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“It’s not …” She shook her head, unable to find the words. She couldn’t tell him that she didn’t want to think about him while they did this. That she just wanted him to be a male body, not Godric the man.

His face had closed now, though, looking cold and nearly remote. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”

“No,” she said shakily. “I mean …”

She inhaled, desperately trying to find equilibrium. She’d destroyed something just now, she could feel it, but if she let him walk through that door again, they might never do this.

She opened her eyes, looking at him imploringly. “Please. I want this now.”

He watched her a moment more, his eyes unreadable, then inclined his head. “Very well.”

He indicated the bed and she drew off her wrapper self-consciously before climbing in. She shivered as her bare legs slid along cold sheets.

Godric took off his banyan and slippers, standing in his nightshirt as he looked at her consideringly. “Would you like me to snuff the candles?”

She nodded gratefully. “Yes, please.”

He didn’t say anything as he snuffed the candelabra on the dresser and the one by the bed. The fire had already been banked for the night and the dull glow of the embers didn’t give much light. Megs listened as Godric lifted the covers of her bed, felt the dip as his weight settled beside her.

She started to tense, and then she felt his touch, gentle but sure. The time to change her mind was past.

Megs tried to think of Roger, to summon his dear face to the front of her brain, but Godric was running his hand down her side, distracting her, making Roger vanish like a reflection in a pond disturbed. Godric leaned up on one elbow, his bulk a dark shape above her. It occurred to her that if it were any other man, she might fear him now.

But this was Godric.

She felt his breath on her face as he leaned closer, his hand on her hip. He paused to caress her through the fine lawn of her chemise; then he trailed his fingers down her legs, slowly, carefully. This lovemaking was sweet and gentle—and it shouldn’t have aroused her.

Her breath was coming too fast. Perhaps she was a wanton, she thought rather wildly. Perhaps having tasted of fleshly delights, she’d become addicted without even knowing it, so that now even a near-impersonal touch had lit a forgotten fuse within her.

He didn’t seem particularly affected. His breaths were even and calm. He’d reached the hem of her chemise now and pulled it upward, baring her knees, her thighs, her feminine triangle. He laid the skirt of her chemise on her stomach, quite circumspectly, and then his hand moved downward, back to her knee, naked now. He rested his hand there, warm and large, and she bit her lip to keep from making any noise.

His breath wasn’t calm anymore—thank goodness for that. He traced lacy patterns on the inside of her knee with just his fingertips. Slowly, so slowly, working his way toward the juncture of her thighs. She parted her legs, offering him more room, inviting those fingers closer to her center, but he kept away, trailing along the crease that separated her leg from her belly.

He bent toward her then, and she had the idea that he meant to kiss her before he remembered and caught himself. Now she wanted to pull him close. To seal her lips to his and tell him that she’d been mistaken earlier. That she did want him to kiss her.

yes slid sideways as he gave her a sardonic glance. “’Twould not do for you to fall in the River of Sorrows.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged his massive shoulders. “The waters would think you a suicide and then you, too, would spend the rest of eternity drowning.”

The great black horse lurched as it climbed out of the inky waters, and as it did so, Faith pushed Despair into the river. …

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

Megs plucked nervously at the ties to her wrapper. She stood alone in her room—well, alone save for Her Grace and her three puppies, sleeping under her bed. She and Godric had returned home in near silence from Harte’s Folly. If she didn’t know better, she might think her husband as filled with trepidation over their belated wedding night as she.

But that was silly, wasn’t it? He was a man. Even if he’d initially turned her down because of the memory of his late wife, he still must, by his very nature as a male, take the marriage act more cavalierly than a woman. Why else would he suddenly change his mind over the matter?

Megs bit her lip, fearing that she might be lying to herself. She hadn’t seen Godric act cavalierly about anything since her arrival in London. He must have a reason—a deliberate reason—to acquiesce to her. Damnation! She should’ve questioned him more in the garden this afternoon instead of being so overwhelmed with excitement and joy that she’d all but lost the power of thought. She had the feeling that whatever his reasons, it was important that she understand them—understand him. After tonight he would be her husband in fact as well as in name. She owed him the courtesy of at least caring about his motives. She was determined not to feel guilt, though. He was her husband and this was the legal—and natural—consequence of marriage.

Even if he’d been coerced into the marriage in the first place.

She heaved a sigh and glanced again at the pink china clock on her dressing table. It was well past midnight—and nearly an hour since they’d returned home. Had he forgotten?

Had he fallen asleep?

Megs tiptoed toward the door that connected her room to Godric’s. If he’d fallen asleep, she’d just have to wake him up again, damn it.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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