I didn’t look. I wanted to look, but I also didn’t want to look.
Branford covered my hand again, and he guided my fingers lower until they met the slight dip of his navel. He let go of me then, and I opened my eyes to look at his face.
He was smiling his crooked smile and leaning all the way back on the blanket, with both of his arms tucked behind his head. His chest rose and fell steadily as he breathed through his parted lips. I felt a shiver run down my spine, and it reminded me of what his hand had been doing a few moments ago and how he had made me feel.
I wanted him to feel what I had felt.
I allowed my gaze to drop down over his sculpted chest, his muscled stomach, and all the way to his…his…
My breath caught in my throat. It looked even bigger than it had felt, and it seemed to move of its own volition, bobbing up and down and reaching nearly to where my hand rested on his stomach. It was long and thick and seemed so powerful as it lay against his skin. It reminded me of the sword Branford had held—strong, hard, and dangerous if one was not careful around it—as he fought against Sir Remy
I traced the edge of my lip with my tongue as I reached out tentatively and slowly brought my fingers down the slight line of hair below his navel. I remembered how Branford had run his fingertip over my sensitive nipples and wondered if he would like the same kind of touch against his skin. With the index finger of my left hand, I followed the line down until I was nearly touching that part of him—the part he wanted inside of me, the part that would open me and make me his wife, the part of him that would fill me with his seed to grow children in my belly.
Branford hissed as I touched the tip, and I pulled my hand away quickly with a gasp. He grabbed my wrist, holding it near his stomach.
“Please…don’t stop.”
With my hand shaking a little, I reached out again and traced lightly over the very tip. I was quite surprised at how smooth the skin was and equally astonished when I realized the skin at the end would move with my touch as I stroked two fingers from the tip to about half way down his length. It twitched, then stilled, and Branford’s hand covered mine again, putting slight pressure on my fingers until they had curled around it.
With his hand guiding me, I wrapped my fingers partway around him—for my hand did not reach all the way around—and slowly stroked the male flesh, both soft and hard at the same time. Branford set a smooth rhythm and then released my hand as he leaned back into the blanket, much as I had done just a few minutes before, leaving me to my own devices.
For a moment, I just watched what I was doing—slowly moving my hand up and then back down again. When I brought it back, the layer of skin around the end pulled back with my hand, exposing the round, bulbous tip. When I moved my hand back up, it disappeared, reminding me of a turtle sneaking back into its shell. I felt myself smile at the thought and wanted to laugh but decided Branford would likely not find my thoughts humorous. As I became a little more comfortable with the action, I remembered how Branford’s hand had moved against my flesh, and I tried to do something similar.
Branford began to rock his hips slightly against my hand, showing me the exact rhythm he desired. It made me feel bolder. His panting breaths, tensing muscles, and dark gaze showed me what I was doing was pleasing him. I gripped him just a little more as my hand stroked up to the tip, and I ran my thumb around the end.
Branford gasped, moaned, and grabbed my hand. He held me there for the briefest moment—pushing my hand hard against his flesh—then stopped with a growl.
“Stop…Alexandra…please.” Branford groaned and pulled my fingers away.
“You don’t like it?” I held my breath. I must have done something wrong.
“Don’t like it?” He scoffed and moaned again. “It’s feels like heaven, my wife. It’s just…it’s too good, and I’ve sinned enough.”
“Sinned?”
Branford took a few deep breaths, one hand resting on his chest near his heart while the other gripped my fingers. Finally, he spoke again.
“If you had kept touching me, I would have spilled my seed on the ground.”
“That’s a sin?”
His gaze turned to mine, and he brought my fingers to his lips.
“If it is not used for its intended purpose,” Branford told me, “it is sinful, yes. If it falls to the ground…if it is not…ugh.”
Branford sat up and released my fingers from his grasp. He closed his eyes, and his hands rubbed at his cheeks roughly before cascading upwards and through his locks, leaving them splayed out all over his head. I tensed, sure he must be angry with my ignorance.
“I have no capacity to explain this to you,” he mumbled. “In the end, it means I will only experience that pleasure when I am inside of you, and there is the potential to give you a child.”
I nodded as Branford opened his eyes and peered at me. I understood what he meant—he would only feel the same as I when he released his seed into me. I tried not to think about what he might
have meant—that he had already sinned enough—for the implications were a little too unnerving.
“I’m sorry, my…Branford.” I blushed. “I didn’t know that was a sin.”
“Have you not read your Bible?” Branford turned toward me and grinned, obviously teasing. I looked away and felt my teeth in my lip. My heart began to beat faster as shame washed over me. Before we were even wed, he had said I was to know his God, and I didn’t. I knew almost nothing. “Alexandra? What is it?”
“I’ve not read the, um…the Bible.”