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There was no rose oil to ease his passage. He had no idea how wet she was and thought he might shock her sensibilities to slip his fingers between the folds hiding her sheath.
Shelene searched along the contours of his arms. “You are very wrong, Lord Roman,” she said. “Men are very beautiful. Almost like sculptures. Now I understand why Michelangelo is considered a master. You might have been one of his models, in another life.”
He’d been a lot of things, none of them too complimentary. Being worshiped was a new experience. Even in her innocence, she adored him wholly. Her gaze approved, her touch encouraged, and her tongue explored.
Shelene was a creative, delving into her art when she was troubled or alone. Maybe she could see him and the world in a different light.
His was all darkness; hers was ethereal, pure and calm.
Rolling to his side, he worked at his trouser falls. In anticipation, she dropped her arms to the bed and took a deep breath. “I am ready,” she said.
“Don’t be afraid.”
How many times had he dreamed of this? Sexual pursuit in all its goodness and steeped in debaucheries? His real dilemma was whether he would ever enjoy Shelene as a lover. Roman had placed her on a pedestal of virtue. To remove her was to bring her to his level.
He rolled and knelt between her legs, braced lightly over her. Heat billowed between them where his bare erection nestled against her thighs, cushioned by the downy hair of her soft mons. He gripped her leg and wrapped it about his waist, settling, ready for penetration.
Shelene had closed her eyes and whispered, “Dios mío.”
Kissing her again was nothing more than a distraction. He wanted to plunge into her and finish the deed. He fought his base desires.
He wanted it to be tender and fulfilling for her. Was it possible that she might find satisfaction the first time? Did she even know there was pleasure for a woman?
He was overthinking it, just like he overthought every scheme in which he was a principal. That’s why he survived.
Best just get it over with.
She returned his kiss with a frantic need, her hands finally working again as they caressed his neck. With just a slight arch of his back, his cock fell into the soft, wet folds. He reached between them, grabbed the root to direct his movements and found the hidden entrance.
After a few swipes, and deciding she was as ready as she was going to be, he…
He wasn’t free. The flotsam of his career choices hung to him like barnacles and seaweed, sharp and slippery.
He rolled from her, the mattress groaning, and he draped his arm over his forehead.
“Roman, what is it?” She lay there for a moment, surprised, then shoved her robe down and sat up. “Roman?” She took his wrist and lifted his arm, peering down at him.
He wasn’t a coward and met her gaze full on.
Hell, he was practically counting off the things he should do to have intercourse with his wife. All nice and neat. And rote and boring. Instincts were accurate, his especially, and he should have listened when it came to Shelene.
“Accusing you of regret would be childish of me. I doubt you live with any sort of regret, for it must make your work impossible if you did,” she said. “But with me, why?”
She curled beside him, then reclined over his chest.
“I have regrets,” he said slowly.
“Since I’m your wife now, you ought to tell me. We shouldn’t have secrets.”
He toyed with a loose wave of her black hair, shiny in the light of the lone candle.
“It’s not about you.”
* * * * *
Except Shelene knew that it was.
“I know,” she said, lying to him and to herself. “But you promised me a wedding night.”
