Marrying Winterborne

After undressing her where she stood, Rhys carried her to the bed. Stretching her out beneath him, he began to feast on her with deliberate slowness, biting and licking on the pulses in her throat, breasts, wrists. She felt the touch of his hand between her thighs, teasing lightly. He splayed the soft flesh open, his fingers cool and gentle as they stroked on either side of the hot bud. She couldn’t stop twisting, straining, twining her limbs around his at every possible opportunity. He resisted, wanting to play, wanting to indulge in lavish variety when all she wanted was to have him inside her now.

His whisper curled into her ear like smoke. “You’re not wet enough for me, cariad.”

“I am,” she managed to say between labored gasps.

“Show me.”

After the briefest of hesitations, she reached down to clasp his erection. A shallow gasp escaped her as she felt the heavy pulse of his flesh, the shaft thickening until she was unable to close her fingers around it. Guiding him between her thighs, she rubbed the head of his sex over soft feminine layers and pleats, circling the most sensitive part of him against her until it was glossed with moisture and they were both shaking.

Rhys pushed against the swollen opening, stretching her, coaxing her flesh to yield. She arched, helpless and overtaken, aware of nothing but the pleasure of him filling her. He grasped her hips, pushing and pulling her slowly on his hard shaft, and she made sounds she’d never made in her life, moaning and purring at the intense delight of his possession.

When the last shudders had left her, and Helen had regained her breath, Rhys rolled and maneuvered her easily. She found herself straddling his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed. The position felt strange and awkward, and she linked her arms around his neck, fearing she might fall backwards.

Rhys slid a reassuring hand low on her spine. His mouth tugged at hers, his teeth lightly grazing her lower lip. He seemed to be waiting for something. She glanced down in confusion at the rampant erection pressed between them, wondering what he expected of her.

He laughed quietly, the lamplight striking sparks in his midnight eyes. “You look like a dove caught in a snare.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she protested, hot and mortified.

Cupping her bottom with his free hand, Rhys guided her upward and gently brought her closer to his body. “Lower yourself onto me, cariad.”

Her eyes widened as she understood what he intended.

She gripped his shoulders and obeyed, easing downward inch by cautious inch. Unable to take all of him, she stopped in discomfort. His supportive hand lifted her at once, lessening the inner pressure.

The black crescents of his lashes lowered, the space between his brows contracting. A sheen of perspiration had given his face and chest the look of cast bronze. He bit his lip and muttered something in Welsh.

“I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Helen whispered.

After taking a raw breath, he let out a rasp of amusement. “Just as well. I paid you a compliment—but a crude one. Hold onto me.” He eased back and supported himself on his elbows, letting her rest partially on his torso. “Is this better?”

Helen nodded with a little gasp of relief. In this position, she was able to control his depth. What an amazing feeling it was to have all that sinewy power beneath her, his robust body braced between her thighs.

There was a flicker of challenge in his eyes, and his hips nudged upward in playful invitation.

Helen moved carefully, rising and lowering, catching her breath at the hot slide of him within her. He was patient, letting her experiment, while his heart beat like a trip-hammer beneath her flattened palms. She found a gliding back-and-forth motion that sent spasms of heat through her. Judging from his ardent groan, he seemed to enjoy it as well. His mouth caught at the tips of her breasts whenever she moved high enough, and she began to delight in teasing him, sometimes letting him have what he wanted, sometimes withholding. The ribbon had come loose from her hair, the curtain of silvery locks tickling his face and chest.

“You like to torment me,” Rhys said, his eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure.

“Yes.” In fact, it was fun, enormously exciting fun of a kind she’d never imagined.

The hint of a grin crossed his lips and vanished quickly as she plunged harder, filling herself with him. He began to answer her rhythm in earnest, fisting his hands in the bedclothes. She loved the sight of him lost to passion, his head tilted back and his strong throat exposed, the muscles of his chest sharply delineated. A storm of sensation swept through her, and her shuddering body locked on him. He continued to thrust, the movements becoming jerky and forceful, finishing in a powerful shove that arched his hips and most of his back completely off the bed.

As soon as he was able, he sank back down and pushed Helen’s hair back with an unsteady hand to look at her face. “Was I too rough with you, cariad?”

“No.” Helen stretched luxuriously over him. “Was I too rough with you?”

He chuckled and relaxed. “Aye, did you not hear me begging for mercy?”

“Is that what you were doing?” She bent to let her mouth hover teasingly above his. “I thought you were urging me on.”

A slow smile crossed his face. “I was doing a bit of both,” he conceded, and drew her down to him.

They talked lazily for a while, while the night drowsed around them and shadows subsided in the corners.

“You charmed Lady Berwick despite herself,” Helen told him, leaning back against his chest as he sat with his shoulders propped on the headboard. “I think she invited you to call on us at Ravenel House before she even realized what she was doing.”