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Her hips bucked, demanding more.
Restraint vanished, and he grasped her hips. With a growl of satisfaction, he thrust again and again, her little cries of encouragement fueling his excitement to fever pitch. Her sheath tightened, and he braced himself. Again and again she gripped him, crying out softly with each spasm.
His own release was a breath away—but he was not done, not quite yet.
Withdrawing, he flipped her over and hauled her up onto her knees. Running his hands up her back and down again, he molded the curve of her pert, rosy rump with his palms, giving the firm flesh a playful smack before reaching down to gently stroke between the plump petals peeking out below.
With a low moan, she arched her back, pushing out her bottom.
Sending a silent prayer of thanks heavenward, he once more guided his aching cock to her honeyed entrance. Slowly, he penetrated the hot, tender flesh, sinking into her inch by delicious inch until he felt himself touch her very core.
Her shuddering cry and the sight of her fists gripping the sheets sent him over the edge. Again, he thrust home. And again. Her passage was so hot, so tight! Her muscles once more gripped his shaft as she climaxed, and Henry shouted with pleasure as his own release burst forth.
As they lay spooned together on their sides, still joined, he whispered at her ear: “I will never stop loving you, Sabrina. This I swear. All that I am, all that I ever will be, is yours for the keeping. I will never love another.”
Through the dark-red haze of desire, he felt her begin to shake and heard her sobbing cry, heard at last the words he’d so long awaited.
She loved him.
He awakened in the predawn silence to find his wife’s naked form curled beside him in the bed. Lovingly, he stroked her hair back from her face. Then his hand wandered, tracing the line of her neck and shoulder, moving across the silky warmth of her skin. When it progressed to the curve of her waist, she rolled over to face him, wide awake.
What started with tender affection soon culminated in fevered lovemaking. Now he sat across from her, pulling on his boots.
“Must we leave so soon?” she asked, finishing the last bite of breakfast.
“If we wish to make Newcastle in time to catch tonight’s tide, yes,” he answered, her disheveled loveliness eliciting another pang of desire. He quashed it. There would be plenty more such delightfully mussed mornings once they reached London.
Leaving the little inn, he turned them east into the rising sun and kept a steady, but gentle, pace. Four and a half hours and only one brief rest later, Broomhaugh lay within sight, the river Tyne wending its way just beyond.
When they finally stopped, he marked that Sabrina did not immediately dismount. “Are you unwell?”
Her face was pinched with discomfort. “My legs simply refuse to move,” she said in a hushed voice, flushing. “I’m afraid I shall require assistance.”
Cursing silently, he helped her down and supported her as they made their slow way to the nearest public house. Though her stiff movements clearly told him she was in agony, she made no complaint. “I’m so sorry, but you must move your legs in order to keep the stiffness from worsening.”
She kept her head down, but nodded understanding.
The idea of forcing her to climb back into a saddle made Henry sick with guilt. While she ate and rested, he inquired into an alternate means of transport, but unfortunately, there were no carriages to be had in the tiny village.
Half an hour later, he escorted her to the stables. When they rounded the corner, however, it was not the dreaded pair of beasts waiting for them, but a small wagon hitched to a single, enormous dray. In the back was a straw pallet covered with a worn quilt.
Without a word, his wife wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.
“Once we are safely home, you shall never have to ride again if you do not wish it,” he promised.
The going was much slower than before, but it was a pleasant enough journey. Henry tried not to let her know how nervous he was, but every so often he could not help turning to check behind them. They reached Newcastle without event just before tea.
“I’ll ask after a ship while you order dinner for us,” he told Sabrina, stopping the cart before one of the quieter dockside inns. “We’ve plenty of time before the evening tide, and no knowing what fare will be available aboard.”
The captain of the Dove, a small ship transporting flint glass, was unwilling to have a woman set foot aboard his ship under any circumstances, but the captain of the White Crest, a collier sailing that night with a shipment of coal, was glad enough to take a couple of passengers to London—
for a price.
Henry counted out the fee with pleasure, including a bit extra for the use of the captain’s quarters, and invited the delighted captain to share their dinner.
An hour later, the newlyweds sat on deck and watched as the banks slid by. Sunset splayed its colors behind them as they approached Tynemouth. Not long afterward, a dim glow on the eastern horizon appeared, signaling the outgoing tide.
Sabrina leaned into him as they swept out to sea, while the captain pointed out the stars and gave their names. “I’m sorry I put you through all of this,” she said softly. “If I hadn’t been so stubborn and mistrustful, none of this would have—”
