Page 13 of Make My Wish Come True
Instead he found himself in bed with her, after receiving a knowing smile from Mr. Kittridge with some murmured words about his bride warming him up, and he’d had to listen to her undress and brush out that shiny, silky hair and know she would be within arm’s reach all night.
He couldn’t survive a whole night of this. He would wait until she was asleep, then he would slide out of bed and sleep on the threadbare rug before the fire, as he’d intended. He prayed she didn’t make any arousing little moans in her sleep.
He just had to wait. Adrian had a fairly accurate internal clock, and he told himself half an hour should be sufficient. She was as exhausted as he was, and she should be sleeping soundly enough by then that he could move without disturbing her. Until then, he would lie here, silent and motionless, ignoring his cock, which had stiffened to attention the moment she asked him to turn his back.
He could hear her breathing beside him.
He couldn’t stop picturing her stockings draped over the arm of the chair. Nor imagining her bare legs against his. He reconsidered removing his breeches. They were wet, but perhaps wearing them would be miserable enough to keep his thoughts in line.
Beside him she shifted, just a little stretch, and his wicked mind immediately drew up an image of her sleeping naked, draped in honey-colored curls and soft linen sheets. He knew she was not naked; he’d heard her pull a nightgown over her head. He wondered what it looked like, and if it had buttons down the front that a man would have to undo as he kissed his way down her throat to her plump, tempting breasts?—
A coal snapped in the fire and he flinched violently. Half an hour, he told himself desperately. Half an hour.
Chapter 8
Gwen came awake to absolute darkness.
The bed was shaking, and her sleepy mind thought it must be Philip, the Bradfords’ seven-year-old son. He was terrified of thunderstorms and would often sneak through the nursery into her room and burrow under the blankets beside her. She rolled over and put out her hand until she found his body. Gently she patted his back.
About the time she realized it couldn’t be Philip, the figure was much too large to be Philip, she also realized he was crying. Almost silently, but a muffled sob now and then broke through. Instinctively Gwen scooted closer, putting her arms around him.
She knew it was the captain when he seized her hand and clutched it to his cheek, where she felt the dampness of tears. She didn’t pull away, and continued patting his back, trying to provide whatever comfort she could. He must have seen terrible things in the war.
Gradually his shudders stopped, as did the weeping. She was drifting off toward sleep again when he suddenly flipped over and pulled her into his arms. She inhaled, but he just held her, as if seeking comfort. He was very warm, and Gwen realized now that she’d been cold before. She relaxed into him, draping her arm over his shoulder and absently stroking his hair.
She barely felt his lips on her temple. His hand moving on her back felt wonderful, and she leaned into it with a sigh of contentment. His indrawn breath registered, and she knew what she was doing when she consciously snuggled closer.
He touched her hair, stroking it back from her face and then combing through the length, undoing whatever remained of the plait. Gwen had always loved having her hair brushed; she tilted her head in blatant enjoyment. This time she definitely felt his mouth on her brow, and she had every chance to stop things.
She didn’t want to. Not yet, maybe not at all. She’d been sacked, she had no money, and she might be about to lose her beloved gran, but she could have this.
The blankets were bunched between them, providing a barrier until she plowed one arm under it and laid her hand on the captain’s chest. He responded by dragging her hard against him, his arm flexing around her waist and his hand gripping her hip. That buzz lit up her nerves again, and she realized it was arousal. She wanted him.
He pressed his lips to her jaw, his hand still in her hair. Gwen moaned at the sensation. She arched her neck again, and this time his lips touched hers, light, gentle, maddening, until she pushed into him and kissed him. His hand cupping her cheek made her shiver, and she had her arms around his neck before she knew what she was doing.
He rolled up onto his elbow, above her, and she felt his fingers at the buttons on the front of her nightdress. Heat rolled through her at the memory of waking with his head on her breast, and she gripped his shoulder, silently urging him onward.
The front of her worn nightdress parted; he seemed puzzled by the shift beneath, but a quick tug at the ribbon opened it, too, and then his mouth, hot and wet, was on her skin, tracing sizzling paths across the tops of her breasts. Gwen whimpered, arching her back in appeal.
His hand felt very big and warm when it dipped inside her nightdress and cupped one breast. His thumb rolled over her nipple and she jerked. Then he bent his head and circled the tight bud with his tongue, and she gasped aloud in pleasure.
He made love to her breasts for some time. Gwen thought she might be drowning, she could hardly breathe—it was his weight settling on top of her, his hands fondling and stroking her breasts, his mouth tasting her skin. Her hands were in his hair, and somehow her legs had got tangled around him, as if she were clinging to him for dear life.
“Guinevere,” he breathed, sucking lightly at the tender skin just below her ear.
“Gwen,” she gasped, turning her head to let him do it again.
His hand stroked down her side, flattening the rucked-up cloth of her nightdress. He wore a shirt, but it seemed to be twisted around his waist. He caught her hip and pulled her up into him, and she felt his erection against her bare thigh.
The feel of his naked skin against hers made her feverish. She moved without thinking, rubbing against him, and he exhaled sharply. He shifted until his left thigh was between her legs, and then he moved his knee up until he was poised above her and her legs were open wide.
His finger brushed lightly over the curls between her legs. “Gwen,” he breathed again, with a note of question.
Eyes closed, she nodded. “Yes. Yes.”
She thought she’d break at the first delicate stroke. All her nerves seemed to pull tight, and the second stroke sent a pulse through them that made her flinch. “Yes,” she choked again, as he paused, and then she couldn’t speak again as he teased and stroked and even pinched until she was out of her mind, gasping and pleading for more.
His fingers were inside her, his mouth was on her breast. Climax began to build inside her belly and she strained toward him. His erection, thick and hard against her thigh, slipped between her legs and she unthinkingly ground against him.
