by Pendle, Eve
She was sweetness and light, and he wanted to revel in her. Her eyes widened as he nudged the dress higher and he leaned over her, dragging his lips on the inside of her thigh. He didn’t let up. She’d said she wanted to consummate their marriage and he was going to. When his mouth touched the juncture of her thigh to her body, a squeak escaped her.
“Yes?” He looked up.
“My mother didn’t tell me…”
He chuckled. “No, it’s not something she would tell you.” He lowered his head and licked along her crease. Moisture, musky and female, seeped onto his tongue and his blood leaped in response.
“Oscar…” Her hand landed on his shoulder. “But… it’s not part of the marital act?”
“It absolutely is. It’s essential.” He lowered his mouth to her again.
She was new to this, so he didn’t tease her or draw it out. Pleasure was his focus, and he set his tongue to smooth over her bud, licking in sustained rhythm. His erection was stone on the mattress, heavy and needy as her breath went ragged. Her fingers clutched at his skin, her nails digging in. He didn’t let up.
Reaching up, he cupped her breast and rubbed across her nipple. It hardened beneath his thumb. Her moans escalated, higher and sweeter as she writhed beneath him.
“Oscar.” Her voice was breathy, incoherently begging for something she didn’t know how to grasp for.
He didn’t say anything because he was going to tip her over into ecstasy. He sucked her clitoris hard, unrelenting, while pinching her nipple then soothing it with a stroke. Her hips jerked of their own accord.
Carefully, gently he slipped his fingers over her thigh from where he’d been stroking her leg. Bringing his hand to his chin, he eased his forefinger to her entrance. She was inconceivably slippery and he nudged his forefinger into her folds. There was a bit of resistance at her entrance, but he pushed through it. He was rewarded with her visceral response. She gripped him so tight, he had to take a breath and tell himself this part of a woman was meant to expand. He curved his finger in her as her moans told him she was building and building.
Then she was crashing over, pulsing around his finger. The spread of pride and satisfaction as her orgasm went on and on was almost as good as relief for his achingly hard cock. He eased the pressure on her, gentling to soft caresses.
Shifting up the bed so they were eye to eye, he drew her into his arms. His still-virginal wife was liquid, no tension in her body.
“What was that?” she whispered, her eyes closed.
He could tell her that was the marital act and fool her. “That was an orgasm. And whenever you’re in my bed, you’ll have one. At least one.”
“What now?” she said sleepily. “The marital act?”
“Yes.” He ought to tell her to go to her own bed or hold her as she glided into sweet dreams. “I need you.” This was beyond insane and it felt as good as warm summer weather.
“Then have me.” She opened her eyes and tilted her chin.
His throat constricted. “You’re so perfect, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You have to risk falls to make it over every jump.” The side of her mouth pulled up.
A fox hunting allusion, of course.
He wasn’t a good enough man to resist Emily. He moved over her, stroking down her side and positioned himself at her entrance. Her heat and wetness were only just touching the tip of his cock.
He would be gentle, the sort of lover that she deserved. But it was difficult to fight against his lustful need. Nudging against her, there was just the smoothness of her entrance. He watched her face as he pushed into her, slow but unhesitating. This first break twinged, or so he’d been told. It felt like inappropriately, sickeningly, like heaven to him. The black of her pupils expanding as he stretched her open for the first time. She gasped, and her body went solid again, no longer languid from pleasure.
He’d hurt her. The knowledge was ice water down his back. However good she’d felt around him, that gasp of pain cut it off utterly. He eased backward until he was completely outside of her again, just the head of his cock resting against her entrance.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
“That.” She took a deep breath. “Was that it?”
He kissed her mouth gently, brushing his lips over hers. “That’s the end of your virginity.” It might be the end of him to stop now.
“Oh.” She seemed to think for a moment. “But the beginning of something else?”
“Maybe.” He dared not hope so. “Do you have pain?” He had to know to know for sure. Perhaps she would want to carry on…
“A little,” she admitted.
But he could hear in her voice that it was more than a little. He rolled off her and back onto his side, pulling gently to persuade her to come with him, into his arms. There was nothing more he could or would do tonight, except give her comfort.
His own needs, protesting themselves hard as this moment, would have to be patient. In the morning he would find a way to relieve the overwhelming, insatiable lust inspired by his wife. Probably with a furtive jerk of pleasure, hidden away, his eyes closed to reality.
She deserved better than his unrelenting, needy appetites.
“Where shall we go on honeymoon?” He must distract her. “Paris?” To distract himself he took her hand, playing with her fingers, lacing them with his, then releasing them.
“Are there ferns in Paris?”
She was obsessed, and he loved it. “No, there are beautiful paintings, romantic streets, and excellent patisserie.” A brief honeymoon to Paris would complete the illusion of their great romance.
“I’d rather have ferns. Perhaps we could go to the Lake District?”
“As you wish.” Was he disappointed by her not wanting to spend time with him? Maybe. But then again, they might have to stay near London anyway, what with the debates on the Contagious Diseases Repeal Bill coming up, and Annie’s illness.
This wasn’t the moment to think of his responsibilities. It was a precious moment when he was a considerate bridegroom with a delicate bride. After a few minutes, she relaxed, her curves softening onto him. Her breath began to even out. Her earlier satiety had returned to tempt her into slumber.
It took much longer for his erection to reduce. Especially with her breasts pressed onto his chest, gently rising and falling. She felt closer to him than any person had been before, as well as utterly unobtainable.
* * *
It was still dark when he woke with the smell of orange blossom around him, sweet and sharp. It was Emily’s hair, he realized after a moment, spread across the pillow in front of him. She was curled with him, her smooth back to his chest. Her bottom was next to his ramrod straight and hard cock. Morning glory, perhaps. Or more likely, drowsy lust, induced by the woman in his bed.
She moved in her sleep toward him. Instinct was too strong. He gathered her up in his arms and she turned in to him. Her mouth found his in a lazy kiss, careful at first, then more, becoming open-mouthed and demanding. His tongue reached for hers and she met him, stroking his lips and mouth with her tongue, instinctively showing him what she needed.
He took his time making his way down her body, taking in each part with a kiss and a measured stroke. He explored her wrists, the impossibly soft skin of her inner arms, and the gentle curve of her neck. He eased her away from him far enough to be able to touch her properly. She mewed at the loss, then gasped as he rubbed his thumb across her nipple. Bending his head to take her nipple between his teeth to gently nip it, he slipped his hand down, across her belly, then over her mons and carefully he parted her labia as he tongued her nipple.
Her hands crept up to his shoulders, then over and back, tentatively exploring his shoulder blades, then to his chest, brushing his nipples with careful touches. Within moments his cock aching for the release he’d denied it earlier in the night.
He rose up, found her entrance with the head of his cock as easily as if they were a key and a lock, and
entered her in one stroke. She reached up and tangled her fingers in his chest hair as he fucked her so much more languorously than he wanted to. He was careful, but she was soaking and it was easy to slide into her body.
Her hands traced down his neck, causing little shivers to go through him as her nails caught on his hair. He let her explore but distracted her with a deep kiss, his tongue mimicking the wave-like pattern of his hips. He smoothly stroked into her, keeping up a patient movement that didn’t stop at either the top as he almost pulled out or the bottom when his balls pressed into her buttocks.
But she didn’t seem to understand his need for mastery of himself. Her hand found their way down to his hips, gripping him and urging him on, pulling him faster into her and lifting her hips to meet his. Unable to resist, he increased his speed, taking her closer and deeper.
He was threadbare, a worn and transparent version of his civilized self.
“More,” she whimpered. “I need more.”
It was too much. Her hands were all over him, enticing him to tip over the edge before either of them was ready for this to be over. If she wanted more, he had to stop her from touching him, otherwise he would explode. Reaching around, he grasped her hands in his, lacing their fingers together and stretching their arms over her head.
“Oh,” she moaned.
“There, that is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he whispered to her as he kept contact, that alone nearly undoing all his control.
She struggled slightly against his hands, but he was beyond allowing her that freedom. He brought their hands together, a tangle of wriggling skin, and clamped both her hands in one of his. Her fingers curled toward his palm.
With his free hand, he trailed down the soft skin of her inner arm, all the time keeping up rhythmic thrusting of his hips, a torture of hot pleasure as he stroked himself into her yielding body. Bringing his free hand to her nape, he wrapped his fingers in her silky hair, as warm and fluid as her mouth under his. As she thrashed from side to side, her head pulled her hair against his hand.
“You’re mine,” he ground out, his lips on hers. He wanted her goodness as an antidote to everything in him.
A mewling sound escaped her and he felt it all the way through him, as though he’d swallowed it as they kissed. It was like he’d forced the sound from her as he pushed into her, deeper and harder. He tightened his grip on her hands.
She’d said she would obey earlier today, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to bite her, brand her as his, and consume her.
Clutching at him as he took her, her heels hooked onto the backs of his knees to keep him in her. His cock was throbbing, but he couldn’t finish until she was overcome.
He released her hair and brought his hand down, pinching her nipple as he smoothed his hand down her body, eliciting a gasp from her. Then he tried to settle his fingers against the center of her pleasure.
It was awkward, his hand in the way of his hips, preventing the movement needed for both his erect member and his fingers. He wanted to push her over the edge again and much as that, he wanted to see her face as he did it. But he wasn’t going to hold out, not with her tightness around him, squeezing him, and it was more important that she had her pleasure than that he watched it.
Maybe he was a bit rough, as he withdrew from her, his lust making him hasty. He pushed one of her legs off him, his other still holding her hands firm.
“Turn over,” he ordered her. His voice sounded harsh, even to him.
Her eyes widened. His heart beat twice until she complied, and he allowed her hands to slip around, reasserting his grip once she had turned. He gripped her wrists this time.
This had been a terrible mistake because if he thought that seeing Emily’s face, contorted with need was affecting, her smooth buttocks were equally bad. He could imagine despoiling her skin with reams of his seed.
He needed her. Pushing her legs apart with his knees, he spread her and thrust in one movement, deep and sure.
She sobbed, and he rewarded her with a hard thrust before he reached around her to find her clitoris. He was ruthless in his pursuit of her ecstasy, finding her nub and stroking her hard.
“Oscar,” she managed to beg. “Oh.”
“Yes.” He made the timing of his strokes the same, his fingers and cock working in tandem. He coaxed her into sensation, tracing her nub, rubbing over it in rhythmical patterns. Then he pushed her into higher with his fingers and thrusts.
The need to pound into her was ferocious, a wild creature that they’d unleashed in the darkness. He couldn’t hold out. Each sensation was more intense, the feel of her tightness and slickness all around him, over his fingers, his cock, his balls, was almost spilling him over.
“Come,” he demanded. Her wrists were dainty, but strong, beneath the shackles of his left hand. In his right hand, her slick nub was swollen and needy. All he could hear was her breath, sighs and moans as he pushed her towards orgasm.
He made a gentle caress of her center, then dove back for one last hard circle. She came apart.
He too exploded, pumping into her in almost painful pulses. The feeling kept going until he was a shell, emptied into her, seed, heart, and soul.
* * *
“I don't shoot anymore,” Emily replied. “I only hunt ferns.”
“Don't be ridiculous.” James handed her a loaded gun, the polished auburn of the chestnut wood stock reflecting her face.
She took the weapon, heavy and warm in her hands. Pointing it at the sky felt familiar, like walking into the parlor at home or feeling the cramp of her monthly courses.
“Go on,” James encouraged her.
A deer crept into view, her gold fur glinting red in the evening light.
“Shoot it.”
It was a pretty animal, innocent and stupid. “I can't.”
“You can, just do it.”
There'd been a time when she'd shot recklessly. She’d tracked birds across the sky and sent them plummeting to the hard ground. She’d shot deer and felt only a twinge as they fell. In the evenings, she’d feasted on tender pink flesh.
“No.” That wasn't who she was anymore. “I only hunt ferns.” Green, safe. That was who she was. Ferns.
“You silly girl,” James said irritably. “Give it here.” He wrenched the gun out of her hands. “This is how you do it.”
But he didn't turn the gun. The barrel pointed towards himself. “This is for the best.”
He pulled the trigger.
Then there was red.
Red. Everywhere.
* * *
Emily jolted awake, muscles convulsing, surrounded by red and brown. It took her a moment to recognize the sting as cold air on her sweat-covered skin and the bang as the faraway slam of a door. Her eyes focused.
Where was she? Dark furniture, a maroon woolen blanket on the bed and rumpled white cotton sheets. Red wallpaper and curtains.
Then memories of the previous night pitched over and spilled into her mind. She welcomed the distraction from her red dream. She’d demanded they consummate their marriage. The painful act, then the warm and passionate dream-like night. She’d woken to his hands on her, seducing her into compliance with intoxicating pleasure. She’d spurred him on and he’d held her down.
Still lying down, she brought her fingertips to her wrist and the skin there was a little more sensitive than usual. Not a dream then. He’d held her down while he’d taken her, spurting his seed into her. A prickle of unease went up her spine.
Possessive words and actions when he lost control were at odds with his usual calm demeanor. Maybe she really had made a mistake.
Was that what he liked in bed? To force the woman, even when she was his willing spouse? He’d certainly shown all the signs he liked that very much last night. She’d asked for more and he’d trapped and erotically punished her.
It was unthinkable given how he’d acted with her otherwise. He was respectful and solicitous, and yet here was the evidence. He’d warned her and
she’d ignored him, thinking present actions spoke louder than confessions of the past.
Foolish girl.
The worst thing was that she’d enjoyed it. The mental confession unleashed a wash of needles across her skin, making her want to shrink into herself. What did it make her that she had found so much ecstasy in feeling his absolute will exerted on her? What sort of woman could enjoy sex that was the facsimile of being taken by force?
A bad woman. Unnatural. A slut. Whore.
* * *
Oscar sat up in bed and looked at his wife, curled up in the middle of the huge bed, small and vulnerable. His heart expanded to twice its normal size. His beautiful, passionate wife who had astounded him with her generosity and desire last night. She stirred, seeming to feel his movement.
“Good morning.” He resisted the urge to reach out to touch her. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore.” Her voice sounded like it came from the other side of the moon. She rolled away from him and sat up, feet over the other side of the bed, her shoulders hunched.
He’d never wanted so much to claw back everything he’d done. He would take her pain himself, if he could. Their whole marriage was a mistake, but touching her was an awful, raw error. His selfish lust had overcome him, and this was the consequence. She was hurt.
“I’m sorry.” He mouthed the words. Bloody hell, he was a coward. “I’m sorry,” he said out loud.
“For what?” Her head was bowed, looking at the floor, but her voice was forcibly casual, as if she had no idea what he might possibly be sorry for.
He was sorry for marrying her. For taking her so strongly last night that from her response this morning he must have scared her. For being a dissolute lord, a useless, idle rake. He couldn’t tell whether her averted face was her superlative politeness or one of her moments of candor.
Whatever her real emotion, he’d failed his wife.
“As long as you are happy, my love.” He kept his tone soufflé light. “There is nothing I can be sorry about.”
