Despite his most valiant efforts, Peter did not sleep well that night. He argued with himself that everything had worked out. He was about to marry a beautiful, intelligent woman who did not despise him—despite of not knowing about him until well past the eleventh hour—and with a little luck, in a year’s time, he could have the heir he so desperately needed. He would be a father at last.

But ever since mentioning William in his chat with Edmund, Peter’s doubts had grown. His nephew was a bounder and a cad. William’s voyage home from New York had been catastrophic for Peter’s friend, Captain Albert Tennant. Albert’s ship had been sabotaged and burned, and had sunk at the mouth of the English Channel. No one could prove that William was involved, but the signs were all there.

Was he a fool for bringing Mariah into a situation that could be dangerous for her? William had his eye on the Dunsford title and estate, his obvious feelings of entitlement growing with every year that Peter had remained childless. Was he being naïve to think that William would accept his new wife without protest, or that he would sit idly by once Mariah was pregnant?

He finally nodded off in the small hours of the morning, but William continued to prick at his conscience, even as he woke, washed, and dressed for his wedding day. As he shaved, unsatisfied with the careworn face he saw in the mirror, he resolved that whatever it took, he would guard Mariah against any threat William presented. And he would pay whatever he could to keep William distracted in London.

The Travers family was in a frantic state by the time he made his way downstairs. Mrs. Travers was haranguing the family maid about simultaneously fetching breakfast for Mariah to take in her room, and packing up all of Mariah’s earthly belongings, putting the maid into a state of near panic. Victoria took one look at him as he walked into the breakfast room, then burst into a fit of tears and fled.

“Don’t mind them,” Edmund told Peter as he helped himself to a light breakfast from the offerings on the sideboard. “Weddings have a way of driving women mad.” He saluted with his coffee cup from the far end of the table, and proceeded to tell Peter all about every article he was reading in the morning’s paper.

After breakfast, Peter excused himself to run an errand in town. He was surprised to find that his wedding was the topic of gossip on every street corner.

“Out of the blue, it is,” a grocer’s wife told a customer as she set out the day’s produce in front of her store. “Miss Travers didn’t have the slightest clue she’d been affianced.”

“None at all?” the customer balked.

“Sir Edmund forgot to mention it.” The grocer’s wife laughed.

“Blimey. If I forgot to mention a whole entire fiancé to my Bess, she’d likely beat me over the head.”

And then, up the street, Peter caught the edge of a conversation in MacTavish’s Bookshop.

“Apparently, he’s some lord her father dug up in Parliament,” a middle-aged man said to the bookseller, leaning on the counter. “Old and grizzled, he is.”

“Edmund Travers has never seemed like the type who would shove his daughter off on a crony with one foot in the grave,” the bookseller replied with a frown. “He loves those girls.”

Peter searched for the book he wanted to purchase, then brought it to the counter.

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” the middle-aged man said. “Mind you, none of us thought Miss Travers would ever marry. Not after Robert.”

“God rest his soul,” the bookseller said, then turned to Peter. “That’ll be one pound fifty, sir.”

The middle-aged man straightened and nodded to Peter. “Here. What do you think about old men marrying young girls?”

A grin tugged at the corner of Peter’s mouth. “I’m not the right person to ask.”

He focused on the bookseller as he wrapped the book in paper, but the middle-aged man went on with, “Are you married?”

Peter took his pocket-watch out, opened the cover to check the time, then said, “In about two hours I will be.”

Realization dawned in the middle-aged man’s eyes, and he burst into laughter. He slapped Peter on the back. “Good luck to you then, my lord. And you’re not so old as all that.”

Whether it was the exchange at the bookshop or the other rumors flying around town, by the time Peter arrived at the parish church with Edmund and the special license he had procured in town, a small crowd of curious onlookers had arrived. As he waited with Edmund at the front of the church, a surprising number of people filled the pews. By the time Mariah appeared in the doorway at the back of the church, her mother beaming on one side and Victoria weeping on the other, the church was nearly filled.

The ceremony was simple. The tiny church had an organ, and Edmund left Peter at the front of the church to rush back and escort Mariah to the altar while a hymn played. Victoria stood up with her sister, but couldn’t bring herself to look at Mariah or Peter. Edmund handed Mariah off to Peter, then shifted to the side to serve as his best man. The whole thing had an air of the ridiculous about it, which was only made worse when he met Mariah’s eyes.

She smiled at him. Victoria wailed behind her. Then Mariah snorted, almost as if sneezing. Peter flinched and blinked, concerned that something was wrong with her, that she would back out, leaving him at the altar. But then her eyes crinkled at the corners, her cheeks flushed pink, and her shoulders shook.

“Are you all right?” he asked, slipping his arm into hers and taking a step toward the vicar, who waited for them, Bible in hand, with an air of celestial patience.

“No,” Victoria groaned, and Mariah choked again.

Peter grinned, seized by a sudden tickle. Mariah’s eyes sparkled. She pressed her lips firmly together as if…as if trying not to laugh. He could feel the tension of it rippling off of her. She held a small nosegay of flowers in her free hand, but as the vicar cleared his throat to begin the ceremony, she swallowed an explosion of laughter and raised the flowers to her face, unable to do anything but press the back of her wrist to her mouth.

It was contagious. As the vicar began with, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God and friends to join this man and this woman,” Peter could hardly keep a straight face.

He ventured a sideways glance at Mariah as the vicar launched into a scriptural explanation of the beauties and benefits of marriage. Mariah must had felt him looking and stole a glance, meeting his eyes. Whether it was Victoria weeping behind them, the spectacle of the church filled with curiosity seekers, or the general absurdity of the marriage, that fleeting look broke both of them.

Mariah struggled to contain a peel of laughter as the vicar said, “Therefore, if anyone knows of any lawful impediment, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

Behind them, Victoria muttered, “Oh, blast it.”

Mariah laughed outright, and Peter was helpless but to break down with her. His whole body shook with unexplainable mirth, and his heart felt as though it had grown too large for his chest. That feeling only doubled when he snuck another peek at Mariah and found her grinning up at him, tears of jollity in her eyes. He reached over to lay his free hand on top of hers as it rested in the crook of his arm and tried to blink away his own silly tears.

“Do you, Lord Peter Charles Horatio deVere, take Miss Mariah Travers to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forth, until death do you part?”

Somehow, Peter mustered the nerve to turn to Mariah and say, “I do,” without dissolving into a fit on the spot. Thank God they had opted for the shorter version of the vows.

“And do you, Mariah Travers, take Lord Peter Charles Horatio deVere to be your lawfully wedded husband, to honor and obey, from this day forth, until death do you part?”

Victoria squeaked, but Mariah answered, “I do,” barely getting the words out before Victoria groaned. That set Mariah over the edge, and she laughed openly, her shoulder pressing into Peter’s as she sagged to the side.

Behind them, a chorus of giggles grew amongst the congregation. It seemed only right, even though it was the last thing he would have expected. But why shouldn’t the crowd of curious townsfolk laugh with them? It was better than laughing at them.

“Then by the power invested in me by God and the Holy Church, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Peter let out a breath that sounded more like the sort of sigh that ends a bout of raucous laughter and turned to Mariah. She was still giggling, which was a damn sight better than weeping or shrinking away from him in horror. He leaned close and brought his lips to hers before either of them could lose the joyful feeling that so much laughter brought on, and was pleasantly surprised by the spark he felt. She seemed surprised as well, and swayed toward him when he straightened. Her whole face shone as though she’d found a new penny by the side of the road and was eager to see what it could buy.

As he turned with her to face the congregation and walk out of the church as man and wife, he swore to himself that he would be worth the price she paid.

It came as a surprise to Mariah that, in spite of the fact that three days before, she hadn’t known it was about to happen, she enjoyed her wedding day. At least, once she got through the first few hours of fussing, fretting, and tears. None of which were hers or her doing. Her mother had driven Mariah to distraction as she dressed her, groomed her, and fixed her hair as though she were a small child or a doll. But the result was more impressive than she’d have been able to accomplish on her own. And even though she didn’t have a white dress—or any new dresses, for that matter—her mother had dug deep into her wardrobe in the middle of the night, found a rose-pink frock that Mariah had worn before Robert’s death, and stayed up letting the seams out and embellishing it with lace.

At the other end of the day, after the ceremony—which, she had a feeling, would make her giggle every time she thought about it for the rest of her life—a wedding breakfast that proved Mrs. Boyce, their cook, was worth every penny they paid her, and an afternoon filled with visitors dropping by unexpectedly to wish them well—or to gape at Peter, she suspected—Mariah was once again alone with her mother, this time as she was undressed and prepared for the one part of the whole marriage deal that left her frozen with trepidation.

“Remember what I told you last night,” her mother said, taking the pins out of Mariah’s hair as she sat on the bed in one of the guest rooms at the far end of the house. Not only was Hannah busy packing up Mariah’s room, her mother had insisted that she and Peter would appreciate the privacy of being well away from the rest of the family for the night.

“I remember,” Mariah said, trying not to let the dread show in her voice. How could she ever forget the vivid picture her mother had painted of her own marriage bed?

“Just trust Lord Peter, and you’ll be fine.” Her mother finished with the pins, then took a step back and studied Mariah, her expression full of sentiment. If Mariah didn’t know better, she would have said her mother was near tears. “My own, sweet girl,” she sighed, as if Mariah were on her way to the guillotine.

A soft knock at the door cut off any last-minute questions Mariah might have been tempted to ask. She stood, brushing the front of her robe and flushing with self-consciousness.

“Come in,” her mother said, pressing a hand to her heart.

The door opened, and Peter peered cautiously into the room before opening it wider and stepping in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, oh, no.” Her mother sighed, then stepped forward and lifted onto her toes to kiss Mariah’s head. She then turned and headed for the door. “Take care of my darling baby,” she told Peter, her voice cracking at the end. She let out a watery sigh that reminded Mariah of Victoria’s weepy dramatics, then left, shutting the door behind her.

And with that, Mariah was alone…with her husband.

She pried her eyes away from the door and glanced cautiously to Peter. He was wrapped in a maroon robe tied at the waist. The cuffs and legs of his pajamas were clearly visible at the sleeves and below the bottom. In spite of herself, Mariah let out a sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure how she would have reacted if he’d been obviously naked under the robe. He’d brushed his hair as well, and if the clean, spicy scent was any indication, he’d shaved again before coming to bed.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been studying him before he cleared his throat and said, “Well. Here we are.”

Mariah swallowed and focused on his face. “Here we are.” A distinct tingling started in her hands and feet and spread quickly inward. It centered in her frantically thumping heart and in the part of her that she was desperately trying not to think of as viscous.

“Listen,” Peter said, taking a step toward her.

Mariah gasped and took a step back. Instantly, she felt like a heel. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing a hand to her face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to flinch like that.”

Peter chuckled, holding up both of his hands. “I don’t blame you. I understand.”

“It’s just that this might be the most awkward situation I’ve ever been in,” Mariah rushed on.

“I can’t recall very many situations in my own life that were more awkward,” Peter agreed. “Although I was caught weeing on a statue of Cromwell my mother had in her private garden when I was five.”

Mariah burst into laughter. Once it started, just like at the ceremony, she couldn’t make it stop. “I can only imagine.”

“I’m not sure you want to.”

“Oh, but I’m sure you were adorable.”

“My mother didn’t think so.”

There was a pause. They both stood where they were, Mariah giggling and Peter smiling.

Before things could grow any more awkward, Peter said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to place too many expectations on each other tonight or to rush into anything.”

This time, when he took a step toward her, she didn’t flinch or flee, she merely said, “You don’t.”

“No. We’ve got all the time in the world to reach the point where we’re ready.”

Mariah smiled. It was a far cry from the pressure Robert had heaped on her. “I suppose we do.”

“So why don’t we just start by sharing a bed tonight,” Peter went on. “Believe me, that takes enough getting used to in itself.”

“It does?” She followed him with her eyes as he walked around to the other side of the bed, and removed his robe, revealing simple, blue pajamas.

“Absolutely. For example, how do I know you won’t steal all the covers while I’m asleep?”

Mariah laughed and peeled down the bedcovers in question. “Victoria and I used to share a bed when we were younger. She was the cover thief.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he said with a wry grin.

She liked him. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but then again, everything about the situation was different than she expected it to be. Not that she’d been given the time to form expectations. She shrugged out of her robe, laid it over the closest chair, and climbed into her side of the bed as Peter slid into the other. There were plenty of pillows behind them, and in no time, they were lying side by side, the coverlet pulled up to their shoulders. It was a cool night, but not cold, and the breeze wafting through the open window was filled with the scent of May flowers.

Mariah chuckled to herself. “May-December,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?” Peter turned his head to her.

“I was just thinking about the May flowers you can smell in the garden.”

“And the December fool lying in the bed beside you?”

Mariah smiled, settling onto her side. “You’re no fool.”

“But I am December to your May. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I like December,” Mariah shrugged her free shoulder. “December is full of excitement, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and all sorts of celebrations.”

“It’s not cold and lifeless and, what was the word? Desiccated?”

Mariah rolled her eyes and hid her face in one hand for a moment. “Please forgive Victoria,” she said, peeking between her fingers. “She’s nineteen and full of herself and the idea that all men of worth are strapping young bucks in officer’s uniforms.”

“She’s not wrong,” Peter said, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I cut quite a figure in my red coat when I was twenty, or so I’m told.”

“I’m sure you did.” Mariah grinned.

“I still have it, you know.”

“Have what?”

“My red coat. My entire uniform, actually. I would have brought it to be married in, but I gave up my commission a decade ago. I’ll dig the coat out of mothballs and try it on for you when we get back to Cornwall, if you’d like.”

A shivery thrill zipped down Mariah’s spine at the thought of Peter in an officer’s uniform. She blushed and dismissed her moment of excitement as something worthy of Victoria, but said, “I’d like to see that.”

“Speaking of which,” he went on, shifting as if trying to get comfortable. His knee bumped into hers, and she didn’t pull away. “You looked lovely today.”

“Did I?” She blushed, then glanced at the exposed skin above the top button of his pajamas.

“Of course you did,” he chuckled. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

She hummed in assessment of his statement. “I haven’t thought of myself that way in years.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re pretty or not when no one looks at you that way.”

He let out a surprisingly firm breath. “I’m not so sure I like the way people have treated you in all the years that I didn’t know you.”

His words were as good as a caress, and the pulse of warmth deep in Mariah’s gut grew. “People have expectations of single, young women who are still on the marriage market,” she said. “And they often have expectations about widows, even young widows. But no one knows what to do when a fiancé dies so shortly before a wedding. Therefore, no one has ever known how to approach me or where I fit since then. And it doesn’t matter one way or another if a woman is beautiful when she exists in a permanent limbo.”

She’d lowered her head during her explanation, and Peter surprised her by caressing her cheek and lifting her face to look at him again. “It matters to me.”

She smiled, and was certain he could feel the heat of her blush against his palm. He had fine hands too, strong with long fingers. The warmth inside of her pulsed and expanded, and she had to resist the urge to scoot closer to him.

“Were you close to your mother?” she asked, eager to keep the conversation going, but completely inexperienced when it came to talking to a man while in bed, their bodies mere inches apart. “When she caught you weeing on Cromwell, that is.”

He laughed. The vibration shifted his legs closer to hers. “I adored her, of course. All boys adore their mothers.”

“Did you still adore her when you grew up?” she asked, remembering how she had thought she was too grown-up and sophisticated to show affection to her father when she was in her teens.

Peter’s expression turned sad. “I’m sure I would have, but she died in childbirth with what would have been my younger sister.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” On instinct, she reached out and touched his chest. His heart thumped against her fingers. Propriety begged her to pull her hand back, but she didn’t.

“It was a long time ago,” he sighed, gently placing his hand over hers. “I was ten at that point, with one older brother and one younger brother.”

“Two brothers?” She blinked. “I thought you only had the one, the older brother you told me about.”

“No,” he said. “Arthur was my older brother and died while I was at university. But I had a younger brother too, Will.”

“Don’t tell me you have another sad story in your past.” Her heart squeezed for him, which had the paradoxical effect of making the rest of her pulse with life.

“Not to worry,” he said. “Will lived well into adulthood. He served in the army as well, although he managed to avoid the war by taking up an appointment in the Transvaal. He married and had a son, my nephew, William.”

Something about the way he spoke of his nephew told Mariah the relationship wasn’t a happy one. That didn’t make her feel any less as though she were within arm’s reach of a tragic hero.

“Will died of a fever six years ago,” Peter went on. “I still miss him.”

“I’m sure you do.” She hesitated, feeling as though the small space between them were buzzing. Part of her wanted to slide her arms around him and give him the hug she felt that he needed so badly, but the rest of her enjoyed the curious energy of their current position too much.

“You seem quite close with your parents,” Peter said with the same sort of urgency to keep the conversation going that had prompted her to ask about his mother.

“We are a close family,” she said, then laughed. “Sometimes a little too close.”

“Oh?”

She shifted a bit, as if to share a secret. The movement brought more of her legs into contact with his and her torso close to his, although their arms still formed a barrier between them.

“You saw the way Victoria is,” she said, arching a brow.

“I did,” he answered with a twin arch.

The two of them shared a grin reminiscent of the moment of connection they’d had as they laughed during the wedding ceremony.

“She’s only bold like that because, at times, Mama treats us both more as her friends than as her children.”

“Isn’t that as it should be?” Peter asked.

Mariah blinked in surprise. “Not according to traditional wisdom. Children should treat their parents with respect and awe, or so the books will tell you.”

“I would rather love my children and be loved by them in return,” Peter said.

The warmth filling Mariah coalesced into a throbbing ache. As soon as she realized the exact location of that ache, a wealth of other sensations sizzled through her. She did her best to ignore them in favor of the conversation.

“I usually prefer that myself,” she said, trying to maintain eye-contact with Peter, but unnerved by the depth of…something new in his expression. “But you should have heard her last night.”

“What did she say?”

Her breath caught in her lungs as she realized the corner she’d painted herself into. She swallowed. “Actually, she was attempting to explain what I could expect tonight.”

“Oh?”

It was one, tiny syllable, and yet, to Mariah, it felt as though someone had just thrown a dozen logs and a packet of gunpowder onto the fire. Every nerve in her body bristled, anxious and impatient, and utterly irrational. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to demonstrate all the things her mother had said, from turgid to viscous. And she still didn’t really know him. Worse still, his heartbeat grew faster and harder under her hand as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, what her body was feeling.

She cleared her throat. “I asked her if it hurt, and she said it didn’t really. Only that she was distracted by the sensations.”

His lips twitched, and a downright devilish gleam filled his eyes. As exciting as December could get. Christmas Eve exciting. “What sensations would those be?”

She worked to hide the trembling that the ache inside of her was starting to cause with a smirk. “I expect you’re experienced enough to know all about that.”

His eyes sparked and danced as though he enjoyed every minute of her discomfort. “I know,” he said. “But I’ve always been curious about what mothers tell their daughters and whether it’s anything useful or complete rubbish.”

“Oh, I think what my mother had to say was useful,” she said, her voice a tad too rough.

“Really?”

He moved his hand gently over her stomach to rest on her side. The simple movement sent lightning through her veins, leaving her throbbing with curiosity. She should be fighting it. She really and truly should be fighting it.

Instead, she whispered, “What does viscous mean?”

“You don’t know?” In the dim light of the lantern on the bedside table, Mariah was convinced she could see the blue of Peter’s eyes turn a deeper shade, near sapphire.

She wet her lips nervously. “I know what it’s supposed to mean.”

“But you’d like to know more?”

She nodded, her breath catching in her throat.

His hand slipped from her side to her hip. “Are you certain?”

He was asking for permission. She nibbled her lip and nodded again.

He drew in a breath and reached farther down her thigh, grabbing a handful of her nightgown and drawing it up over her knees. Then he shifted closer to her, nudging her to her back. The movement was small, but to Mariah, it felt like the undulations of an earthquake. He circled her kneecap with his long fingers, then drew them slowly up the inside of her thigh.

Her body melted into a riot of sensation as his hand moved upward. The ache in her core was so intense it drove her to distraction. Her legs moved apart with each inch he traveled up the smooth flesh of her thigh, but it wasn’t until she realized that she was the one moving them, willfully giving him access to touch her more and more intimately, that she let out a squeak of shock. Only, it didn’t sound like shock at all. It sounded far more primal, and Peter sucked in a breath at the sound.

At last, his hand reached the juncture of her thighs, and she gasped as he came into contact with the most intimate part of her. Her mother had been right. The burst of pleasure that his touch caused was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. It was like standing too close to a fire or a tree as it was struck by lightning. More than that, it was like discovering parts of herself that she hadn’t known existed. His fingers did more than brush, they delved. He rubbed and teased and tested at first, then he slid two fingers inside of her, deeper and deeper, stroking her within. Every movement was slick and smooth, like silk, because her body had made it so.

His hand continued to tease and enflame her, and his whole body moved closer. He nuzzled the side of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. That was when she realized his breath, like hers, had grown ragged and shallow. The heat radiated from them both like a furnace. More than that, she suddenly became aware that the hot, hard thing pressing against her thigh was him.

She let out a passionate sigh, but the sound instantly frustrated her. It was supposed to be words. She was supposed to be telling him that she took it all back, that they should do much more than simply sleep in the same bed that night. That in spite of the ridiculousness of her mother’s explanation, she wanted to feel that part of him inside of her. Even if she hardly knew him. He was her husband, after all, and this was their wedding night.

And then his hand pivoted slightly, and in addition to stroking her on the inside, his thumb made contact with a part of her that might as well have been a flashpoint. In no time at all, the furnace of energy that had built inside of her exploded like a clock wound too tight, and throbbing waves of ecstasy crashed through her. Her inner muscles squeezed around his fingers, and he made a sound that was half triumph, half surrender as she arched against him.

The waves of pleasure began to lessen, but the tension radiating from him felt as though it had just begun. He withdrew his hand from her cunny—it didn’t matter that her mother had said it was a crude word, in that moment, it fit—and brushed it over her curls to rest his palm against her lower belly. Of all things, that kept the wild, wanton feeling inside of her burning hot.

“Did you like that?” he asked, a tender note of hope in his voice.

“Yes,” she panted. And, seeing in an instant how awkward things could become again if she didn’t grab the bull by the horns, so to speak, she rushed on with. “I think I would like it more if we were both naked and it was more than just your hand.”

He moved so fast that if she hadn’t been so saturated with pleasure, she would have laughed. He swept her nightgown up over her head, throwing it to the side. Then he knelt and frantically worked the buttons loose on his night shirt, popping the last one in his haste to remove the thing. He tugged at the string tying his bottoms, and as soon as he pushed them down, his staff sprung up eagerly. Mariah bitterly regretted that the lantern was behind him and that everything she wanted to see was in shadow.

She, apparently, wasn’t in shadow, though. After kicking his bottoms off, Peter paused, gazing down at her. Never had Mariah been so aware of being naked, and never had she enjoyed it so much. Her legs were still slightly parted, and the part of her that he’d made sing continued to ache. Her breasts tingled and her nipples were taut as he gazed at them.

“You’re more beautiful than I could have imagined,” he whispered.

She wet her lips, wishing she could think of something equally tender and wonderful to say to him. The only words she managed to form were, “Isn’t there supposed to be kissing?”

It worked like a charm. He lowered himself to cover her, their bodies touching everywhere, She spread her legs apart farther as he settled between them. The hair on his chest tickled her oversensitive breasts. But it was the surprise of magnificence when their mouths met that sent her right back to the edge of bliss.

It was their first kiss, minus the brief peck at the altar. It was the first kiss she’d had since the ones Robert had impatiently stolen. And it was everything she’d dreamed a kiss could be. He parted her lips with his, demanding, but more because he couldn’t hold himself back than from any desire to conquer. His tongue slid along hers, giving her the sensation that they were joined. She wanted more and more of their kiss, never wanting it to stop.

At the same time, his hand brushed up her side to close around her breast. That too was a powerfully delicious sensation. She arched her back to urge him on. He squeezed just enough to make her sigh and raked his thumb across her nipple. All the while, the deep, aching need to be filled threatened to overwhelm her.

He broke their kiss at last with deep, desperate pants, nuzzling her cheek and the side of her head. “I can’t,” he started, but switched to, “I need….” Even then, he couldn’t go on. His hips shifted between hers.

She felt a press of fullness where he had touched her before, but only had a split second to realize his erection was much bigger than his fingers before he entered her. And yet, it was the most divine sensation she had ever felt. She gasped with awe as every last bit of awareness in her focused on the feeling of him stretching and filling her. If there was a moment of pain, it was by far eclipsed by the wonder of being joined with him. It felt so perfect that emotion overwhelmed her.

And then he started to move. It was glorious. Her heart soared as he moved in and out of her, building her pleasure higher and higher. She couldn’t hold back the sounds that ripped from her throat to match what her body was feeling. It just kept getting better and better as he moved faster and faster. And, God help her, she felt a whole new level of wanting, of craving, of desiring to be one with him like this. She wanted him and the sensation he was firing in her so thoroughly that it consumed her. And when the explosion of pleasure happened again, she welcomed it like the earth welcomed the first burst of dawn and color and life.

He reached the climax of his pleasure shortly after she did, which was another revelation. She knew nothing about men’s bodies, but had a feeling she was poised to learn everything as he tensed and shuddered, then gradually slowed and collapsed in exhaustion on top of her. The sensation was uncanny and wonderful. She loved the weight and heat of him over her so much that even when he was limp and panting, she wrapped her arms and legs around him to feel everything that she could.

“Yes,” she sighed as she caught her breath. “Yes, yes, yes, and yes.”

To which he answered a simple, exhausted, “Good.”

She tried not to, but she laughed anyhow. Everything felt so wonderful that she couldn't help herself. And rather than feeling like things had reached a satisfactory conclusion, she buzzed as though they were only just beginning. She spread her hands across his back, feeling his muscles. She wriggled her hips against his, squeezing her inner muscles where he was still lodged inside of her, much softer now.

He laughed with her, his body shaking in the most delicious way. “Wait, wait,” he panted, rolling to the side, much to her regret. “I’m not as young as I once was. Let me rest for a bit, and then we can do it again.”

“Good,” she repeated, snuggling against him and pressing a kiss into his shoulder. “Because, as it turns out, my mother was right about a great many things.”

And, she suspected, her father was right when he hatched the idea that the two of them would be a good match.