by Emily Larkin
“Miraculous pitcher?”
“Because it holds water with its mouth downward.”
Cecily gave a tiny snort of amusement, and then was silent for several seconds. “You’re right. Quim is best.” And then, after several more seconds had passed: “I didn’t know my quim could feel like that. Thank you.”
Gareth kissed her hair again. “You’re welcome.”
He supposed he should release her and go back to his own bed now, but he didn’t want to. It felt wonderful to sit like this, Cecily nestled in his lap.
Dimly, he heard a clock striking the hour. Eleven o’clock.
Cecily moved, and for a moment he thought she was climbing off him, but no, she was merely shifting so that she was no longer astride him but was instead curled sideways in his lap. She relaxed against him again . . . and then stiffened slightly. “Gareth, you’re ready.”
He’d been ready for quite a while now, since long before she’d climaxed. There was a warm hum of arousal in his blood, and heat in his loins, but no sense of urgency, no need to seek his own release. Her thigh pressed against his cock, and his cock pressed back, and that was all he needed at this moment.
“Gareth?”
“Ignore it,” he said, but Cecily didn’t. She shifted in his lap until she was facing him, astride him. She slid her arms around his neck and leaned close and kissed him and whispered against his mouth, “Show me how to ride St. George.” Then she sat back slightly, her arms still around his neck, and smiled at him, flushed and starry-eyed and beautiful. His wife, wanting to have sex with him.
Chapter Six
Gareth began to feel anxious again. He’d much rather end their wedding night on a high note than risk it ending in failure. “We don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Cecily said, leaning close to kiss him again. Then she whispered, “We might have a child.”
Gareth began to feel even more anxious.
“What do I do?” Cecily said.
Gareth took a deep breath. He could do this. He could. “Uh, my nightshirt . . .”
Cecily rose up on her knees and pulled his nightshirt up, past his kneecaps, past his thighs, past his groin . . . and there was his cock, rising stiff and rosy from its nest of hair, exposed to Cecily’s gaze. Gareth found himself equally aroused and embarrassed. Blood rushed to his cheeks—and to his groin. His cock became stiffer. He wondered whether Cecily knew how to touch it. She was so very nearly a virgin that it was possible she didn’t. Would she glide her fingertips up his shaft? Rub her thumb teasingly over the head? Or did she not realize she could do those things?
“Would you like to take it off?” Cecily said, and for a moment he didn’t understand. And then he did. It: the nightshirt.
Gareth flinched. He put his hand out to stop her. “No.”
Cecily blinked, and then released the nightshirt, leaving it balled at his waist. “Not if you don’t want to.”
Gareth swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I don’t.”
“All right.” She gave a businesslike nod. “Now what?”
Gareth swallowed again. He looked down at himself. The panic had affected his cock. His erection was flagging. Pull yourself together, man, or you’ll fail a second time tonight. He inhaled a shallow breath and remembered what it had felt like to have his fingers inside Cecily, remembered the sounds she’d made as she climaxed. To his relief, his cock perked up again. Not as stiff as it had been, but still stiff enough. “Now you, uh, sheathe yourself on me.” Quickly, he wanted to say. Before I lose it. But he bit the words back.
Cecily rose up on her knees again. She fussed with her nightgown for a moment, pulling the fabric out of the way, lifting it up to her waist, twisting it into a knot at the back. When she’d finished, she was as exposed as he was.
Blood surged to Gareth’s cock. He felt a little lightheaded. He’d had his fingers in Cecily’s quim, but to actually see it, to see that little thatch of golden hair . . .
His throat was very dry. His pulse thrummed in his ears. He was no longer worried about losing his erection. He swallowed once, swallowed a second time, found his voice: “Hold onto my shoulders to steady yourself.”
Cecily obeyed.
Gareth took hold of the head of his cock and wished that he had two hands. “Lower yourself. Not too fast.”
Again, she obeyed.
He feared awkwardness and clumsy fumbling, but it didn’t happen. Cecily knelt poised above him, her warm, damp curls brushed his hand, he parted her lips with his thumb and fingers, she shifted her weight, he shifted his cock, and somehow—miraculously—it worked. The head of his cock slid into place, and they both took a breath, and then Cecily eased herself down on him, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed.
Gareth watched his cock sink into her. By the time their groins were snug, his throat was so tight that it was almost impossible to breathe, but he managed a few words. “How does that feel?” He knew what it felt like to him: incredible.
“Good,” Cecily said, and her voice was as low and breathless as his had been. Gareth glanced at her face. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. To his relief, he realized that it felt incredible for her, too.
Her eyelids lifted. She gazed at him, dark-eyed. “Now what?” she whispered.
“Now you move,” Gareth said, placing his hand at her waist. “We’ll find a rhythm that feels good. Take it slowly.”
Cecily braced her hands on his shoulders, rose slightly, and then sank back down. “Like that?”
Gareth stifled a groan of pleasure. “Yes.”
Cecily’s movements were tentative at first, but she quickly gained confidence. It didn’t take her long to find a rhythm that was perfect for them both. Not a vigorous rhythm; a slow, tortuous one. Gareth squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed his head back against the pillows, arching his throat, and tried not to dig his fingers too deeply into her hip. He was gasping for breath. So was Cecily, and her arms were around his neck and she was leaning into him, and every time she slowly bore down on him they both groaned.
Gareth gritted his teeth and hung on to his control. Wait, he told himself. Wait for Cecily. Wait.
The rhythm became a little faster, became a little jerky, and then Cecily climaxed, her inner muscles clenching tightly around his cock.
Gareth let go of his control and climaxed, too. His orgasm went through him like a huge wave.
Cecily sagged against him. He gathered her close, his arm around her, panting and gasping. His body felt boneless. It also felt as if it might be floating. Or perhaps the whole bed was floating.
Gareth drifted on the aftermath of that wave for quite some time, enjoying the deep sense of contentment, the lingering glow in his body. His cock was still inside Cecily, warm and soft and replete, and that felt almost as good as the moment of climax had. Or perhaps, in its way, better.
He could easily fall asleep like this.
Gareth raised his hand to rub his face. A faint fragrance teased his nostrils and for a moment he was puzzled . . . and then he remembered dipping his fingers into his wife. He inhaled, breathing in Cecily’s scent. It was musky, tantalizing.
Gareth lowered his hand and snugged his wife closer to him and thought about tasting that scent. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or was that too soon for such an intimacy? Should he wait until there was ease and playfulness between them? A few weeks, maybe?
Cecily stirred in his embrace and raised her head. She had never looked more beautiful, her golden hair tousled, her face flushed, her eyes drowsy.
“Did you like riding St. George?” Gareth asked softly, even though he already knew the answer.
She blushed, and nodded, and pushed herself to sit upright on his lap, but she made no move to climb off him. Perhaps she liked feeling him inside her as much as he liked being there?
Cecily’s eyes became less drowsy, more alert. Her brow furrowed faintly, her head tilted slightly to one side.
“What?” Gareth said.
&n
bsp; “When you said I could face away from you, it wasn’t because you thought I mightn’t want to look at your face, was it? It was because you thought I wouldn’t want to look at your arm.”
His sense of contentment vanished abruptly.
“And that’s why you didn’t want to take your nightshirt off, isn’t it?”
Gareth looked away from her.
Cecily’s arms came around his neck again. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Would you truly rather I couldn’t see you?” Her voice sounded soft, sad.
Gareth couldn’t bring himself to look at her. After a moment, he nodded.
Cecily sighed, and then kissed his cheek again. “My poor Gareth.”
He stiffened.
Cecily sat back on his lap. “What? You did that last time, too. What is it you hear when I say that? Because I can assure you it’s not what you think.”
Gareth stared at the corner of the room for a moment, and then reluctantly met her eyes. She was frowning, her gaze intent on his face.
“What, Gareth?”
He clenched his jaw briefly, swallowed, and then said, “I don’t want your pity.”
Cecily stared at him for a moment, and then she shook her head and laughed softly. “Pity? Oh, Gareth.” Her arms were around his neck again, and his hand went instinctively to her waist to pull her closer. “I don’t pity you,” she whispered in his ear. “How can you think that?”
“Poor Gareth,” he said, but his heart was already feeling a little lighter.
“Because I love you, Gareth, and when someone you love is hurting or unhappy, you want to comfort them.” She drew back slightly and met his eyes. “I won’t say it again, I promise.”
Gareth gazed at her, wishing he could read her thoughts. “You don’t pity me?”
“Of course not! Why would I? Because you’ve only got one arm?” She made a dismissive sound. “As if I’d pity you because of that!” She thought for a moment, frowning slightly, and then said, “The only reason I wish you didn’t have one arm is because it hurts you and it grieves you and it makes you think I don’t want to look at you, and I do want to look at you, Gareth. Of course I want to look at you! You’re my husband and I love you.”
Emotion gathered chokingly in Gareth’s throat.
“I don’t care about your arm,” Cecily said quietly. “But you do, don’t you?”
Gareth’s vision blurred. He looked away from her and managed a nod and blinked several times. Don’t cry, he told himself.
Cecily touched his cheek lightly. She sighed, a sad sound. “Do you hate it so much?” she whispered. “Your arm?”
Gareth sighed, too, and closed his eyes. “I hate the difference between what it was and what it is now.” And then he confessed, in a very low voice, “I don’t feel whole anymore.”
Cecily was silent for a moment, and then she said, “You might compare yourself to who you were, but I don’t.” She fell silent again, and then said, very softly, “And our children won’t, either. They won’t care whether you have one arm or two, any more than I do.”
Gareth’s throat constricted.
“To me, you’re whole. And to our children, you’ll be whole, too.”
He squeezed his eyelids tightly together, but it didn’t stop the tears leaking through. Cecily wiped them gently away with her thumbs.
Gareth inhaled a shaky breath. He opened his eyes.
She smiled at him crookedly and her eyes were bright with tears, too. Ten minutes ago he might have mistaken those tears for pity; now he recognized them for what they were.
“I love you,” he told her.
“I love you, too,” Cecily said, and leaned forward to press her lips to his. “And I will love you even if you let me see your arm.” She sat back and smiled that sad, crooked smile again. “One day. Not now.”
One day, not now . . . but Gareth had a sudden, deep, instinctive feeling that now—the first night of their marriage—was the time. Start as you mean to go on. He hesitated, and then pulled the nightshirt awkwardly over his head. The fabric gathered on his right arm. He clenched his hand inside the folds of linen and sat tensely, his head turned slightly from her, afraid to see revulsion on her face.
Cecily didn’t recoil or try to lean away from him.
After a moment, Gareth dared to look at her face.
“Do you always wear a bandage?” she asked.
He nodded. “It helps.”
“Does your shoulder ever hurt?”
He shook his head. “Just the arm.”
Cecily reached out and traced his left collarbone with a fingertip, from his sternum to his shoulder, a light, tickling touch that made him shiver. “Does that hurt?”
“No.”
Her fingertip traveled to the very apex of his shoulder, where his arm began. What there was of his arm. “And that?”
“No.”
She gave a nod and removed her finger and Gareth was disappointed for moment—and then she leaned closer and kissed his collarbone.
Cecily’s lips were soft and warm. She kissed her way along his collarbone, kisses as light and tickling as thistledown. Gareth held himself very still and concentrated on breathing.
She laid a final kiss on the apex of his shoulder. “That doesn’t hurt?” Her breath was warm on his skin.
“No,” Gareth whispered. Tears came to his eyes again. He blinked them away.
“Good.” She kissed him there a second time, her mouth lingering for a moment while her tongue stole a taste of his skin, making him shiver, making the tears sting more sharply in his eyes, and then sat back and gazed at his torso. “I like you without your nightshirt on.” She placed her hands high on his chest and slid them slowly downward, over his ribs to his abdomen, and then back up again.
The tears in Gareth’s eyes evaporated. All of his awareness narrowed to Cecily’s hands.
She found his nipples and took them between fingers and thumbs. “I liked what you did to me,” she said in that delightfully matter-of-fact way of hers. “Do you like being touched here, too?”
Gareth managed to breathe, managed to nod, managed to say, “Yes.” And then he said, “Pinch them.”
Her eyebrows quirked upward, but she did as he asked.
Pleasure jolted through him. Breath hissed between his teeth. His cock began to stiffen.
Cecily smiled. “You do like it.” She pinched again.
Gareth bit back a gasp. “Nightgown,” he said. “Please take it off.”
Cecily released his nipples and obeyed. The movement of her body on his lap while she pulled off the nightgown was deliciously arousing, and the sight of her breasts once she was naked was even more so. God, she was beautiful. Her slender curves, her pale skin, those high, round breasts. And that tantalizing thatch of golden hair, where his cock was still buried inside her.
Cecily’s eyes met his. “You’re ready again,” she whispered. She rocked slightly on him and he shuddered, and so did she.
“Almost,” Gareth said, and his voice sounded like someone else’s, low and husky. “Let’s not rush. Let’s . . . draw it out.” He cupped one of her breasts in his hand and caressed it lightly.
Cecily shivered, and reached for his nipples. “Like this?” She took them between thumb and finger again, and pinched.
His body gave a little jolt. “Exactly like that.”
Chapter Seven
Riding St. George was even better the second time than the first.
Cecy didn’t want to climb off Gareth afterwards. It felt marvelous to have his organ inside her, both of them warm, relaxed, sated.
When she’d caught her breath she drew back slightly, resting her forearms on his shoulders, and smiled at him. Her husband. This marvelous man she’d married.
Her gaze was drawn to his shoulder, his arm, that neat, white bandage. Cecy trailed her fingers along his collarbone, halted at his shoulder, and asked, very quietly, “How did it happen?”
Gareth didn’t tense, but he did seem to stop br
eathing.
“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”
After a moment, Gareth said haltingly. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, it’s that . . . I never have. No one’s wanted to know.”
“I want to know,” Cecy whispered. “If you can bear to tell me.” She stroked his collarbone soothingly. “But only if you want to.”
Gareth was silent for almost a minute, and then he said, “It was after the first charge. I don’t remember much, but I know we were reforming the line, and that Toby and Ned were both missing, and . . .” He took a shallow breath. “I don’t know quite what happened. Something hit me, grapeshot or a musket ball or something. Knocked me off my horse. And there was all this blood, I remember that, but . . . the surgeon said that my arm was shredded, and I don’t remember that. I think I must have hit my head when I fell off my horse.” He was silent for a moment, and then said, “The surgeon took it off, right there on the battlefield. I don’t remember that, either. I don’t remember anything else until I woke up the next day with only one arm.”
His voice caught on those last words. His breath hitched in his throat. He lifted his hand and rubbed his eyes.
Cecy gathered him in her arms. After a moment his breath steadied again. His arm came around her. “I was lucky it happened when it did. If I’d fallen in the middle of a charge, like Toby and Ned, I would have bled to death before anyone found me.”
“Ned? You mean Edward Kane?”
“Yes.”
Cecily remembered the man as she’d last seen him, the terrible scars on his face, the missing fingers. “How would you describe his character?”
“Ned? He’s one of the best men that ever lived. Stayed with me in Brussels until I was able to travel.” Gareth stroked her hip. “I caught a fever, you see. Couldn’t get out of my bed for months.”
He’d had a fever for months? No wonder there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.
“Ned wouldn’t leave until I could, too. He’ll find your friend, I’m sure of it. Once he sets his mind to something, he won’t be turned from it. He’s . . . steadfast.”
