His head lifted, his gaze seeking hers. “Off?”
He was asking permission. If she agreed, she knew what would happen.
The thin grip she had maintained on her restraint eased. And her every reminder, all the reasons why she must not succumb to the wicked promises awaiting her, fled.
She surrendered, nodding. “Yes.”
Tenderly, as if she were made of something far more fragile than flesh, he pulled the garment up, over her breasts, over her head, and then it was gone, tossed somewhere behind him. And she was naked.
But he was not.
Although his chest was bare, he had slept in his smalls. A concession, she had supposed, for her modesty. He pulled the bedclothes away completely, then rose on his knees. The bruise on his ribs was darker and more menacing than it had been last night, having spread and grown longer and larger. It looked angry and painful.
She touched him below the injury, not wishing to cause him further hurt. “Are you certain, with this bruise…”
He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “I’ve known worse and still gone about my day.”
“Perhaps if we… I do not want to make your injury worse,” she worried.
He chuckled and brought her hand lower, placing it over the front placket of his smalls. The evidence of his desire was there, long and thick and firm, the warmth of him seeping through the simple linen.
“No fear of that, minx. I’ve other concerns just now.”
Oh heavens. And what a concern it was.
She licked her lips, which had gone quite dry. “You are certain?”
He leaned in, fusing their lips in a kiss that quickly deepened, his tongue in her mouth. She forgot about the bruise. Instinct made her fingers curl around his length, earning a groan from him.
He broke away, and she wondered if she had made a misstep or if he was in pain. “Is it your injury?”
“It is that if I am not inside you soon, I will spend before I can be,” he said before plucking at the buttons before pulling them down his lean hips and shedding them. “That’s how badly I want you, minx.”
His raw admission pleased her. How powerful to know she had such an effect on this
magnificent man. That she made him as desperate with need as he did her. She reached for him. Her palms met hot, sleek flesh, traveling, acquainting themselves with the tense muscles of his upper arms, the sleek cording of his shoulders and neck. His body was beautiful in a way she had never imagined a man’s could be, and although she had thought the same last night when she had attended his bath, this was different.
Last night, there had been a distance separating them which did not exist now. She had spent the night in his bed. He had attempted to make amends in his own way. Her body was aflame. And he was her husband.
He cupped her face in his big, battered hands and kissed her, long and slow. There was hunger, yes, but there was also sweetness. Tenderness. On their wedding day, he had been voracious, his kisses almost bruising in their intensity. This slant of his lips on hers was different, ripe with meaning her whirling mind could not begin to comprehend.
He kissed her as if she mattered to him.
And she kissed him back the same way.
Because he did. He mattered. Half her foolish heart was so very attuned to this man. He was dark and dangerous, fierce and ferocious. Capable of pain as equally as pleasure. And yet, for her, he took his time. She appreciated the way he wooed her, even when his own need was apparent. Despite his words, he did not rush.
Instead, he seduced. Traced her lips with his tongue. Trailed kisses down her throat, over her breast. Sucked on one of her greedy nipples. Hard. So hard, she felt an answering rush of wetness between her legs and her fingernails sank into the smooth plane of his back. She arched shamelessly.
He flicked his tongue over the hardened bud, lapping at her while his hand cupped her other breast, thumb rolling over her nipple. When she was nearly mindless, he guided her, Jasper lying on his uninjured side, positioning her so that she faced him.
He caressed a path of fire down her waist, over her hip, and then he grabbed a handful of her bottom and squeezed as he leaned his forehead against hers. “My God, Octavia. I want to lick you and kiss you and fuck you until I go mad.”
His coarse language should have shocked her. She had been raised a lady. Bred to marry a lord. To inhabit drawing rooms and ballrooms and pour tea and simper over embroidery. To play the pianoforte and look pretty and have no opinion of her own. Jasper Sutton could not be further from the sort of man she had been meant to marry. Her own parents had disowned her over her decision to wed him. Polite society would likely forever scorn her.
But she found herself suddenly, fiercely grateful she had married this man. A man who was without artifice and pretense, who touched her with reverence and told her he wanted to fuck her. She knew the wicked word’s meaning. And she wanted it. Wanted him.
Wanted his lips and tongue and teeth and—dare she think it?—his manhood, too.