A sudden gasp left her lips. There were no tears, no cries of anguish, nothing but a look of wonder gracing her flushed face.
He stilled, grasped her hips and held her there. The intention was to give her a moment to grow accustomed to the feel of him buried inside. But he was the one shaken.
Their gazes locked.
“I think that means I am legally your wife.”
“You belong to me now.” The comment was supposed to be amusing. But a strange emotion surfaced, gripped him by the throat and refused to let go. The sensation was stifling, suffocating, too difficult to define.
Damn it all. He needed to breathe. He needed to focus on the task.
She’s just another woman. Forget she’s your wife.
Matthew swallowed. Even in this hurried claiming, he had given too much of himself. It did not bode well for the future.
Pushing aside the chaotic thoughts filling his head, he concentrated on mastering the perfect stroke. This was simply a case of fulfilling a moment of lustful desire. He moved slowly at first, but each slide into the realms of heaven only sought to chip away at the iron casing surrounding his heart. And so he pumped in short fast thrusts. With her sweet moans, full sensual lips, her damn arms spread out in wanton abandon, Priscilla was determined to capture him and keep him as her slave.
“Let me show you another position,” he said abruptly. “Flip over onto your stomach and then
come up onto your knees.” This way it was easier to close his eyes, easier to ignore all the things that made her utterly beguiling.
She did as he asked without question.
With some irritation, he pushed her garments back up to her waist, ignored the deliciously round buttocks he wanted to kiss and nip. He entered her in one long deep motion, leant over and rubbed her sweet spot again until she cried, shuddered and called out his name. Then he closed his eyes and pounded hard. The loud slapping of skin against skin was highly arousing and brought matters to a quick conclusion.
In all of his conquests, he’d never spilt his seed inside a woman. And he had no intention of doing so now. At the point of release, he withdrew from his wife’s warm body and finished the job with his hand.
As the sound of ragged breathing filled the room, two things became abundantly clear. The depth of satisfaction he’d experienced with this woman was unique. And if he didn’t bolster his defences, his life would be nought but torture and pain.
Chapter 6
Parties were always rowdy affairs.
Priscilla lay in bed staring up at the small chandelier. The glass pendants shook from the constant thrum of activity in the ballroom below. The incessant hum of the orchestra as it swept through a range of lively pieces proved distracting.
How on earth was she supposed to sleep with the continual racket?
But the commotion downstairs was not what disturbed her most. The image of her husband playing flirtatious host to a group of scantily clad women continually plagued her thoughts. Was he laughing at their salacious banter? Did they fawn over him, caress his arm in the hope they could massage another part of his anatomy? Did they twirl their fingers in his ebony hair and whisper endearments?
Would he be strong enough to fight temptation?
For the last three nights, Priscilla had waited for Matthew to come to her room. But after consummating their marriage, he’d not visited her again. On the second night, he'd opened the adjoining door in the dressing room. He’d paced back and forth for what seemed like an hour before his steps receded and the door slammed shut.
She understood his dilemma.
From her perspective, their wedding night — or afternoon to be more precise — had been spectacular. She’d given everything of herself, surrendered to the beauty of the moment. The intimate act connected them in a way she’d not believed possible. It astounded her how anyone could share their body and not feel a deep stirring of emotion.
It was all rather baffling.
When she’d joined him for dinner, he was his usual amusing self. They laughed; he tried to explain the rules of whist. When she’d leant forward to feed him her last spoonful of raspberry cake, she recognised desire in his heated gaze. And yet not once had he attempted to touch her intimately.
In one way, his reluctance to join her in bed gave her hope. Had the experience satisfied nothing but a physical hunger, he would have taken her again. He would have indulged his carnal cravings safe in the knowledge his heart was still a solid lump of stone.
So what was she to do? How was she—
A feminine shriek pierced the air.
Priscilla shot up. She clutched the coverlet to her chest, her frantic gaze locked on the door. Another loud squeal drew her attention to the window. A gentleman’s gruff command to stop and wait accompanied high-pitched wails of laughter. Shuffling out of bed, she crept to the window and peered through the gap in the drapes.