by Cara Bristol
Harder. Henry had carried around a partial woody through the ceremony, the interminable dinner with their parents, and the drive to the motel. By the time he carried his bride over the threshold, he’d been ready to have his way with her. Several degrees past ready. But she wasn’t. From her tense expression and the stiffness of her body, he could tell she’d grown fearful about their wedding night.
For that reason, more than the cake incident, he’d spanked her to break the ice. When he’d set her back on her feet, her pinched expression had relaxed, and desire had glowed in her eyes. Could it be that spanking aroused her? He’d stung her rounded bottom but hadn’t put any real force into his swats.
Any irritation about the cake had long since vanished, erased by lust—and by Mrs. Atwater’s disapproval. Though he got along with his new father-in-law, for reasons he couldn’t define, he’d never liked Margaret’s mother. Not that he would ever say so.
But his mother-in-law’s objection to her daughter’s little stunt somehow mitigated it. Margaret was an adult and his wife. Mrs. Atwater had no business chiding her. Hell, it was only cake—and hadn’t he always liked her sass?
A woman should act like a lady in public, but, in private, different standards applied. Or at least he hoped so. It boded well that his new wife had peeked at his bath towel.
He’d urged her to take her time getting ready, which had been the stupidest thing he’d ever said. Hurry, would have been better. Forget the bath, would have been best. But she needed time to prepare herself, so he’d forced himself to be patient—although when she’d requested his assistance with the zipper, it had been all he could do to resist tossing her onto the bed.
Water gurgled as it drained from the tub. Naked images roared through his brain. She’d be soft, her breasts perfect 34Bs, her waist tiny, her hips generous. Her skin would be flushed and glowing. Droplets would bead on her—
Fuck. Get a grip.
Henry popped the cork on the champagne and downed a glass. Then he refilled his goblet and filled hers halfway and carried them to the bedside table. He doused the lights, except the small one beside the bed and tossed his towel onto a nearby chair. He flung back the covers, sending rose petals flying, and got in and folded his arms behind his head, schooling his features to appear calm. If she had an inkling how much he wanted to pounce on her, she’d run screaming from the room. He’d heard stories of brides crying their eyes out behind locked doors, and he hoped to avoid that.
From inside the bath, he heard rustling and clatters. What was she doing in there? Women took longer to get ready, but did she need this much time? Maybe he should knock and see if she needed assistance. His dick throbbed.
Then the door opened, and the scent of honeysuckle billowed out. The second before Margaret hit the light switch, he saw her backlit body through her negligee. The vision took his breath away.
“Holy fuck!” The exclamation burst out of him.
She gasped.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized for his language and then, forgetting his nakedness, bounded out of bed.
Her eyes widened.
“You look beautiful,” he said huskily, cupped her face, and kissed her. She clutched his biceps, one finger caressing his skin. At the small touch, heat waves coursed through his lower body. He pulled her closer, inhaling her floral scent, savoring the taste and feel of her. My wife.
Go slow. Don’t scare her. Reluctantly, he released her. “I poured us some champagne.” By the hand, he led her to the bed. Maintaining eye contact, he gave her a glass and raised the other to his lips.
“Shouldn’t we toast?” she asked.
“Right,” he agreed. “To a lifetime of happiness.” They clinked glasses.
Margaret took a big gulp and then wrinkled her nose. “I like how it tickles.”
“Champagne is like that.” He preferred martinis, but one’s wedding day called for the bubbly. Henry sat on the bed and patted the mattress, inviting her to sit next to him. How did one go about seducing one’s wife? His previous liaisons had been with women of a certain ilk who knew what to expect. All he’d needed to bring to the game had been his passion.
For sure, he lusted for his bride with a totality he hadn’t expected, but the consummation of his marriage seemed imbued with a greater import.
He sipped his champagne, feeling awkward.
“You, um, could, uh…kiss me.”
Couldn’t ask for a better invitation than that, but he said, “You could kiss me, too.”
Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she leaned toward him. With one hand, she maintained a grip on her goblet, the other she rested on his shoulder as she brushed her lips against his mouth. Her tongue darted out. Flames of lust licked at him with every tentative flicker.
With a groan, he assumed control and plundered, unable to get enough of her sweetness. She grew bolder, her tongue mating with his—then she jerked and cried out.
A large wet splotch dampened her negligee. He’d emptied the contents of his glass on her.
He set their glasses on the nightstand. “Sorry.” He smiled ruefully. “But you don’t need this anyway.” He tugged her peignoir, pulling it off her shoulders to puddle around her hips.
One layer down, one to go. Her nipples had beaded to hard nubs through the thin fabric of her gown, which clung to her skin thanks to the dousing of champagne. He traced the edge of her nightdress from her shoulder to her cleavage. Against his hand, her heart thudded.
He kissed her once more before easing the straps to her elbows. The gown slid to her waist, and he covered a rounded breast, stroking the hardened tip with his thumb. With a small moan, she pressed herself into his palm.
An electrical charge shot through his cock.
Still kissing her, he eased her back against the mattress. Her smooth skin warmed his hands as he caressed her, finally able to see what he had only been able to imagine since they started dating. He hadn’t envisioned the possessiveness. My wife. Mine. To have and to hold. To love and to spank.
“Lift,” he ordered, tugging at her gown.
She eyed the bedside lamp. “The light….”
“I want to see you.”
Margaret swallowed then raised her hips. He slipped off her nightdress and kicked it onto the floor. She wore panties.
“You don’t need these either.” They joined the gown, and Henry stared at her unencumbered nakedness. Apple-sized breasts flattened against her chest, her soft tummy pooched out slightly, and springs of dark hair curled over her womanhood centered between two shapely thighs.
He met her gaze. Her cheeks had reddened, but she didn’t shrink away or flinch. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
“I feel so…so—”
“So?”
“Naked.”
He chuckled. “Then we’re doing it right.” He claimed her in another French kiss, before trailing along her neck, her collarbone, and down to her chest, where he captured a sweet bud between his lips. From shoulder to thigh, he ran his fingers up and down her body.
She jerked when he slipped his fingers between her legs. “Ah...ah....” Margaret tensed and clutched his biceps.
“Shh…” he soothed. “Spread your legs, Meggie.”
She parted them a tad, and he continued to kiss her while caressing her between her legs. When he dipped a finger into her entrance, he found her wet.
Ready. Almost.
He brought her hand to his erection, encouraging her to touch him. Her tentative caress stirred spirals of lust, and his hard-on leapt in her fist. He glanced at her wide-eyed gaze. Her lips had parted, and he imagined fucking her mouth. Soon, but not tonight. One step at a time.
“It’s…you’re…warm. Hard,” she pronounced.
He chuckled. She had no idea. If he was any more rigid, his dick would burst out of its skin.
She brushed her fingers over his cockhead. “And smooth.”
Under his direction, her exploration grew bolder. He returned to her clit, using moisture fr
om her pussy to slicken his fingers before massaging the bundle of nerves. Her breathing increased, her pretty face and chest flushed with passion, and her hips rocked against his hand. Her attention to his body became less focused before her hand fell away altogether to grip the bedclothes.
“Oh, God…oh…God—” She thrashed her head on the mattress as she neared orgasm.
He wanted her to experience pleasure before she encountered the pain of sexual intercourse. Henry rubbed her clit faster and harder. Her body tensed, and her hips came off the bed.
“Sweet Meggie,” he whispered. “Let go.”
Her face contorted, and her body shuddered and shook.
As the tremors subsided, he parted her thighs wider and slid between them, guiding his cock to her pussy. He pressed forward until he met resistance then, taking a breath, surged inside.
Margaret cried out and pushed against his chest, but he thrust again and seated himself. Her tight, wet channel closed around his cock. The urge to seek release pounded within, but he forced himself to remain motionless until her body relaxed. He pulled back then, and she tensed.
“It’s okay,” he said. “The worst is over.” He kissed her, tasting the saltiness of tears.
With long, slow strokes he fucked his new bride. He did not expect her to come again, but soon her body moved in sync with his thrusts. He bellowed his own pleasure as orgasm swept over both of them.
Sleepiness tugged at him, but he pulled his wife to his side for a cuddle.
She slid a leg between his. “Is it always like that?”
If one was fortunate. Not all women liked sex. Some couldn’t overcome the lies they’d been taught—that good girls didn’t enjoy it. “For us, it will be.” He hugged her and pressed a kiss to her head. “You’ve made me a very lucky man, Mrs. Thurston.”
“I love the sound of that.”
He propped up on one elbow and toyed with a lock of her hair. “That I’m a lucky man?” he teased.
She smiled. “The Mrs. Thurston part.”
He glanced at the tray of candies. “Would Mrs. Thurston care for some chocolate and champagne?”
“Mrs. Thurston would like that,” she replied.
“Stay here. I’ll get it.” He plumped the pillows against the headboard so she could sit up.
After she scooted back and tucked the covers under her armpits, he bounded out of bed. Margaret gasped. Blood stained the white bedding. Henry tossed the top sheet over it.
“The maid will see it,” she said.
“This is the honeymoon cabin,” he pointed out. “Everyone knows why we’re here.”
“That makes it worse, not better.”
He shrugged and grabbed the chocolates and the bottle of champagne. He couldn’t change social mores consigning sex to a shameful secret. Everybody did it but pretended they didn’t—and then congratulated each other on the arrival of children like they had been delivered by the stork.
He offered her the confections, and Margaret took a heart-shaped one. As he refilled their champagne glasses, she said, “You’re not going to spill that on me, are you?”
“I can’t promise.” He handed her a goblet.
The bed bounced as he crawled in, and wine splashed onto the mattress. His new wife rolled her eyes.
In the wee hours, they awoke and made love again. When morning streamed through the shutter slats, they found the sheets a mess from melted chocolate, champagne, and sex stains.
His bride gaped for a moment then burst into giggles.
He laughed, too, and loved her even more.
Stolen Moments
Genre: Romantic comedy
Billy writes erotic romance. His wife, Mary Sue, is jealous of the time he spends writing and wishes she could get in on some of the hot lovin’ his characters get. Beverly Golightly is one of the characters in a series Billy has written.
Billy relaxed in the chair and watched Mary Sue putter around the kitchen, cleaning up the dinner mess. He should probably get up and help her, but he enjoyed the view too much. He loved the sight of her butt shifting in those cutoff denim shorts. Although she didn’t think much of her ass, she had the cutest tush east of the Mississippi, maybe west of it too, though Billy hadn’t ventured out that way.
He’d based Beverly Golightly on Mary Sue, physically and personality wise. Beverly’s ass was Mary Sue’s, right down to the cute little dimple over both cheeks. From the top of her head to the tips of her pedicured toes, Beverly was pure Mary Sue; he only tweaked the details a little. Ask Mary Sue how tall she was and she’d say five-foot-two-and-one-quarter-inch, as if that little extra made a difference. In his books, Beverly always added that extra quarter inch to her height of five foot three. Mary Sue painted her toenails scarlet, Beverly polished hers crimson.
And temperament? Smack on. Mary Sue was as nice as sweet-potato pie, but get her in a temper, and whoa baby, stand back. Beverly’s impulsiveness when riled provided the necessary basis for all the bun warmings she received.
Just in case friends or family discovered his author identity, he’d made Beverly a blonde. Mary Sue had long brunette hair. He didn’t want to embarrass her by having people assume he was writing about her, even though he was.
Mary Sue had never recognized herself as the heroine of the Beverly books.
She whirled around and planted her hands on her hips. “Are you going to sit there or are you going to give me a hand?”
Billy smiled, unfolded himself from his chair and sauntered over to her. “I’m going to give you two hands.” He ducked his head to snuggle against her neck and squeezed both ass cheeks.
“Billy!” She protested with a wiggle, but giggled all the same. “We have to get the kitchen cleaned up.”
“Okay.” He kissed the other side of her neck, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. He wrapped one arm around her waist, cupped the V between her legs with his other hand, and pulled her against him.
“I’m serious,” she said, but rubbed against his hard-on, which prodded her lower back. Victory! He grinned, and slid his hand up to cover her breast. He thrummed the nipple.
“What else needs to be done?” From what he could tell, she’d finished everything: stowed the leftovers, put their few plates in the dishwasher, and wiped off the counters.
“I don’t know…things.” She rolled her head to the side, baring her neck. Her nape and throat were very sensitive. Paying attention there offered an almost surefire way to put her in the mood.
Billy followed the slope from ear to shoulder, kissing and nibbling. Mary Sue shuddered.
He smiled against her skin.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Not laughing.” He shook his head and drew a circle with the pad of his thumb over a hard bead poking through her tank. He loved the tight, skimpy tops she wore. Around the house, she went braless. Something else her alter ego emulated. Only Beverly had pranced around town like that—which had led to a spanking and a lecture on modesty by the heroine’s boyfriend. Billy brushed his lips over Mary Sue’s ear. “You want to move this to the bedroom?”
She slipped out of his hold, and with a teasing smile, said, “I think maybe the oven needs cleanin’.”
“I’ve got something for the oven, but it doesn’t involve cleaning.”
Mary Sue half groaned, half laughed. “That is so bad. I hope you write better than that!”
“Darlin’, writing is the last the thing on my mind right now.”
She started to say something, then snapped her mouth shut. He could read the comeback on her face. Something like, that would be a first. Many a romantic moment had been spoiled by the intrusion of his writing. What she’d once cheered, she now resented.
Apparently she’d decided to kiss and make up, because she jerked her head toward the bedroom. “Put your money where your mouth is, big boy.”
A couple of joking retorts sprang to mind, but he let them pass. Instead, he swatted her perfect little ass. “Hustle, then.”
&n
bsp; She scurried from the kitchen, and he followed.
The bedcovers lay in a tumble, the way they’d been left that morning. He probably should have at least made the bed, but what the heck. They would have been messing it up again right now. Billy shucked out of his clothes, keeping an eye on Mary Sue. She pulled her top over her head and squirmed out of her cutoffs. After she dropped her panties, he pulled her to him for a sizzling, naked kiss.
Her body felt like silk against his; pressed against her smooth tummy, his cock drooled with appreciation. As he stroked and explored her mouth, he danced her to the bed until the backs of her knees bumped the mattress. After another soul-deep kiss, he gave her a little shove so that she sat.
Lifting her right calf, he massaged her sole and instep with his thumbs. She was on her feet all day.
Mary Sue fell back onto her elbows and groaned. “Oh God, that’s good. Don’t stop.” Her eyelids fluttered shut in bliss. “Oh God.”
“Hey, don’t start without me!” he joked, and changed feet, rubbing the spots he knew would be sore.
“Keep doing that and I might.” She moaned again. “You’re so good.”
Her little sexy noises were making him crazy. He set her feet back on the floor. She opened her eyes and smiled, sending a ping of crazy love zinging through his heart. From the moment he’d twisted in his seat in eleventh-grade American Lit to borrow a sheet of paper from the perky cheerleader behind him, he’d been struck hard.
She—not so much. She’d required a little coaxing. He dogged her with a determination he’d previously only displayed in sports. He’d shown up to carry her books from one class to the next, making him tardy to his own. He’d traded lockers with a buddy so his would be next to hers. He’d showered her with a full dose of the Everett charm, always ready with a grin and a joke. After he’d asked her out four times, she finally capitulated. Then he’d braved meeting her father, who let it be known that while the shotgun wasn’t visible, it was accessible.
They’d dated for three years, been married for five, and he got the impression the old man’s reservations might be starting to thaw.
