“To be irritating? How original.”
Indeed, there is nothing original to my methods. Boys have insulted girls they fancy for as long as syllables have existed. I am, however, a bigger fool than most. I have persisted at my boyish methods long after I have reached manhood. And had she not fallen from grace and given me the opening to rescue her with my offer of marriage, today I might still be trying for her attention by maligning the size of her feet or the color of her hair.
I massage her other foot, paying, if possible, even closer attention.
“Is there an end to this, Larkspear?”
I should no longer be startled by such barbs from her. But I am, and each new one hurts more than the one before. Because I am more in love with her than I was yesterday, more than I was last hour.
I put on my most condescending tone. “Shouldn’t my devoted wife suffer through my ministrations with no complaints?”
“In bed, not out of it.”
“Well, then, let’s get you to bed with all due haste, shall we?”
Her legs I wash quickly. Her private parts I do not wash as quickly, but neither do I fondle her. She does, however, tense when my hand slips between the cheeks of her bottom, but I do nothing with the secret knowledge I gained last night.
She allows me to lift buckets of water and rinse her, but declines further help and quickly dries herself before concealing her nakedness beneath a dressing robe. Then she sets out for her bedroom, with me two steps behind.
At the edge of her bed, she turns around and drops her robe. “And how would you like me to perform my marital duties today, my lord?”
“On your back, my dear, as every good woman ought to be.”
She shoots me a look full of daggers, but lies down gracefully, her ankles crossed, and rolls her eyes as I tie one of her wrists to the bedpost with a bright red sash—I don’t want her to associate one color with our love play, but every color. Her other wrist I leave free.
The position of her arm pulls her breasts high and taut. My breath catches as I straighten.
“Where is my blindfold?” she demands.
“No blindfold this morning. You will simply have to suffer the sight of me doing unspeakable things to you.”
I go to my room via the connecting door and return with a sketchpad and a stick of charcoal. I pull a chair next to the bed, open my sketchpad, and survey her willowy form. I have always wanted to draw her. But rather than her breasts and thighs, perfect as they are, I yearn to capture the vibrancy of her eyes and the subtle sensuality of her lips. To capture the essence of her, all that fearlessness—the lioness within.
Not that it is a hardship to sketch her nakedness. I settle into a comfortable rhythm, outlining her silhouette, then filling in the details, smearing the charcoal to define light and shadows. But I forget myself for a moment when it comes to her face. She has her eyes on the cherubs on the ceiling, and I gaze at her. And gaze at her. And gaze at her.
Suddenly she turns her head and our eyes meet. Alarm rings in my ears—she could not possibly have failed to see the longing on my face.
She studies me intently, then smiles a little. The lioness has scented blood in the air. She might not move in for the kill yet, but she is now on the hunt.
Almost without thinking, I strike first. “I see your nipples are hard again. Are they always hard for me?”
Time slows as our gazes continue to hold. I can almost count her lashes, each several shades darker than the color of her bright red hair. Her irises are not just green, but streaked with grey and black. And as I watch, her pupils dilate.
In an almost theatrical gesture, she lifts her free hand and settles it on her breast; her nipple peeks out from between her index and middle fingers. My already tumescent cock hardens completely.
“That is what you would like to think, wouldn’t you?” she murmurs, as she squeezes her nipple with the sides of her fingers. “Is that why you didn’t put a blindfold on me? So that it will be more difficult for me to imagine you as someone else? I do not think that is working at all.”
It stings. But the way she plays with herself, her motion fluid and deliberate, makes it obvious she doesn’t just want to anger me; she wants to arouse me.
I know why she wants to anger me—she is still furious that we live in a world where she has no choice but to marry me to save herself from the consequences of a sexual indiscretion. But why does she want to arouse me?
I remain on the offensive to hide my puzzlement. “I have an idea to whom I should send that particular sketch. Do you think the man who ruined you will be overjoyed to see you so well settled in marriage?”
Her voice tightens. “You are willing to let another man see that you must tie down your bride?”