It was as though the intervening hours between now and the moment they’d been interrupted in the library had never been. Desire swept over him with such force he almost staggered, and steadied himself by hauling her into his arms.
He swallowed the startled squeak of surprise that escaped her, and did not stop to consider that this was his wedding night - for all that it was a day late - and that he should be treating her with care, with consideration for her maidenly state.
It was as though the intervening years lacking the barest stirring of desire had coalesced into this one moment. Every normal emotion and need he would have usually experienced over these past, lonely years, if the war hadn’t bludgeoned his feelings insensible, had suddenly tumbled down upon him, and he was drowning under the onslaught. Any skill and finesse he might have prided himself on was out of reach; there was nothing outside of a desperate need to touch and be touched, to lose himself and his pointless existence in her.
He waited for the moment she would shriek and slap him, or demand he release her, or, at the very least, plead for him to have a care, but the moment never arose. She met his desire with her own, every bit as forceful, clumsy with inexperienced hunger for something she likely didn’t quite understand, and he relished it.
For a moment, he released her mouth, feeling as though he was holding his breath, unable to breathe again until their lips touched. But he needed to strip this wretched nightgown from her, to feel her skin under his hands.
He tugged at the fastenings, mouth watering as a lush landscape of soft curves revealed itself from beneath the snowy cotton. The nightgown slid to the ground, and he saw her shiver as she lifted her hands from him and crossed them protectively across her body, her cheeks blazing.
“Don’t,” he said, hearing his voice sounding oddly foreign, rough with desire. He reached out and pulled her hands away, staring at the woman he had married with a mixture of awe and delight. Well, Edward, not such a bad bargain after all, he muttered inwardly, feeling his mouth kick upwards, the smile an unfamiliar expression upon his lips.
He forced his eyes upwards, to meet hers, and found them wide and uncertain.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, seeing a reflection of his own expression dawn on her face, pleased and hesitant, and full of desire.
To his surprise, she reached up and touched her fingers to his mouth, tracing the contours of his lips. “So are you,” she whispered.
He shivered under her touch and claimed her mouth again, pulling her to him and delighting in the way she coiled around him, her hands sinking into his hair. She was a fast learner, he’d give her that, as she mimicked the stroke and tangle of his tongue with hers. With a groan, he began to snatch at his cravat.
“Get this damn thing off me,” he growled with impatience. She laughed, a sound of such pure delight that his heart lifted as she fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat and pushed the tight-fitting coat from his shoulders with difficulty.
“Why on earth did you put all this on when you were only going to take it off again?” she grumbled, fighting to free his arms from the narrow sleeves.
“Charlie insisted,” he retorted, flinging coat and cravat to a crumpled heap on the floor.
She snorted, her eyes dancing with mirth, and something shifted in his chest at finding how easy this was with her. “Well, next time, don’t bother,” she muttered, adding his waistcoat to the growing pile of clothes.
“As you wish,” he replied, applying his mouth to her neck as she yanked his shirt from his breeches.
“Next time,” she added, sounding rather breathless now as he paused to look down at her and found a bold look in her eyes. “Come straight from sparring.”
He almost choked at that, his body so hard with need that it hurt. “You would have me come to you sweaty and half dressed?” he asked, the words almost breathless.
“Oh, my goodness, yes,” she exclaimed, pulling at his neck and bringing his mouth to hers once more.
Good Lord.
He was staggered by the swell of masculine pride and pleasure he derived from that, remembering the desire in her eyes when she’d watched him spar. He’d been desired often enough before, it was true, but somehow this felt different.
He’d been desired for his title and wealth and position as much as his physique, but he’d already given her all that, and still that hungering look was raw in her eyes.
With mounting impatience, he stepped away from her with difficulty and grabbed hold of his shirt, pulling it over his head.
“Get on the bed,” he instructed, too desperate to make the words sound anything less than a demand as he danced on one foot, struggling to rid himself of his boots.
“Dammit!” he exclaimed, forced to sit down and wrestle with first one and then the other. Finally free of the blasted things, he stripped off the rest of his clothes and had to restrain the need to run for the bed.
As it was, he was forced to a halt by the look in her eyes.
She was kneeling on the bed, watching him intently, and that look brought him up short. He paused in front of her, watching with interest as her breathing kicked up, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she looked him over.
She reached out a hand, tentative, perhaps remembering the moment in the ballroom where she had tried to touch him before and been so harshly rejected. She paused, suddenly a little uncertain as she looked at him, her hand suspended in mid-air.
“Touch me,” he said, his own breathing just as ragged as hers. “Please,” he added, for surely he’d been nothing but coarse and demanding so far.
He closed his eyes as her fingers touched his skin, lightly at first, her fingertips skimming his collar bone. Then her hand flattened against him, the other coming to rest beside it, mirroring the movement. Both hands smoothed over his chest, fingers tangling in the dark scattering of hair over his chest. One hand paused as her thumb rubbed over his nipple. She did it again and his eyes flicked open, watching as she became intrigued at the way the tiny nub of flesh grew taut beneath her touch.
“My turn,” he said, reaching out to cup her breasts. He smiled as she gasped, and then closed her eyes as he gave her the same treatment, his thumbs rubbing over the tight little peaks. He moved nearer and closed his mouth over one breast, moaning against her skin as he suckled at her.
Her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer still as her breathing grew ever more erratic. He couldn’t stand it anymore; if he didn’t take her now, he would spend where he stood like some young fool with his first lover. His pride was a fragile enough thing as it was, without adding that indignity to its list of blows.
“Lay down.”
He wished he could do this differently for her, wished he could find the control he’d once possessed that would make this tender and gentle. But anything tender and gentle had been ripped from his soul, and all that remained was raw and demanding. Perhaps it was better she realised it now, before she indulged in any romantic ideas of what their marriage would be.