Chapter 8 #2
It felt extra blasphemous for him to curse just so while seated so deeply inside of her, but she secretly liked it. It felt like a wickedness, what they’d done today. One or two extra sins wouldn’t make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things.
Already the pain was beginning to abate, and Rosaline brought her awareness to where they were joined. A throbbing had intensified there, but she wasn’t certain if it was her flesh or his that pulsed so persistently.
Silent seconds ticked by, and the pressure inside of her morphed from a sting to an ache to nothing more than a sharp sort of stretch.
Still he did nothing. Just held himself there, his trembling intensifying as he kept his face buried in her hair.
“Tell me—tell me you’re all right.” The words seemed to have to work their way past the strained cords she could feel in his neck.
“I’m very well.” She smoothed her palms down his back once more, enjoying the way he purred like a giant cat. “It’s only that…well, is one of us supposed to be moving?”
“Can’t,” he groaned.
“Why not?”
“Too tight.”
“Oh.” She did her best to make herself less tight, stretching her intimate muscles. Relaxing them as best she could, which only seemed to make things worse for him. Patting his back gently, she turned her head to place a kiss to his stubbled jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“Apologize again and see what I—” His threat dissipated as her intimate muscles seemed to convulsively need to clamp and release the hardness inside of her. Dismayed, she watched his skin flush a shade she’d not yet seen.
“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m—” She pressed her lips together, biting back the word. “I didn’t know it would hurt you, too.”
“Hurt me?” Another bitter sound of mirth escaped him. “Being still inside of you…it’s better than the most frenzied fuck. Better than the first time.”
That lit a gentle flame of pride inside of her. She didn’t like the thought of him—er—fucking anyone with frenzy or otherwise. But it was quite a miraculous balm to know she surpassed those experiences without even trying.
“Do you imagine it’ll be better or worse if you move?” she wondered.
“I imagine it’ll be over if I move,” was his grim reply.
Not wanting this connection to end, she tightened her hold as if her feeble strength could stop him from leaving her if he ever took it in his mind to do so. “Not yet,” she whispered, lifting her legs to lock around his, consequently pulling him deeper.
He found the strength to lift his head enough to stare down at her, concern etched into the grooves branching from his eyes.
Smoothing her hair from her face, he slid an arm behind her neck, cradling her as he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.
“Don’t let go,” he said, more an appeal than a command.
“I think you’re holding all the broken pieces of me together. ”
That she could do.
Her sex continued to pulse and throb, contracting around him without her permission to do so.
Though he didn’t move, Eli worshiped her with his mouth.
Leaving no part of her face unkissed before moving to her throat.
He only stopped to indulge in a quiet groan or a spine-wrenching tremble.
She found that if she tilted her hips this way, or depressed them into the bed, his reactions became stronger.
“Rosaline,” he groaned. “If you don’t stop I—I’ll—” His words died on a strangled sound as his entire frame seized with a rippling shudder.
Then another. Rough tremors cording every muscle and etching his every feature in stark relief.
Warmth flooded her womb, and as he jerked and shivered, she could tell he’d released his seed inside of her.
In time, it seemed to diminish its hold over him, and he carefully curled out of her before collapsing on his side with a bone-weary groan.
They stared at each other for a moment, each clearly loath to address the enormity of what had just happened between them.
Two veritable strangers. How was it possible they had shared something so incredibly profound?
Her body broke the moment for her, releasing what he’d left inside her in a warm rush. Gasping, she sat up, clenching her drenched thighs ineffectually.
“Oh right. Shit.” He leapt from the bed and padded to the ewer and bowl in the corner, wetting two cloths. He covered his sex with one of them before he turned back. “Lie back, honey, and I’ll wash you.”
Shaking her head, Rosaline couldn’t figure why she suddenly felt so shy. More vulnerable and exposed than she ever had whilst he gazed down at the most protected parts of her. “I’d prefer to do it myself.”
He returned, handing her the cloth before padding to the other side of the bed where a trunk was tucked against a tall window.
Rosaline peeked at the long form of him, glimpsing the shades of a broad back that tapered into a behind that might have been sculpted by the same artist as did Achilles in Hyde Park.
By the time she’d finished her ablutions, she retrieved her nightgown from where it had been tossed aside in a sodden heap and then abandoned it to the dressing table in lieu of her wrapper.
Turning, she found that he’d pulled a loose pair of cotton trousers over his lean hips and was a little disappointed she’d had an entire wedding night and never truly saw him naked.
For the first time since they’d met, he looked unsure. Discomfited. As if he’d no idea what to do next.
Rosaline had thought she’d feel more womanly after he’d “made a woman of her.” But for some reason, she felt as young as he’d initially accused her of being.
In an attempt not to advertise how needy and pathetic she’d become, Rosaline belted her wrapper and gathered her things as he pulled the corner of the bedclothes down.
This had been good. It’d been wonderful, even.
So why did she want to have a good cry?
Clutching her things to her chest, she turned to him with a practiced smile, realizing she’d never asked to see her room. “Where am I to sleep?”
“I’m turning this bed down for you,” he informed her with a lazy half-smile.
“How lovely of you.” She set her things back on the dresser and went to him, lifting on her tiptoes to kiss his scratchy jaw before pouncing into the center of the bed. “Where do you sleep?”
He paused. “You mean, which side of the bed?”
“I mean, in which room?”
“This one, obviously.” He regarded her quizzically.
Her jaw dropped. “We’re sharing a bedroom?”
“We’re married, aren’t we?”
She wasn’t certain if she should tell him that was no sort of helpful answer.
“We are married, yes, but surely you know it’s common practice for spouses to have their own rooms. I’ve been told it’s standard with the Americans of our class, as well.”
He snorted derisively and lifted a hand to smooth down his hair that she’d clutched so wildly.
The motion did impressive things to his biceps.
“Well, I’ve never studied the bedroom habits of anyone in the upper classes of either country, but where I’m from, a husband and wife share a bed.
Besides, woman, it’s damned cold and damp in this country, so consider it your duty to scootch over here and keep me warm. ”
Secretly pleased, she did exactly that, settling her shoulder blades against his chest as he gathered her close and tucked the sumptuous covers around them.
It’d begun to rain sometime in the night, and Rosaline watched the wall across from the window cry little shadow tears.
“I think I like wifely duties,” she said, her sigh morphing into a jaw-cracking yawn. The cocoon of his big body provided a feeling she’d never before experienced.
Safe. Protected.
Emmett had been right. This man, rough around almost every conceivable edge, was the perfect bulwark between her and the rest of the world.
His hand traced a path down her arm. “I like you wrapped in silk,” he murmured. “But I like you better in nothing at all.”
“I’m too comfortable to take it off,” she murmured, fighting to keep her eyes open.
He nuzzled against her hair, pressing a kiss on her crown. “Sleep then, little wife,” he crooned into the dark. “Tomorrow night I’m not going so easy on you.”