“Oh,” she said, letting out a high-pitched moan as his finger began to move in a delicate circle. “That feeling.”
“It’s a good feeling,” he confirmed.
“It’s going to…Oh!” She clenched her teeth and groaned against the sensations he was striking within her.
“It’s going to what?” he asked, and now he was almost all the way in. He was going to earn a medal for this, he decided. He had to. Surely no man had ever exercised such restraint.
“Get me into trouble,” she gasped.
“I certainly hope so,” he said, and then he pushed forward, breaching her last barrier until he was fully sheathed. He shuddered as he felt her quiver around him. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him, demanding action, but he held still. He had to hold still. If he didn’t give her time to adjust, he would hurt her, and there was no way Gareth was going to allow his bride to look back on her first intimacy with pain.
Good God, it could scar her for life.
But if Hyacinth was hurting, even she didn’t know it, because her hips were starting to move beneath him, pressing up, grinding in circles, and when he looked at her face, he saw nothing but passion.
And the last strings of his control snapped.
He began to move, his body falling into its rhythm of need. His desire spiraled, until he was quite certain he could not bear it any longer, and then she would make a tiny little sound, nothing more than a moan, really, and he wanted her even more.
It seemed impossible.
It was magical.
His fingers grasped her shoulders with a force that was surely too intense, but he could not loose his hold. He was seized by an overwhelming urge to claim her, to mark her in some way as his.
“Gareth,” she moaned. “Oh, Gareth.”
And the sound was too much. It was all too much—the sight, the smell of her, and he felt himself shuddering toward completion.
He gritted his teeth. Not yet. Not when she was so close.
“Gareth!” she gasped.
He slid his hand between their bodies again. He found her, swollen and wet, and he pressed, probably with less finesse than he ought but certainly with as much as he was able.
And he never looked away from her face. Her eyes seemed to darken, the color turning almost marine. Her lips parted, desperately seeking breath, and her body was arching, pressing, pushing.
“Oh!” she cried out, and he quickly kissed her to swallow the sound. She was tense, she was quivering, and then she spasmed around him. Her hands grabbed at his shoulders, his neck, her fingers biting his skin.
But he didn’t care. He couldn’t feel it. There was nothing but the exquisite pressure of her, grabbing him, sucking him in until he quite literally exploded.
And he had to kiss her again, this time to tamp down his own cries of passion.
It had never been like this. He hadn’t known it could.
“Oh, my,” Hyacinth breathed, once he’d rolled off her and onto his back.
He nodded, still too spent to speak. But he took her hand in his. He wanted to touch her still. He needed the contact.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
“Neither did I,” he somehow managed.
“Is it always—”
He squeezed her hand, and when he heard her turn to him, he shook his head.
“Oh.” There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Well, it’s a good thing we’re getting married, then.”