Chapter 51
I was on top.
I liked being on top.
I liked pressing him into the mattress, feeling his warmth and the muscles of his chest, his belly, his … That reminded me. “I still don’t think that you and I can …”
“Prithee, my fair, simple maiden, fret not, for I’m the Paragon of Passion.”
I couldn’t help it. I gusted with laughter again as he rolled me over, and I found myself on the pillows at the head of the bed, and beneath him. He really was right; he had handled what should have been the clumsy stuff with such ease, I barely noticed I’d been manipulated.
He straddled me as he worked on loosening my bodice, the last bit of trickery my clothing had for him before he stripped me down to my last layer, a sheer linen chemise.
He wasn’t as efficient as he had been with the petticoats, and I knew why. “Nurse tightened those strings this morning. Do you think you’re man enough to loosen them? Her guardian spirit might arrive to smite you for challenging the citadel of my virginity.”
“Did you for one moment imagine I didn’t ask for Nurse’s permission to make you my own?”
My mouth dropped open. What a clever politician!
He said the same thing, but in a different way. “I’m your correct and somber prince. I know all the forms a man must take to secure a beloved woman and take her to wife, and to secure a happy household equal to my aspirations.”
I wanted to call it all taradiddle, but all unknown to me, he had done what he could to seed the ground for harmony. “No wonder Nurse adores you.”
“She does, doesn’t she?”
“That, and the fur collar for her cape.”
“I know how to appeal to a guardian of your virtue.” As he worked the knots, his knuckles brushed the skin of my breasts. The man knew how to make the most of every function. “She was wise long before you were, fair Rosaline.”
And with that, I was freed from the bodice.
I observed him as he viewed me, laid before him like a feast for a …
a paragon of passion. I wasn’t unsure of myself.
Nor did I spend a lot of time admiring myself.
My mother was Juliet. My father was Romeo.
As a family, we’re gorgeous. I was only one of the daughters and now old enough for everyone to wonder exactly why Prince Escalus had taken me when at any point after the death of his first wife, he could have chosen Susanna, Vittoria, or Katherina.
Yet enough men had wanted, suggested, cajoled me in hopes of winning my hand or, if I was in the giving mood, any other body part.
As Cal beheld all of me for the first time, my whole length through a thin linen veil, I felt confident that he was pleased, and I was tense because the man was going to slip his hands under the chemise’s hem and—
Gripping the neckline in his two fists, he yanked hard enough to tear it wide, baring my chest, my waist, the curve of my hips.
“Wait.” I half sat up. “What? Why? What was that?”
“I hope that chemise wasn’t your best.” He ripped it all the way through to the unyielding bottom. At that point he reached under the pillow, pulled out a knife, and slashed the hem.
I could not believe it. His action seemed so … so not Cal. “Why did you do that?”
“Hmm?” The way he stared at my body, at each bramble, limb, and berry, I felt assured he wasn’t listening. As if distracted, he said vaguely, “Oh. You had become worried about how we would proceed, so I thought to surprise and distract you.”
“You did that! I was surprised and distracted.”
“Good. Whatever should I do now?” It wasn’t a real question, and he didn’t wait for any suggestions from me.
He tangled his fingers in my trinzale, and somehow, the headdress that Nurse had knotted into my hair was gone, and Cal used his fingers to comb my tresses across the pillow.
“Wild, like you. I remember when I saw it the first time, in the moonlight in the Montague garden.”
“You fastened your knife on my ankle. And, if I’m not mistaken, stroked far higher on my leg than was necessary.”
“Because I was tempted.”
“I did not deliberately tempt you.”
“I know that. Deliberation is of no import. You are yourself. You tempt me with an absent-minded glance, a laugh as you hold your baby brothers, a brisk walk through our beloved Verona, your constant courage in the face of cruelty. That night, in the moonlit garden, as I left, I called back to you that your hair was beautiful.” He played the rueful lover. “You didn’t hear me.”
He was my husband now. Why not admit it? “I did.”
He put the flat of his hands on my throat and lightly stroked them over my shoulders, down my chest, over the tips of my breasts. “Why didn’t you respond?”
“I was confused by your attentions. I was soon … unconfused.”
He caressed my belly, thighs, and calves. “A soldier’s courtship is too rough for a sheltered lady, but you, Princess Rosaline, competent and practical, always ready to take action … You may have denied it to yourself, but you always comprehended.”
He had to challenge me every damned moment.
I would have challenged him back, but he’d reached my feet.
There he lingered for a moment to massage first one, then the other, with enough strength that I moaned from the pleasure, then wished I had not.
At the sound, he half lowered his lids and murmured, “You must tell me what you like. As a form of communication, a moan works very well.” He crooked my knees to rest on top of his thighs, which left me … visible.
I exaggerate. Candles didn’t shed that much light, and Friar Laurence had lit only a few per candelabra, and the master’s bedroom was large.
… Let us say, I hope I exaggerate, but Cal looked, and if the satisfaction on his face was anything to go by, he saw more of me than has been seen since my babyhood.
His long fingers massaged up my legs; then with both thumbs, he massaged between my legs, over the bits that recently had begun to wake me from a deep, fragmented dream of need and desire. “Do you remember when I told you I would taste you … here?”
“Now?” My voice sounded choked. A little more brightly, “I mean, now?”
“Not yet. I want to surprise you.”
That made me snappish. “Then why bring it up?”
“I want you to think about it, the way I’ve thought about it, obsessed and imagined every taste, how I’ll draw you into my mouth, press and suck, push my tongue inside you, and your moans will fill my ears like an angel’s chorus.” Dipping his head down, he gave me a lightning swift lick.
I levitated off the bed, in shock, and for a brief, wonderful moment my whole body clenched and I thought I would climax here, now.
Cal is lucky I didn’t break his nose.
The jolt of passion gave me momentary wit; his swift leap back gave me the advantage.
I rolled him onto his back and straddled him.
He thought of struggling, I could tell, but something about my sitting on the man with my legs open seemed to have a soporific effect on him.
Although perhaps soporific isn’t the word I’m looking for, since certain of his body parts seemed awake and active.
At least, he made no move to roll me back and dominate me, which I knew very well he could and possibly wanted to.
Maybe curiosity held him in place. Or maybe it was my tettes, which his gaze admired, or my smile, which was wickedly feminine.
I know how to do wickedly feminine. Women in my family specialize in it.
The fact remained, I wasn’t quite sure of the correct moves—sure, I know the basics, but the rest was all conjure and hearsay.
I’d liked what he did, so with a few modifications, I imitated him.
I stroked his face: his now stubbled chin, his proud cheekbones and broad forehead, the length of his nose.
I lifted my eyebrows at him about that, because it was rather proudly long and aristocratic and in fact did aptly illustrate the truth of the old wives’ tale.
I pushed my fingers through his hair and realized how much I loved that straight sweep of black satin, and from the heavy-lidded expression of pleasure on his face, I thought he liked it, too.
Note to self: Massage his scalp for all the reasons.
Perhaps it was the fact that when I stretched across him like this, my breasts and belly were pressed to his, and I’d begun to note his deep breathing and strong heartbeat, which indicated arousal. …
Wrong time to analyze his physical symptoms. Sometimes, being an apothecary apprentice had its disadvantages.
I noted that I also displayed symptoms of … of arousal, which encouraged me to rub my nipples on his chest. All his muscles tightened, and that meant that I lost the chance to stroll my hands down his body.
Because, despite my indignant squawk, he flipped me onto my back and proceeded to improvise a warrior’s clever campaign to guide me, lead me, force me, time and again, to that place in me where the wildness grew.
His tactics were successful. The wildness made me struggle and succumb, moan softly and, when I’d lost all modesty, scream, and every time I opened my eyes, he was not smiling, per se, but he looked both pleased with himself and in pain. His long, delicious seduction gave him no release.
When he reached across me for something at the side of the bed, I managed to rise above the madness he’d instilled.
Utilizing a moment of cleverness, I dodged out from underneath him, slammed myself onto his back, and flattened him.
Not because I feared any nefarious action on his part—indeed, I was quite anticipating his further nefarious actions—but because he himself had taught me the importance of taking charge via surprise action.
If I was to be pleasured, so would he be.
In a stern voice, he asked, “Rosie, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know. What should I do?” I leaned close enough that my lips brushed his ear as I spoke. “Do you have suggestions? Perhaps you could show me your numbered list of your favorite carnal joys, organized by body part and preferred frequency?”
“Are you being comical?” He sounded truly puzzled.
God, I loved confounding him. “Apparently not. You didn’t laugh.”
“You’re making fun of me and my organizational abilities.”
I pushed his hair aside and kissed his neck … and let my lips linger as I buried my nose in the rich scent that was Cal. “I am all admiration.”
I felt his muscles tense beneath me. He was ready to assume control again, so I snatched the small, beautifully formed glass bottle from his hand. “What is it?”
“A fine oil made by the Bulgar people. Remove the stopper and use your fine Montague abilities to absorb the fragrance. The rose aroma reminds me of you.”
He’d once described my scent as that of a dark red rose. A rose … okay. But I’d never asked, “Why dark red?”
He relaxed onto the mattress. He tucked a pillow under his chin.
And answered. Clearly, he’d followed my train of thought.
“Dark, satiny red, rich with passion, each petal different, opening gradually, a new glory never before seen beneath the sun. I wait, breathless, for each new revealing. I discover each color is a different shade, yet part of yourself, my Rose most fair, most glorious in my garden. You tease me with your body, your saucy wit.” Slowly, he eased around so that again, I rested on top of him.
He cupped my cheek in his palm and brought me close.
“You make me foolish. You make me smart. You make me laugh. You make me young in a way I haven’t been since my release from the dungeon.
All that, my dark red Rose, so uncork the bottle and do what you will with the contents.
Let’s share these first moments of exploration together, and know that each time will be new and glorious between us. ”
I wanted to answer him in a like manner. But I’m still Rosie Montague, still practical, still without poetry or theatrics. “I do love you, Cal.”
It would seem that was enough.