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Chapter Twelve
My fourth marriage is off to a brilliant start. I'm slumped at the foot of the bed, naked, with my feet flat on the floor and my elbows on my thighs. My hands hang slack between my legs. And another part of me lies slack too, though it should be proudly waving. But no, my cock decided now would be the right time to turn as limp as a wet noodle. That explains why I'm glaring down at my hands and not speaking to my wife, much less looking at her.
This has never happened to me before. Why tonight? I crave Emery like mad, but as soon as we walked into the bedroom, I'd started to feel off. Maybe a wee bit anxious. No, not anxious. Tired. Aye, that's right. I'm exhausted from the whirlwind that has blown around me since the night I met Emery.
She lies nude on the bed, studying the ring on her left hand.
I can see her doing that out of the corner of my eye.
"You okay?" she asks.
Mhac na galla. How can she not know the answer? I flash her a dark look that I hope conveys the fact I am the opposite of okay.
She sits up. "This is completely normal. It happens to everybody."
"Not to me." I drop my face into my upraised palms. "What have I done?"
I met a woman Friday, had a poke with her five minutes later, and married her on Tuesday. That's what I've done. Suddenly, I don't feel as comfortable with this arrangement as I had fifteen minutes ago.
Our wedding night had begun very well. We kissed and groped and undressed each other, then we kissed more and kept on doing that while we made our way to the bed. Even as I pulled the covers back, we kept our mouths fused, and I lifted her up to set her on the mattress. Gazing down at her body, I felt my cock hardening and my lust growing with every passing second.
Then she smiled.
Aye, I've seen her do that before. But this time, she smiled as if she genuinely wants me to be her husband, as if she hopes for more than the arrangement we agreed to, despite what I told her. She gazed at me with…affection. And I swallowed so hard my throat hurt. Standing there frozen, I stared at the woman I'd married this afternoon. A stranger. A sweet, passionate lass who, for reasons I will never understand, bound her life to mine.
She lay on the bed, seeming more and more puzzled by my lack of action.
Naturally, I stumbled backward instead of pouncing on the lass the way a husband is expected to do on the wedding night. Worse, my slat had dropped like a stone in a pond.
"What have I done?" I repeat, my voice hardly a whisper, my face still in my hands.
Emery crawls across the bed to kneel behind me, settling her soft hands on my shoulders.
I jerk my head up and go stiff—though not in the way I want to be stiff.
"Take it easy, baby," she says, twining her arms loosely around my neck, her hands draped over my collarbone. She touches her lips to my ear. "I know you don't have a physical problem, which means this is emotional. We can work through it together."
"Cannae."
She nuzzles my cheek. "You're awfully morose for a man who got what he wanted today."
I drum one knuckle on my thigh.
"What is it you're afraid you've done?" she asks.
"Doesnae matter."
She skates her hands down my chest, swirling her palms over my skin. "The night isn't a bust yet. We had a weird, stressful day. That's bound to make you anxious." She coils her tongue around my earlobe. "Let me help you relax."
"Ye can try, but it willnae work."
"Don't be such a pessimist." Emery presses her lips to the pulse point on my throat, while her hands travel lower and lower, caressing and exploring. "I have skills too, ya know."
I pull in a ragged breath. Her touch is arousing me, for sure, but I don't know if it's enough to overcome whatever the hell is wrong with me tonight.
She drags her mouth down my throat, tasting my skin with light licks.
My drumming knuckle stops moving. I've stopped breathing too, and my slat is wide awake.
