Was this sudden, astounding desire to be close to him not just in body but in soul why such relations were meant to be confined to the marriage bed?
“Well?” he prompted as his chest puffed and a slow smile spread across his face. “How was that for an education?”
The pleasant feeling evaporated. And like a curtain rising, she saw him as she’d seen him from the start—a demanding, arrogant feral whose chief concern, in what should have been a tender moment, was only confirming his own prowess.
Gah.
He was no better than the insufferable rooster they’d kept back at the manor. He, too, had been a bird of indifferent plumage who used to strut around the coop as if he’d laid every egg on his own.
She’d only agreed to meet with Redver for the express purpose of making him beg. Well, the night was not over. Yet.
“Oh…” She faked a yawn. Loudly. “Tolerable, I suppose.”
He lost his smug expression.
She rolled onto her side and propped her head on bended elbow to study her mark. The blindfold was still tight around his eyes. His cheeks were flushed. His lips still glistened. The sheet ran haphazardly across his torso. Above his splayed legs, his manhood tented the fabric.
“Is that painful?” she asked.
“Is what painful?” He lifted his brows in feigned innocence.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Rogue. “Your erect manhood.”
“My hard cock, do you mean?”
Depraved rogue. “May I see?”
He chuckled beneath his breath. He turned the sheet down over his thighs revealing himself.
“By all means.” Again, he arched his arms behind his head.
Ignoring his self-satisfied posture, she draped herself across his chest and turned her attention to his unfamiliar male parts. His member had darker, redder skin than the rest of his body. She glanced back over her shoulder. He was smiling with no small bit of pride, as if he could see her and knew she was admiring him.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I think?” she prompted.
“No. You just made plain how you feel about my prodding for compliments.”
She smirked. Quick of him. “He—you did call him he, if I recall—looks disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” He feigned shock.
“Weeping, in fact.” Leaning forward for closer inspection. “So sad. Poor prick…”
He snorted. “Where did you learn that word?”
“Shakespeare.”
“Ah. Bluestocking, are you?”
“I enjoy reading,” she answered.
“Well, here’s something you won’t learn from a book: he’s not sad. Just eager. He likes to be touched.”
“Does he?” she asked in a tone of light curiosity. “So do I, I’ve recently learned.” She set her chin into her fisted palm, eye level with the topic of conversation. “You should touch him, then.”
“Witch! I think I will.”
She remained where she was, leaning over his body. His long arms encircled her as he easily reached around her body to take shaft into his hands.
