’t want kind, not from her.
Her eyes opened a slit. “Remember before, back in Bath,how much I used to like the rough texture of your unshaven chin?”
He remembered.
A knowing smile curved her mouth. “A little friction can be a fine thing, Thomas.” She took his hand and placed it on her breast. He stroked his palm slowly across her nipple and she moaned and moved sensually against him. Her shivers, he saw now, had nothing to do with distaste for the roughness of his hands and everything to do with desire.
He stroked down her belly, along her thighs, back and forth, teasing, arousing. She moved restlessly, her legs trembling. She clutched his hair with desperate fingers, pulling his head down to her mouth, muttering, “Now, Thomas!”
