storm, pumping in and out, faster, harder.
But sweet, sweet Margaret didn’t balk or protest against his rough loving.
Her breaths came in soft gusts, her gaze locked with his, and then her neck arched, her head pressing deeply into the pillow. Her mouth opened around a scream.
Below, where their bodies blended and churned, her cunt rippled all along his shaft, squeezing him. His balls exploded, and his seed gushed through his cock with each harsh stroke he delivered. He shouted and pummeled her soft sex, driving as deeply as he could until he was spent. Even then, he didn’t want to stop. He rocked against her, his movements slowing now, his cock caressing her channel in lazy glides that tunneled and withdrew until his thighs trembled, and finally, he stopped.
His chest billowed around his gasps as he tried to regain his breath. He dropped his forehead to hers and kissed whatever he could reach—her cheeks, the end of her pert nose, her lips. So soft, blurred, and rosy—they opened, and her tongue darted out to mate with his in slow, teasing glides that soothed and fed his need to sustain their sensual connection.
At last, he drew back to gaze down at her.
Her breaths were evening, and her gaze slid away.
He knew he should withdraw and give her body ease from his weight and intrusion. Gathering what little was left of his sapped strength, he attempted to move off of her, but she tightened her legs around him.
“I’m heavy,” he whispered. “I’ll crush you.”
She gave a tiny shake of her head, still not meeting his gaze. “Can we stay like this?”
He might not understand the feminine mind most times, but this once he understood. She wanted to be held. The depth of their passion had likely frightened her.
He was uneasy too with how quickly things had gotten out of hand. She was young and soft and needed his comfort. Another test as a new husband.
Keeping his hips resting snugly between her legs, he raised his chest and rested on his elbows. Then he let his head sink to rest in the curve of her shoulder as he fought to regain his own breath and shattered mind. What had happened? He’d meant to take her gently, but he’d rutted her like a wild boar.
“Will we do this often?” she asked softly.
He felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. Often? As soon as his cock regained its rigor, he intended to do it again. But was she asking because she feared it would be so, or because she wanted it? He lifted his head and studied her face, hoping for some signal he was doing the right things. Roland had never bedded a virgin or a gentlewoman. Had he misread eagerness to serve his needs as passion?
She met his gaze, her expression only curious, her cheeks pink, but from exertion or embarrassment? He wished he knew. But the way she stared steadily back told him the girl had courage.
The longer their gazes locked, the more worried he became. Had he been a bit ham-fisted? Too rough in his handling of her delicate body? Maybe he should leave her alone for now. He didn’t want her soured to the marriage bed so soon in their relationship.
So despite her request to remain as they were, he withdrew his cock, sliding slowly from her body.
Disappointment flared in her eyes, so he rolled to his side, pulling her into the curve of his body, his hands turning her to face away so he wouldn’t be tempted by the sight of her lovely, apple-shaped breasts—and so that he didn’t have to look into her face and wonder anew what her expressions meant. For once, he felt inadequate, unsure of himself. He’d never considered what went on in a woman’s mind before and wished he’d paid as much attention to that as he had learning to plant a lance in an opponent’s chest.
But he had brought her satisfaction—a swift, glorious explosion if her scream and the scratches on his back were any indication of its intensity. Perhaps he worried for naught. He’d gifted her with release. He’d shown consideration by ending their lovemaking and allowing her rest. Maybe she’d be well enough recovered to take him the next evening. He’d be miserable with unabated arousal until then, but he’d persevere one more time for the sake of his tender bride.
His wayward cock nestled the crevice of her buttocks, a hellish temptation he ground his teeth against. “Sleep,” he said, wincing at his rough tone.
Her sigh sounded suspiciously like a huff.
Margaret lay in the circle of her husband’s strong arms with his hairy chest against her back. Now that the curious heat that had overtaken her mind was past, she worried that she might have lost footing in their relationship.
Shouldn’t he have been more eager than she to continue? If she were honest with herself, she hadn’t wanted it to end quite so soon—however hot and sore her nether parts were.
His transformation into the man she deserved had already begun and with surprising results.
She’d married a handsome man. That fact still amazed her. All that hair had hidden a man who rivaled Lancelot in masculine beauty.
She’d married a man whose touch lit a firestorm of passion inside her. One with a sense of humor that, when properly directed, would provide her a great deal of amusement. He was intelligent, therefore teachable—she’d work on his manners. But how could she shore up her position in his life?
She wanted to be more than his chatelaine, more than his bed mate. She wanted his ear concerning matters that affected both their lives. She wanted his respect.
And yes, his affection. She thought she might have a powerful craving for his affection.
What did he see when his steady gaze landed on her? She was plain. Her hair was mud brown. Her eyes weren’t crystal blue or warm brown, but an indeterminate gray.