Page 77 of An Earl for the Archeress

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

She ran her hands across his pectorals. He shivered. Her fingers slid across tiny nicks and cuts that had accrued over time, and down his shoulders, down his arms toned from years of archery. He gazed at her hand lingering on the scabbed arrow wound, before it continued to his fingertips.

His chest swelled at the compliment, that he had impressed her so. He knew his physique was deemed desirable, but it still pleased him to hear the words from Mariel’s lips.

Her hands returned the way they had come, back up his arms to his chest. The air was chilly, but her hands blazed a trail down his stomach to brush around his waist to his rear. Her fingertips teased the sagging waistline of his trousers then roved back around to his front, where they skimmed his private hair, making him twitch with anticipation.

He heard her breath hitch, his thoughts growing predatory, attuned to her slightest body language. His eyes lingered on her chest. Though she still wore her chemise, the fabric sloped off the tips of her breasts and hung in the valley between them. He would know the peaks and valley well before the night ended.

“My turn. Again,” he said, and reached out to each of her shoulders where the chemise still hung, but instead of dragging the garment down to her elbows to reveal her breasts waiting for his lips, he slid his hands down her front, to her waist, watching as the tips of her breasts pushed against the chemise while his palms moved downward.

They slid over her hips and he knelt down on one knee as his hands continued over her thighs, then her knees, then her boots, to the hemline of the undergarment.

He slid his fingers beneath, feeling her shaking with nerves and excitement. His hands found the tops of one boot and he pulled free the laces, loosening them, then lifted her foot—she was like a skittish filly—and slid the leather free. The boots, he noted, as he set them aside one by one, were in poor repair, old, nearly worn through on the soles, much like her stockings had been. He made no outward expression, but his wife would have the finest of whatever she desired. Fine boots made of deerskin and lined with fleece, fine tunics and trousers of the best linens and wool, if she so chose to keep wearing them, fine adornments for her body, fine gauntlets for archery. He would never see her in poorly stitched clothing again.

Wife.

He tried the word on for size, and though it was new and awkward, it was also exciting. He had just eloped. He, whose king would have had to drag him to the altar kicking and screaming had he never met Mariel, had just pledged himself in marriage of his own volition.

Wife.

He liked it. His other half. He couldn’t delay knowing her body any longer.

His hands now slid up her legs, slowly, in part to draw out the torture and in part so as not to rush in, thrust madly, and turn her away from him at his animalistic rutting. Her breathing, he noted as he glanced up at her, still on bended knee, was uneven, shallow, her cheeks pink, her lips parted, and her eyes fluttering closed, then open again, then closed again as his hands crept upward over her thighs, taking hold of her hips.

He found her trouser lacings, wanting to chuckle at the humor of untying a man’s trousers other than his own for the first time in his life, and pulled them loose, working the knot until he had untethered it. Then using his thumbs and pointer fingers, he spanned each side of her waist and allowed them to slip beneath the garment, beneath the waist of her stockings, rolling the fabric downward. He dragged it lower still, feeling the warmth of her soft skin, his thumbs brushing against the curls nestled between her thighs. She jumped and her hands shot out to brace his shoulders. He grinned, knowing he was only beginning to exact his sweet revenge for her innocent, doe-eyed nuzzling of his shaft.

Still, he pulled the stockings and trousers down, lower, lower, until they stretched around her ankles and she stepped out of them. He added those to the pile as well. He felt her knees threatening to give out and her fingers clenched his shoulders, as he brushed his fingers back up over her skin, lifting her chemise with it, bending to at first kiss her calf, then her knee, then thigh, and then…

“Rob…” she whimpered, digging her nails into his flesh as he kissed her inner thigh, smelling the sweetness betwixt her legs, knowing she was more than ready for him.

Letting the chemise fall over his head, he kissed her center, a soft peck, feeling her jump again.

“Rob…Rob…” she crooned as he grazed the juncture of her thighs with his fingertips, over the arch of each rounded hip, back down again over the hair that shielded her, and leaned in once more.

Wrapping his hands around the backs of each thigh, he pulled them apart so that she widened her stance. Without giving her pause, he nestled his nose and lips between the tender folds and delved in for a taste of the honey that would ease his joining with her. But one taste was not enough. He licked his lips, tasting anticipation, pleasure, and went for a second helping more generously suckled than the first as her fingertips gouged mercilessly into him.

He swallowed, moaning at her heady potion, and withdrew his head from beneath her shift. He had to join with her. He wasn’t going to last and most certainly wouldn’t use the full hour a self-respecting man should take. This would take him only minutes to complete the deed. If she was to enjoy anything from him this night apart from the extravagant accommodations, he needed to act now. Pushing to his feet, he pulled the chemise free with less grace than he had been using before, swinging it around his arm to collect it, and dropped it on top of her stockings and boots, his tunic and coat, her corset and gown, and both their cloaks. He stepped back, his lips moist from her, and beheld what he had been imagining since he met her.

He paused, his chest rising and falling, his skin tingling, and saw all of her as she stared back at him with growing anticipation.

When he did nothing, her face dropped and she looked down. “I know I’m thin, Robert, but—”

“Perfect,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”

Reaching out, he lifted each breast in turn in his hands, squeezing the generous flesh, grazing his thumbs over each nipple, and leaned in, giving each one a liberal exploration with his lips. Her breath hitched again, her hands clasping his head to her breast. After finally releasing the second one with a tender kiss, he stood up straight. His eyes locked on hers as she released a strained moan at his bold inspection.

“So soft…your eyes, so deep, this body…Christ in heaven, woman, have you no idea? And this is mine?” He shook his head with disbelief, smiling. “How in the hell did I get so lucky?”

She blushed, and he lifted her chin, his thumb lingering there. “I want you looking at me. Remove my trousers, wife. I cannot wait any longer.”

She took a step to him, her blonde hair hanging about her like the fae folk, and began to pull down his remaining garments together so that they fell past his rear, still dragging his erect shaft with them until they slipped off the end and he bobbed clean past his navel to salute her. She froze, staring at him.

He sensed her pause. “Do I intimidate you?” he questioned, hoping his concern didn’t show.

She shook her head, still holding his trousers, and lowered down to his feet to help remove his boots. She looked up the ridged plane of his stomach to his face, her eyes shining with humor.

“Nay. You say you’re a lucky man, though I might add that I’m a most appreciative wife.”