Roland hesitated at the flare of panic in his young bride’s eyes. In his experience, fear was an impediment to useful congress between two people. Having no experience with marriage, he suspected the same held true for bedding virgins—and especially for any hopes of repeating the act before dawn.
Inwardly, he sighed. Introducing his wife to her new duties would be much akin to breaking a horse to halter. He’d have to gentle her with his voice and hands.
His body leapt eagerly ahead to the hands part of the gentling process—his staff grew measurably more alert. Frustration gripped his body hard. “Don’t just gape! Gather the soap and wash the rest of me…wife!” So much for gentling her with my voice. “Ballocks!” he muttered.
Trembling as she stood, her gaze never rose above the wayward flesh straining from his groin.
“You may start here,” he said, pointing to his backside, hoping to give her time to gather her courage again, while he fought for control over his cock.
No use dispensing his seed into the bathwater when her lovely body needed only priming to receive him.
A frown creased the narrow space between Margaret’s eyebrows, but she grabbed up the cloth once more and worked another dollop of soap into the fabric, rubbing so long, he was sure the fabric frayed. But he let her take her time to accustom herself to the idea of the task—and so that she could continue eying him thoroughly as she did now.
Familiarity would ease her fear—and perhaps feed her desire. After all, he was a well-formed man, or so the women he’d bedded in the past had said.
When her small hand scrubbed the cloth across his buttocks in sharp, quick strokes, he flexed, ensuring she noted the play of muscle beneath his flesh.
Her soft gasp was gratifying, as was her hand pausing over the larger muscles to cup him, stroking downward, slowly now, as though she savored the feel of his flanks.
He widened his legs, bracing his feet as far apart as the tub would allow. “Be sure to scrub in between,” he said, suppressing a smile.
Her hand snuck between his legs, a timid foray, just glancing against his balls, and then smoothed back, her cloth-covered palm cupping him.
Roland gritted his teeth. At this slow rate, his balls would be blue and his cock hard enough to drive a pillion through stone.
When her other hand parted his buttocks to allow her access to stroke between, he groaned aloud. The rough cloth glanced against his back entrance, and his cock jerked.
“Oh, did I hurt you?”
“You’re damn near making me a eunuch, love,” he said between gritted teeth. “Come around the front and be done with it.”
As she circled the tub, her expression became more tense, her cheeks fiery. He wondered if that would be her look when he drove into her, stroking her toward ecstasy. “Dispense with the cloth.”
Her eyes widened. “Am I finished?”
“My manstaff will be too sensitive to the coarseness of the cloth.”
“Then I’m finished?”
Her hopeful expression amused him. Baiting the wench was proving great sport. “Of course not. Use your hands.”
Margaret’s brows drew together in a fearsome frown for a moment, before she dragged in a deep breath and smoothed her features.
That hint of anger stirred the devil inside him. Can I stir that flame hotter? “And be careful not to bring the soap near the head.”
“Head?” she asked, her voice sounding strangled.
He reached down and circled the end of his cock with his thumb and forefinger, lifting it to her gaze. “This is the head.”
She sniffed. “It looks like a mushroom to me. Why would one call it otherwise?”
The contrast of her prim tone and naked, lush body nearly had him groaning again. “It’s called the head because at times it behaves like a man with a will of its own. And this is its eye,” he said, stroking his thumb over the tiny hole.
“The eye?”
“Look closely at the tip. See you the narrow hole?”
A milky drop of excitement glistened, obscuring the eye, so he wiped it with his thumb, smearing it over the soft tip. “Do you understand now?” he asked softly.