Her Christmas Earl

“I will.” He spoke with the same decisive tone that he’d used for his wedding vows. “Let me show you what you’ve got in store for the next fifty years, sweetheart.”

He palmed one round breast, bending his head to take the other nipple between his lips. As he sucked at the beaded peak, she whimpered and slid her hand up his chest. When she sank her nails into his skin, he groaned at the stinging mixture of pleasure and pain.

He raised his head and stared at her. “If you touch me, I’ll lose control and I need to make sure you enjoy this, darling.”

Her brief uncertainty melted into a smile. “Can I touch you later?”

“Over and over and over.”

“That’s a promise?”

“Yes, it is.” Paradise hovered so close. “Now, lie back and enjoy yourself. You vowed to obey me today.”

“In hindsight, that seems a little rash.”

He smiled, captivated. “Too late, sweeting.”

He caressed and kissed her breasts until she bucked beneath him. Her every wriggle released more alluring scent into the air until he drowned in his wife’s sweetness. She was so sensitive, she was close to shattering, but some selfish element in him wanted to share that final joy.

When she trembled beneath him, hot and feverish, he finally, finally ran his hand across her belly and touched her between her legs. Triumph thundered through him when he found her slick and ready.

Carefully he slid one long finger into her, testing the silky heat, the tight muscles clenching around him. Another finger, gently stretching. She breathed in humid little gasps that fired his need.

He rose over her and parted her legs. “It’s time, my darling wife.”

Her dark eyes held the unconditional trust he’d waited so long to find. Very gradually, he eased into her. She was so primed, possession should be easy, but he’d never taken a virgin before. Somewhere the careless lover had transformed into a man who’d cut off his own balls before hurting his wife.

He met the barrier of her innocence and paused, gasping for control. She sighed and hooked her hands over his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, so low he barely heard her.

This act’s power was unearthly. He’d thought himself a man who knew women. Yet this first night with his wife flung him into radiant, unknown space.

He could wait no longer. He wanted her so much. He tightened his hips and thrust.

She stiffened and whimpered. Her nails dug into his damp, bare skin.

Then on a cry, she arched to meet him, bringing him deeper. In unmistakable welcome, she contracted around him. This time her sigh was long and saturated with enjoyment. She tipped back her head until her breasts brushed his chest. A proud smile teased her lush red lips.

“Oh, my darling,” Erskine choked out and kissed her with the powerful passion that he’d leashed all night.

“That’s wonderful,” she gasped, sliding beneath him in a way that threatened his tattered control.

For as long as he could bear, he kept still, letting her become accustomed to his body. Despite her unabashed welcome, he remained overwhelmingly conscious that she’d never done this before. Then slowly and tenderly, he moved. The glorious sensation threatened to incinerate him.

Again he thrust, more purposefully. This time she shifted, changing the angle, and his hunger sharpened to the verge of agony.

Still she stroked him, urged him on, told him with fluttering sighs and touches that she wanted more. He abandoned himself to the fierce, vital rhythm. Fiery thunder shook his world as he claimed his wife. He’d think he acted the complete barbarian if not for her whispered words of encouragement and delight. Those sweet little murmurs of praise smashed restraint to oblivion.

She shuddered on her climax and cried out, the sound sharp and triumphant in the firelit room. Then on a mighty rush, Erskine lost himself in a release unlike anything he’d felt before. He flooded her with his seed and forever united his life to hers.

Chapter Nine

WHEN PHILIPPA STIRRED from deep, dreamless sleep, her husband clasped her tight to his powerful chest. Dull gray light edged the curtains and the candles had burned down to puddles of wax. A shy glance up at Blair’s face from where she lay tucked into the curve of his shoulder showed her that he was still asleep.

With those cynical green eyes closed, Blair looked younger. She realized with a start that this notorious libertine must be only a few years older than she was. At Hartley Manor, he’d seemed so impossibly beyond her in experience and sophistication that she’d felt a complete child in comparison.

After last night, she didn’t feel like a child anymore. She felt like a woman.

A woman suffering the pangs of an excruciatingly guilty conscience. With morning, so much became painfully clear and she cringed at how she’d wronged her husband.