The Perfect Bride (26 page)

His eyes widened.

Blanche just sat there, heart pounding, body thrumming.

He touched her cheek. “You are distraught. You don't mean it.”

“I do mean it,” she breathed. “I'm twenty-seven years old and I am still a virgin. But my body is somehow begging for yours.”

His eyes darkened. Then his hand clasped the back of her head and he pulled her close as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Blanche's heart went wild as he feathered her mouth. She felt him shudder and knew he was exercising great restraint and control. She kissed him back, hard, wanting his lips to open. When they did, she heard herself moan—soft, feminine, breathless.

The kiss deepened. Blanche fell back onto the sofa, Sir Rex on top of her, their mouths fusing hungrily. She was vaguely aware of spreading her thighs. And she felt his manhood, hard and huge, against her inner thigh and pelvis, through her skirts.

He broke the kiss and she lay back, gasping for air, her heart pounding so swiftly it was almost frightening.

“It's late,” he said roughly, but he kissed her throat, and then he kissed the skin below her diamond necklace, and went lower, kissing the hint of cleavage revealed by the bodice.

Blanche gasped with pleasure, stunned by the heady sensation of his lips between her breasts and his manhood against her thigh. “No, it's not late. Sir Rex…take me upstairs.”

R
EX HESITATED
, his pulse pounding, the small, delicate and somehow fragile woman who was to be his wife in his arms. He could barely think straight. It was so hard not to shift his weight and push himself where he wished to be, instead of remaining against her thigh and hip, where he throbbed dangerously.

She smiled tremulously at him.

She wanted to go upstairs. She wanted him to make love to her. Why not?

He breathed hard. “Blanche…I would like nothing more than to take you to my bed. But I do not want you to regret this tomorrow.”

She shook her head and clasped his cheek, unspeaking.

His heart thundered. He leaned low and took her mouth, no longer able to control the pressure of his lips. He opened her and sparred with her tongue. He wanted to taste every inch of her, not just her mouth. He shifted and pushed directly between her thighs, over her skirts. She gasped softly, arching for the pressure he could give her—and the release.

His male lust escalated. It was determined, intent, predatory. She was a virgin. She was more than ready. They would be married, sooner, not later. She wanted his children and he wanted to make her his….

He tore his mouth from hers. Smiling, he said roughly, “Come. Come with me.”

She gasped, her gaze riveted to his. He saw so much trust and so much innocence. A savage exhilaration arose.

Why not? He was a man and she was the woman he wanted. She was the woman he had always wanted. He was still in some disbelief. But the urge to possess was rapidly chasing away any lingering disbelief.

He found his crutch, took her hand and stood. In another moment, Blanche Harrington would be in his bed. Impossibly, more blood filled his painfully erect loins. Rational thought vanished. Urgency raged.

But as they went upstairs, he looked at her carefully. “You may change your mind at any moment,” he said thickly.

She paused on the landing, staring. “I don't want to change my mind,” she murmured. Her gaze fell to the obvious bulge in his trousers. Her cheeks were already pink but the flush deepened.

“Any time,” he stressed, taking her hand and leading her toward his bedchamber. His heart kept pumping his blood into his lower body, sure and rhythmic. “But sooner,” he said, entering the room, “would be better than later.”

She stared at the four-poster bed, shaking her head.

He closed the door and pulled her into his embrace. She was trembling but not as violently as he. “I want you so badly,” he murmured, caressing her cheek. “I feel like a green boy again. Blanche, I won't hurt you, I promise.”

Her gaze held his. “I like it,” she whispered, “when you are gentle.”

He hesitated, as he wasn't certain of his ability to be gentle, but her message was clear. She did not wish for a frenzied barbarian in her bed and he did not blame her. He smiled and feathered her lips once with his. Then he led her to the bed.

A small fire blazed in the hearth so he did not light a lamp. Swiftly, he shed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Then he pulled her into his arms and to the bed, remaining aware of her uncertainty. As they sank onto the mattress, he kissed her earlobe and then her neck. She shivered and sighed.

That raging urgency instantly renewed itself. The anticipation was in the forefront of his mind—that precise moment when he would be so deeply inside of her, coming. He smiled at her and kissed her gently, stroking her arms, her waist. She sighed again, longer and lower this time.

“I want to touch you everywhere,” he whispered, running his shaking palm over her bodice and breast. He palmed her, showering soft kisses on her throat and chest. She trembled and began writhing, throwing her head back.

He reached behind her and began unbuttoning her dress. Her eyes flew open and he smiled reassuringly, no easy task. She glanced at the fire. He understood. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, “and I want to look at you.” He wished he could stop shaking.

“Sir Rex, how can I be beautiful when I am ancient by most standards?” she protested very seriously.

He was actually amused and he chuckled. “You are not ancient and I want you to stop thinking.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her slowly and deeply. “I want you to feel.” He slid the dress down to her waist and tried not to inhale harshly. But her chemise was transparent, her stays ivory lace. He slid his hand over her breast and heard himself groan. His arousal leaped erratically.

Her eyes closed, lashes fanning out. He could not think and he did not want to; he tugged the chemise down over the corset and bent and tongued her very erect nipple. She gasped wildly.

Rex saw only a red haze. He pushed her against the pillows, fumbling with her stays. She gasped again. He threw the stays aside, wrapped his arms around her and turned to lave and play with her other nipple. She shuddered convulsively and he knew.

Her bodice and chemise were all bunched up around her waist; he lifted her skirts and petticoats and slid his hand up her smooth, slim thigh. She cried out as he rotated inward, stroking her inner thigh, and finally brushing her sex. She was hot and swollen and wet.

He cried out. “Blanche, darling.” And he slid his hand firmly over her, spreading her folds and she gasped and writhed, arching. He didn't hesitate. He jerked down and sent his tongue feathering over her. She stiffened, undoubtedly in shock, but he pressed more intimately, laving all of her that he could. She shuddered again.

“Give over to me,” he whispered, and it was not a request. “Relax, Blanche, and let me pleasure you.”

There was silence. He felt her body soften and heard her cry, “Oh God.”

And then she gasped, shuddering, and he felt her coming against his tongue and cheek. He smiled, triumph surging in his red-hot blood.

When she lay still, he moved away, took some water and shed his shirt. He turned and saw her gazing at him and he smiled, just once. She pulled a sheet over her breasts and then reached out, touching his chest. Instantly he caught her palm and pressed it more firmly there.

She didn't speak.

He smiled, still holding her hand against his bare skin, leaning over her. “I am going to pleasure you again—and again.”

She breathed hard. “Sir Rex.” She swallowed.

He pulled her up into his arms, her bare breasts against his naked chest. She cried out, clinging to his shoulders. She was small and perfect against his larger frame, he thought. He held her more tightly, kissing her hair. “I would like to get rid of that dress,” he said softly. “Unless you have changed your mind?”

Her mouth moved, her lips brushing his chest. “If you will get rid of your clothes, I will, too.”

His heart soared. He smiled against her hair. “A bargain that is mutually beneficial,” he murmured. And because he could not resist, he lifted her chin and kissed her deeply, then bent and kissed her nipple.

She gasped and arched upward for him.

He sucked her slowly into his mouth, then pulled.

“Ohh,” she whispered.

He flung the sheets aside and meeting her gaze, reached for her skirts. In a moment, they were gone. He then tugged away chemise and petticoat, and finally, her silk drawers.

She slid under the sheets, but he had seen her slim, lovely body. “I am too thin,” she whispered, blushing.

“You are perfect,” he returned, tossing one shoe and stocking aside. He unbuttoned his trousers, his hands trembling. “Will the sight of my amputated leg offend you?” he asked casually, but the question wasn't casual at all.

Her eyes widened. “I have seen you in nothing but your drawers, Sir Rex.”

His eyes widened.

“You have a habit of tossing all the covers aside when you sleep.” She was blushing now and staring not at his face, but at his hands—or what stood straining beneath them. “I nursed you, or have you forgotten?'

He paused, hands on his fly. “I recall waking up and finding you regarding my body with a singular intensity.” He was aware of how rough his tone had become, but his need was explosive.

“I was admiring your figure,” she said. Her tongue flitted over her lips. He knew it was a nervous and hungry gesture that she was entirely unconscious of.

“Good,” he said flatly. He slid his trousers and drawers down together, tossing them onto the floor. Then he lay down beside her. Her eyes were huge. He pulled her into his arms, but loosely. “I cannot help myself. I want you passionately. Is my passion offensive?”

She slowly lifted her eyes. “No.” She breathed hard, roughly. He felt her mind racing wildly. Her glance skidded down between them again. “Oh.”

He cuddled her, kissing her cheek, her temple, her hair. As he did, he quivered against her thigh, helpless not to. “If you are worried,” he whispered.

“No! No, I am not worried….” And she looked up, seizing his shoulders and kissing him wildly.

He was stunned, but only for a moment. He took over the kiss, rolling her beneath him and pushing her thighs apart with his good leg. He shifted against her inner thigh, trying not to groan and thrusting his tongue deep. She kissed him back and there was no mistaking her urgency now.

Holding her, he buried his face against her neck and began rubbing her loins with his erection. She cried out as he met wet, hot, distended flesh. Trying to caress her, he moved slowly, as lightly as possible, his massive head probing against her swollen lips.

“Oh dear!” she cried.

He wanted to smile but couldn't. Sweat rolled off his temples and down his chest. He pushed his entire length beneath her, several times, when he wanted desperately to push into her. She gasped as he stroked the cleft of her buttocks, too.

And then he reared up over her and pressed flat against her belly, breathing hard. “I want to make love to you. I want to come inside you.” He kissed her ear. “But I do not want to rush you, Blanche.”

She wrapped her arms around him and he felt her calf move over his hip. “Sir Rex, yes!”

Desire surged. He shifted and pressed home. Her flesh was wet but tight. He gritted, trying to go slow. And as he pressed inside, there was so much pressure, he could not stand it. In that instant, he knew he was lost.

“Hell,” he gasped, and he thrust past her membrane, exploding uncontrollably. Somehow, in the throes of a violent climax, he stopped moving, buried deep inside her now and spilling so much seed and reveling in the glory of the huge release.

For he was with Blanche and it was glorious.

But when the last convulsions had ended, he was horrified. His grasp tightened, but he didn't look at her. He remained fully sheathed and erect enough to stay that way. “Blanche, I am sorry,” he managed.

She was trembling. Her hands slid over his back, a shaky caress.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked roughly, now aghast at his premature ejaculation. But he had wanted her desperately for years. Still, his performance had not been impressive. Worse, she had not climaxed with him.

“Only for a moment,” she said hoarsely.

And he felt her throbbing against him.

Red passion blinded him. She still wanted him; she needed him. He breathed hard and moved slowly, deeply, and she gasped with pleasure. He smiled, a savage determination beginning, mingling with triumph. He would show her so much pleasure now, he thought, the blood racing to his arousal and stiffening it once again. He thrust slowly again and again, holding himself up so he could watch her now. Her eyes had closed. Her cheeks were pink. She was breathless, turning her head from side to side. He moved deeper, more swiftly and more purposefully; she cried out. Their gazes met.

And he saw from the dazed and unfocused look in her eyes, that she was spiraling toward the pleasure he wished for her. He smiled and withdrew. She protested, he entered her again, slowly and deeply, watching her closely now. She seized his arms, and he felt her nails cutting his skin.

“More?” he asked, lust consuming him.

She nodded.

He moved swiftly, pulled out, tongued her and entered her again. She clawed his arms, gasping. He stroked his head, now terribly swollen, over her cleft lips. She cried out, shuddering. And as he plunged deep, again and again, her eyes flew open and blindly met his.

She arched wildly, her nails slicing into his skin, her soft cries filling the night.

So much lust, desire, passion and pleasure consumed him. He arched back, deep now, exploding and crying out, loud and hoarse, with triumph. The euphoria was consuming and complete.

Blanche.

 

B
LANCHE SLOWLY DRIFTED
back to Sir Rex's bed. She began to realize she had just experienced true passion—and tears of joy filled her eyes. She was lying naked in Sir Rex's strong arms, her cheek in the crook of his shoulder and chest, her hands between them against his chest. He had his calf over both her legs. Oh dear lord, he had just made love to her, and she had found so much rapture.

Her heart swelled with love. Smiling, feeling uncertain and shy, she slowly looked up.