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“Have you ever done this before?” she blurted.
He stilled.
Oh, no. He had. He’d done it without her. He’d done it with someon
e else.
He brushed her hair back and looked into her eyes, his brown eyes so full of longing that it stole her breath. “I’ve never done this before,” he admitted. He kissed her forehead with tender lips and breathed heavily against her skin. “How could I have ever done this without you? I’ve waited for you my whole life.”
“Are you afraid?” she asked.
He took her hand and placed her palm on the center of his chest. “Terrified,” he admitted, and his heartbeat kicked like a mule in his chest.
“What if I’m really bad at it?” she breathed. It was a ridiculous question she knew, but she was suddenly consumed with worry.
“Not possible,” he said with a chuckle.
He turned down the counterpane and looked at her as he reached behind him and pulled his shirt over his head.
“Oh, my,” she breathed.
His naked chest was dusted with a light down of dark hair that was springy and curled against the tips of her fingers. She let her fingers trail through it slowly, until he took her hand and stopped her exploration.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m afraid of what will happen if you keep doing that,” he said, his voice muffled by the way he kissed the side of her neck, his lips trailing across her skin, leaving a cool, wet path behind.
“What do you mean?”
He chuckled. “Nothing.”
***
She was wearing entirely too many clothes. And it was his job to remedy that situation, if he could just think of the best way to do so. Instead, he sat down on the side of the bed and tugged his boots from his feet, and then he began to unfasten the fall of his trousers. He pushed his stockings down his feet and shoved his trousers down until he wore nothing but his small clothes. She reached out to touch him, her inquisitive fingers hesitant but searching. She pressed the head of his manhood with the pad of her thumb and he squeaked like a mouse. A very lusty mouse, but still a mouse.
He’d taken himself in hand enough times to know that he was very close to spending. Painfully close if the ache in his stones was any indication. She squeezed him between her thumb and forefinger, and he bit his lower lip to keep from coming.
It didn’t work. He was painfully erect. And weeping, if the way his smalls were dampening was any indication. Her pretty little brows drew together, not understanding at all what was happening.
“Very normal reaction,” he grunted.
Then he pulled her to stand between his spread legs and began to tug her dress up. It was made of spider’s thread so it could grow and shrink with her, and it slid over her head like shedding a second skin, leaving pink skin behind. Her breasts were pert and round and perfect, and he pulled her close so he could lick across one distended tip. The sound that left her throat was painful in its intensity.
He’d never last long enough like this. He turned and lay back on the bed, bringing her over him as he did so. She looked down at him, her hair falling like a cloud over them both, tickling his chest. He tucked his hands behind his head and looked up at her. Her breasts were unbound, and the curly patch of hair at the apex of her thighs called to him. But if he so much as moved, he would disgrace himself. He knew it. He shut his eyes tightly. She was naked but for her stockings, and he wore nothing but his smalls and he was afraid to touch the woman he loved because he couldn’t control himself.
He wanted this to be pleasant for her. He wanted her to find joy in it. He wanted to make it perfect.
But then she touched him. She reached her hand inside his smalls and took him in her grip. He protested, grabbing for her hands. “I just want to see it,” she whispered, laughing in that way only Cecelia could.
He shoved his small clothes down over his hips and off his feet, and kicked them to the side. She laughed, but then she grew completely serious. She came up to sit beside him on the bed, crossing her legs and putting a pillow in the center to protect her modesty, he assumed.
“Quite daunting, isn’t it?” she asked, looking down at his manhood, her lip drawn between her teeth as she appeared puzzled.
“Yes, you are,” he laughed.
“Me?” she cried, laying a delicate little hand on her naked chest. “I’m not the one who’s all purple and… hard.”
Yes, he was hard. Good God, he was hard.
