Her pupils bloom, but she follows me with only a quick glance to the unnamed dog to make sure he’s still sleeping. He is. If I have my way, sleep won’t find the two of us for a while yet. I tug her into the kitchen first, stopping at the sink and offering a lazy spread of my lips in answer to herquestioning look. “I need clean hands for the places my fingers are exploring tonight.”
The promise of such intimacy doesn’t scare her away as I cage her with my arms and turn on the water. Her body is tense, whether with anticipation or nerves, I don’t know. For myself, it’s both. I want to make this so good for her. I already know it’ll be good for me, whether I last ten minutes or ten seconds. But Mara deserves the utmost satisfaction tonight.
With the inviting softness of her bottom so close, I angle my hips away, much to the chagrin of my cock. But I can’t trust the bastard not to shoot off too soon.
Got to make it good for her.
“Pass me the soap?” I drag the words along the column of her neck in little kisses, chasing away the gooseflesh with heated breaths. “Please?” It’d almost be funny the way her hands fumble around for the bar if I didn’t have to tense up to prevent mine from being unsteady as well.
“Here.” Mara presses it into my waiting palm, then braces along the lip of the sink. To support herself? To keep from reaching for me? Regardless, I reward her with another line of kisses down the other side of her neck, smiling against her soft skin when I see the stiffened peaks of her nipples through her dress. Christ, I can’t wait to have them in my mouth. Maybe even taste some of her—focus, Warren. Focus.
“Much obliged, wife.” Not rushing, I work up a lather. As much as I want to be inside of her, I need to draw this out. Not to pounce the moment she gives me permission, but to entice every inch of her until we finally become one.
When my hands are clean, I reach for hers, fierce satisfaction settling into my chest when her breathing turns as uneven as mine. I gentle my wife—my bride—to my touch,sliding my soapy hands over hers and settling my fingers in the snug valleys, learning the shape and feel of them. Letting her learn mine. “I wonder how to please you best, hmm? Slow and steady?” I match my movements to my words. “A bit harder? Or perhaps softer at first, teasing you with just the tip?”
She melts into me for one breath.
Two.
Then the tables turn against me. “Or maybe you could do it like this.” She captures my middle fingertip and runs small circles around the callused pad.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Both pleasure and pained restraint war for dominance in the effort to keep my hips from surging forward, but I remind myself to breathe. Breathe and let her play and make a failing attempt to remember that it’s myfingerbeing touched right now. Only my finger.
“Slow, I think,” she continues in a ragged whisper, never stopping. “To let me get used to the feel of you. And then, when you can tell I’m ready, push inside of me.” She forms a vee around my longest finger with two of her own, then glides it downward in a slippery caress until my digit can go no further between hers. “All the way.”
“Hellfire, wife.” Hot and cold with raging desire, I tamp it down and massage that tender bit of skin between her fingers. The frothy lather drips from us just like my spend between her thighs will later. “The way you make me burn for you.”
“Warren,” she breathes out, giving me more of her trembling weight when my finger retreats and surges forward in a mimicry of sex.
“Soon,” I murmur as I rinse and dry our hands. “Soon.”
When we finally reach our dimly lit bedroom and see Emmaline sleeping quietly in her cradle, Mara turns to me as I begin unbuttoning my shirt.
“No.” The single word slips from her lips and cuts through the inferno of desire.
My fingers stall. “You don’t want to do this?” She doesn’t look scared. I don’t think, at least. A little uncertain, perhaps, with the rushed rise and fall of her chest, but I thought it was due to nerves. Not fear.
“No, I mean…” Slowly, her hands brush mine aside. “I want to do it for you.”
I drag in a rough breath of relief. It’d have killed me if she’d wanted to stop—and I’d have done it for her—but she only wants to undress me herself. I want her hands on me any way she wants to touch me. “I’m yours, wife. Do what you will with me.”
A delicate bob of her throat as she swallows and shows the barest hint of her teeth in a slight smile, then she focuses on her task. It’s torture, really. The light pressure of her palms, the occasional scrape of a fingernail. When the last button is freed, she spreads my shirt and studies my chest. Fire dances beneath my skin in each place her eyes linger. Does she like what she sees? I know I love every bit of her that I’ve seen.
She’s goddamn perfect.
Then—fucking hell—her hands follow. Tentative at first, then more confident as she explores my chest. The center, right over my thundering heart that’s about to beat right through bone and muscle and skin. Down my abdomen that jumps at the too soft sensation. Further down to the waistband of my trousers where another part of me jumps.
“Damn it, wife.” My voice is gravel as I loosely secure her wrists with one hand. “I know I said I’m yours, but my shirtisn’t even all the way off yet, and already these hands of yours are about to make me come undone.”
Mara’s eyes darken. “Then where should I touch you?” Her fingers twitch, stretching towards me as if yearning for contact.
“Here.” I relocate them to my shoulders.
Shoulders are safe.
