Chapter Twenty-eight
Approaching the bed on tiptoes, Sylvie watched the deep rise and fall of her husband’s broad chest. The covers, haphazardly slung low over his hips, revealed far more than she had bargained for, and she gasped as the light from her candle pooled across the expanse of his naked body.
Guiltily, she squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, fearing her pounding heart might wake him.
Yet his breathing remained deep and even.
Slowly opening her eyes, she peeked again, mesmerised by the smooth, sculpted planes of his shoulders, the taper of his torso, the ripple of muscle beneath the gentle dusting of hair that narrowed to a fine line — where the covers denied her curiosity.
Never could she have imagined him to look like this beneath his clothes — like a living sculpture of one of the gods, warm and breathing instead of cold marble.
And he looked so much bigger naked! Her mind flitted between awe and trepidation.
Could his muscles really be as hard as they looked?
And the mounds of his chest, so solid, defined and…
oh! Her free hand flew to her stomach as a flutter, low and deep within, startled her—such a strange sensation, yet not unpleasant at all.
Dare she crawl in beside him? Perhaps she should wake him first, gently, so as not to startle him.
Whisper in his ear… Oh, that flutter again, more pronounced!
Was it nerves willing her to turn tail and run back to her own bed-chamber?
She shook her head and brushed it aside, determined to do no such thing.
She had come this far and was not about to wither now.
Allowing herself one more glance at his magnificence, which filled her with equal parts of awe and trepidation, steeled her resolve.
Setting the candlestick on the bedside table, she leaned closer. “My lord… Angus, it is I, Sylvie.”
Nothing.
“Angus…” she tried again. A little firmer this time.
He stirred, shifting slightly.
Now, even more determined not to lose her nerve, she crept onto the edge of the bed, balancing on hands and knees, a slight tremor in her limbs, as she leaned across the space between them.
The mattress dipped treacherously beneath her weight, and for a breathless moment, she feared she might topple straight onto him.
Hovering unsteadily, only a hair’s breadth above his shoulder, she whispered, “Angus, it is I, Sylvie.”
“Mm,” he murmured, turning his head slightly, his mouth mere inches from hers.
“Angus…”
“Mmm,” he murmured again, hand snaking around her waist, pulling her closer.
“Sylvie. Oh, Sylvie…” he breathed, his voice husky with longing as his lips found hers.
No longer able to deny himself, his hand slid to the back of her head, fingers threading through her silky locks, encouraging her closer, hungrily capturing her mouth with his.
Her lips yielded under his demand, parting instantly to allow his access, their tongues colliding, teasing, both hot and desperate for more.
Her fingers tightened around his arm, a soft whimpering sound escaping her throat, only intensified his need.
Urgent, desperate, in one swift motion, he cast off the heavy covers that tangled between them, restricting his movement, and rolled, bringing her beneath him.
His mouth claimed hers again, sucking at her hot, impatient little tongue, nipping her plump bottom lip.
One hand caught her wrists, pinned her arms above her head — the other exploring the soft curves of her body.
His fingers trailing up over the flare of her hips, the arc of her waist, until he finally cupped her plump, soft breast in his palm and teased his thumb over the tip.
It hardened instantly, as did he — throbbing with a need like never before.
He broke his mouth from hers, trailing hot, urgent kisses down her neck, across her collarbone.
She moaned beneath him, arching up to meet his circling thumb until his mouth finally closed over the tight little bud, and it puckered and hardened further as he suckled her through the flimsy nightgown, teasing it gently between his teeth.
She gasped in pleasure as her hips bucked up to meet his.
His desire so fierce and maddening it made his head swim — and then he froze, abruptly awake, with a wet, fabric-covered nipple between his lips.
His throbbing manhood, rock hard and demanding, precariously close to…
oh hell! Realisation struck like a blow.
Sylvie… underneath him… And he was as naked as the day he was born.
“What the… !” he hissed. Trying to leap from the bed, his legs tangled in the covers.
He fought to free himself, yanking at the sheets that refused to budge, then lunged for a cushion on the nearby chair—half tripping, half hopping, entirely mortified.
“Ah, God damn it, Sylvie!” he barked, clutching the cushion in front of him while trying to nurse his stubbed toe as he hopped on one leg.
“Have you any idea what I was about to…!”
“Oh, Angus,” she giggled, propping herself up against the pillows, eyes sparkling in delight.
Infuriated further by her obvious amusement, he scowled at her as he backed away, crab-like, desperate not to expose any more of himself than necessary.
He snatched his discarded trousers from the chair and muttered, “Right.” Turning sharply, aware that his backside was now in full view, he flung the cushion and scrambled into them as quickly as physically possible.
A deep breath. An irritated sniff. Then, turning, facing her again with as much dignity as he could muster, he asked, far too calmly, “What, exactly, were you thinking?”
Gasping with delight, she eagerly sat forward, hands braced on the bed.
“Well, at first, I was a little nervous, as you can imagine, with it being our first time. But, oh, when you kissed me like that…” Her lashes fluttering in fond recollection.
“It made me all tingly and warm. And when you threw me onto my back and held my arms… oh, when you did that thing with your mouth… ” she gestured vaguely at her chest, “it felt like… I hardly know how to describe it… It felt as though I might burst! I just never wanted you to stop. And my tummy was doing this tight flip-flop thing, which was surprisingly pleasant, like really happy, excited butterflies — not nervous ones. Come to think of it, they started when I was watching you sleep. You looked like a living statue of Zeus, only far more handsome and, well, minus the fig leaf. And about that, I had no idea your thingy could grow like that! Oh, Angus, it was just the most wonderful, amazing thing I have ever experienced, and I want to do it again and again. But, what about you?” she said, grinning expectantly at him, “what did you think? Was it how you thought it was going to be?”
Angus stared at her, utterly stricken. Words deserted him, barely able to believe what he was hearing, let alone digest. Had she really just talked about his, his thingy? Growing!
“Oh?” she said a little quietly. “Have I displeased you? Did I do something wrong?”
He groaned. The look of dejection in her eyes pierced straight through his anger. “No,” he managed. “I just didn’t expect…”
“Expect?”
“Expect it to happen, Sylvie!”
“Oh! Has it not happened before? Is it painful when it grows?”
“What? No! I mean, I didn’t expect… envisage us to, to… ours is not… cannot, ever…”
She rose from the bed, the candlelight turning her nightdress near translucent.
Her perfect, luscious curves, tantalising and tempting in the glow.
He clenched his jaw. He was already teetering on a cliff edge, and god damn, she had nearly toppled him.
Had he not been drowsy with drink and lustful with dreams of, well, never mind what he had dreamed.
She had caught him off guard, and he could never, ever allow it to happen again.
In one swift movement, he plucked her from the floor and slung her over his shoulder.
She squealed, half laughing, as he marched into her chamber.
Leaning slightly, he flung back her bedcovers, unceremoniously plonked her onto the bed, then ripped the covers back over her and tucked them in so tight he doubted she would be able to move until her maid arrived in the morning.
“Angus,” she giggled. “Whatever are you doing…? We still have to perform this joining thing.”
He waved his arm around impatiently as he growled, “Your room,” then jabbed his finger into the mattress several times. “Your bed. Stay.”
“Oh, Angus,” she was still giggling, “you are so funny when you are flustered.”
“Flust…” he started, then stopped himself, muttering something that sounded like a growl as he marched back towards the door.
“Good night, dearest husband,” she called sweetly. “Mayhap we can try again tomorrow, sweet dreams.”
“Good. Night,” he ground out, slamming the door firmly shut behind him.