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This isn’t a fate worse than death!
Her legs wanted to spread further, yet she fought the unladylike urge and lay as still as possible. “Like a dignified corpse,” her sister had advised.
He gently prodded—this was the rutting, she supposed—and it sent small pulses of forbidden excitement through her.
But then he pushed in further, slowly but inexorably. He paused, watching her face intently while she tried to show no reaction. He pushed himself into her even more, and she held her breath as she stretched to accommodate him. Incrementally, he continued deeper, and she bit her tongue when the sensations tipped to discomfort. Sliding deeper caused a powerful sting, lasting only a few seconds before abating, then she was overcome by the sensation of being filled by him. Of being joined with him.
Panting lightly, William held himself still until she breathed again.
“I’m sorry, Beatrice.”
“I’m not,” she replied breathily.
His rod swelled harder within her, and she couldn’t help the small sound she made or from squeezing her muscles around him like a fist.
He swiped a forearm across his glistening brow, then settled his hands onto the mattress on either side of her hips. Watching her face the entire time, he moved his hips, dragging his thick tip along her slick channel.
Oh, how could she not move or make a sound duringthis?
She fought to lie still as he pumped into her lightly. The movements were small and gentle but wrought intense feelings throughout her loins. Her legs lay flat against the bed, not up in the air like she wished them; she pressed her ankles down into the mattress, needing to dosomethingwith them.
The act described by her sister had sounded like an invasion to be suffered, a feminine duty of sacrifice. She had imagined it as a moment in time when she and her husband would travel separate and lonely parallel paths, yet she felt less alone now than perhaps she ever had.
As his breathing increased, so too did hers. Her legs shifted, opening wider, and William slid into her more deeply, his eyes darkening. Her eyelids fluttered, and he made a startling sound—a deep moan that made her nipples tingle, and even more shockingly, brought a rush of wetness inside her.
This is rutting, she understood finally when he pumped in earnest, aided by the hot moisture her body had provided. She should be disgusted by the sounds of him moving inside her, of his harsh breathing, but something was wrong with her, truly wrong, for they only made her feel more wanton.
His eyes were fixed on hers, even as beads of sweat gathered on his brow, and still he pumped, his hands fisting in the bedsheets where he bore his weight. As he moved, the sleeves of his nightshirt pulled against the swells of muscle in his arms, beckoning for her touch. She clutched the fabric of her gown at her hips to prevent herself from reaching out.
William’s face grew tighter, as if pained, and still, he held her gaze like his life depended on it. Though she had the sense that he fought to contain whatever beast was being unleashed within, his hips moved faster and harder.
Her eyes darted away from his, praying he could not possibly understand that his actions were inadvertently causing familiar yet forbidden jolts of pleasure. With each of his potent thrusts, her folds rubbed against that place she touched herself, only in secret, all alone.
Eventually, she tried shutting her eyes tight to shield her reaction, but her naughty curiosity pried them open. Her husband—a man she had, until now, thought of as proper and reserved—was trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress deep, animalistic cries.
She was grateful when his eyes went from glazed to closed, for she could no longer school her expression to be appropriately blank. His pounding hips…the flex of his muscles…the sheen of dew on his skin, they all captivated her. The building throb of her own flesh grew so intense, she clawed the bedsheets to prevent herself from slipping her hand between her thighs.
Beatrice was failing to lie there serenely and dutifully as a lady and wife ought, but her husband was so far gone in his own ungentlemanly behavior that he could not possibly hold her accountable. She observed with fascination as his face contorted and he lost all control—muscles and veins standing out in his neck, his entire body tensing, and guttural cries being wrenched from his throat.
She was not simply bearing witness to his solitary journey; she traveled it with him, whether or not he knew it. The sight and sounds of his gratification coupled with what she felt in her own body. In his final throes, his groin pressed flush to hers, his wiry hair mingling with hers. There was no hiding. No separateness.
Even when he pulled out of her, panting, his eyes still closed, it wasn’t over; hot fluid rushed from her, and though wild and improper, it was a reminder he would remain with her even when he left.
He lay in a heap at the end of the bed next to her feet, his breathing becoming more even with time. Frustration boiled within her!Shestill fought to steady her breath. Her loins still pulsed. Her arms felt so empty they ached.
“Today is Tuesday,” her husband said in a gravelly voice as he pushed into a sitting position.
Her brow furrowed, and she managed to remain still and quiet rather than slam her fists into the mattress and snap that she didn’t care what day of the week it was.
“So it is,” she replied after a time, when she could steady her voice.
“Are Tuesdays convenient to you? For our conjugal duties?”
“I…” Panic gripped her. He would leave her now and only return a week hence? She swallowed and forced herself to speak. “As you see fit, my lord.”
“Thank you, Beatrice.” His quiet voice sounded almost penitent, then he slid off the bed. “Good night.”
“Good night, William.”
He took the candle with him, leaving her in the dark, unfulfilled, yet glorying in her awakening.
