Marrying Winterborne

“When I push against you, cariad,” he said huskily, sliding a hand beneath her bottom, “lift your hips like this.” He pulled her up into his slow thrust. Taking his time, he drew back and drove forward again, and she hitched against him in a bashful movement that sent a rush of white fire through him. He fought to find his breath. “Aye, just like that—my good girl, my—Ah, God, you’ll kill me—”

He felt Helen bracing her feet for leverage, rolling her hips upward as he sank into her. It seemed as if they were doing something other than fucking, this was so new, so unbelievably raw and sweet. He’d never been so hard, so wild with need. He could feel pleasure leaking from him as he rode her steadily, the crisis racing forward with irresistible momentum.

But he didn’t want it to end yet. Gritting his teeth, he managed to stop. She whimpered, writhing beneath him.

“Wait,” Rhys said.

“I can’t—”

“I want you to.”

“Oh please—”

“Now in a minute.” He weighted her so that she couldn’t move.

“That means never,” she protested, and he laughed unsteadily.

When his desire was back under control, he began again, building the rhythm gradually, while the voltage of lightning gathered in his spine. He stopped every few minutes, holding himself deep inside her, letting his desire subside until he could continue thrusting. Her moans became louder, her movements more demanding. He saw the moment when she lost control, her eyes closing, her face deeply flushed.

Hooking his arms beneath her knees, he pushed her legs back, her hips up until her feet dangled and swayed, and he entered her more deeply. She was fully open to him now, her body working him, clamping sweetly. Sharp cries pushed between her clenched teeth, and he bent to seal his mouth over hers, forcing it open, licking at the sounds she made. She shuddered as her climax began, and that was all he could endure, the lightning releasing and shooting to the top of his skull. He pumped into her, yielding every drop of his essence as she pulled it from him in endless shocks.

Dazed by the force of his release, he let down her legs and hung over her, panting. Her arms tightened around his midriff, compelling him to lower over her until they were flattened together like the pages of a book. He wanted to stay that way, fused and clasped and caressed inside her, for the rest of his days. Instead, using the last flicker of his strength, he collapsed to his side and slid free of her.

After a while, Helen left the bed wordlessly, returning with a cloth she had dampened at the washstand in the corner. As she began to wipe it gently over his groin, he rolled to his back and linked his hands behind his head, enjoying the sight of her performing the intimate service for him.

“No one has ever given me such pleasure, cariad.”

She paused to send him a sideways smile. After finishing her ministrations, she set aside the cloth, turned down the lamp, and climbed back into bed. He pulled the covers over them both and settled her in the crook of his shoulder.

Helen snuggled against him. “Have you been with many women?” she dared to ask.

Rhys slid his hand over the supple line of her back, considering his answer. How much was a man supposed to tell his wife—future wife—about the women he’d known before her?

“Does it matter?” he countered.

“No. But I’m curious about how many mistresses you’ve had.”

“The store has always been my most demanding mistress.”

She pressed her lips against his shoulder. “You must hate being away from it.”

“Not half as much as I hate being away from you.”

Her kiss spread into a smile. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“If you mean the traditional arrangement—setting a woman up in her own house, paying her bills—I’ve had only one mistress. It lasted a year.” After a pause, he said frankly, “It’s an odd bargain to make, it is. Paying for a woman’s company out of bed as well as in it.”

“Why did you do it?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Other men of my position kept mistresses. A business associate introduced her to me after her previous arrangement had ended. She needed a new protector, and I found her attractive.”

“Did you come to care for her?”

Rhys wasn’t accustomed to reflecting on his past, or discussing his feelings about it. He couldn’t fathom what good could come of airing his weaknesses to her. But faced with her questioning silence, he continued reluctantly. “I never knew if her affection was real, or if it was included on the bill of sale. I don’t think she knew, either.”

“Did you want her to feel affection for you?”

He shook his head at once. Her hand smoothed over his chest and stomach, and the moment was so peaceful that he found himself telling her more than he’d intended. “I’ve had lovers, from time to time. Women who didn’t want to be kept, and sometimes liked a bit o’ rough.”

“A bit of rough?” Helen repeated quizzically.

“A lower-class sort,” he explained. “A rowdy in bed.”

Her hand paused on his chest. “But you’re gentle.”

Rhys was torn between amusement and shame as his mind recollected some of the more lurid episodes of his past. “I’m glad you think so, cariad.”

“And you’re not lower-class.” She began to trace invisible patterns on his torso again.

“The devil knows I’m not from the upper,” he said wryly. “‘Codfish aristocracy’ is what they call us. Men who’ve made a fortune in business, but are common-born.”