Want Ad Wife. Katy Madison
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no idea if it was in protest or encouragement. Finding her lips again, he kissed her deeply. She kissed back, and he had a hard time keeping his hands to places he could touch her in public. But he couldn’t measure her willingness, not without seeing if her skin was flushed or her eyes bright. He scraped her hair back, looking for a sensitive spot behind her ear. Surely she had one.
Pulling away, he stood. “I’m lighting the lamp.”
“No!” She snatched his hand and pulled him back toward the bed. “I’m undoing my buttons now. Please.”
He pressed his knees against the edge of the bed. “Selina, what is it you don’t want me to see?”
“Me.”
Was she scarred or malformed? She seemed too sound of limb to be suffering anxiety over an unusual body, but she could fear a scar would repulse him. “I will not find fault. I only want—”
“I can’t. I’m not ready to be seen naked by you. I don’t know you.”
He barked a laugh. “I’m damn sure trying to rectify that.”
He sensed more than saw her turn away. His mouth went dry and his jaw ticked. If he could pull back his laugh, he would. Or his raw language.
“Which is why I want a little light.” He slid his hand across the bed to her. He found her still-covered form and moved his hand along until he touched her arm. “I just want to see you to be certain I am not hurting you.” Or rushing her, or if he was pleasuring her.
“You’re not hurting me,” she whispered.
“I haven’t done anything that might hurt you, yet.” Somehow that sounded as if he would hurt her. Swallowing a growl, he found her hand and pulled it up to his mouth. “That didn’t come out right.”
He kissed the back of her hand, then turned it over and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. Her fingers trembled in his grip. Desperation to calm her warred with desire that was building too rapidly. A man’s passion poured easily and rapidly, like water, while a woman’s was slower and sweeter, like honey or molasses. But John was beginning to think he was trying to pour stone.
She made a small sound as he flicked his tongue across her pulse. Yet as he went to push her sleeve up, the cuff was buttoned tight.
He plucked at the material. He’d dreamed of this night for a long time. He wanted it to be perfect, but need and desire rushed through him, squelching his plan of restraint. It would all be over too quickly if he unleashed his desire. Still, he could only think about thrusting between her legs, until he was spent.
Yet she seemed an unwilling passenger swept along on this current. He needed her to at least feel desire for the act, if not for him. But he had no knowledge of what she liked, except kissing.
He would show her kissing. “Selina, I am your husband. I promised to cherish you and I will.”
It was a not too subtle reminder of her vows. She was his wife. He didn’t have to be gentle or patient, but he would be.
“We don’t have to consummate the marriage tonight,” he said firmly.
“But isn’t that what you want?”
“Hell, yes!” He meant to say more, to tell her more... A white thing lifted in the air, distracting him and stealing his breath.
He caught the nightgown, pulled it from her hands and tossed it toward the trunk. His eyes must have adjusted a little more, because he could at least see she was kneeling on the bed. But it wasn’t enough.
Her wants mattered, too. Certainly her comfort was more important than his gratification.
He caught her shoulders. Her skin was cool to his touch. He couldn’t tell if she was pushing forward only out of a desire to please him. Slowly he slid his hands over the delicate collarbone to her neck and up to her jaw. Holding her head still, he pressed his lips to hers, gently. Then he told her, “I’m lighting a candle.”
Selina tensed all over. Her heart pounded. “No,” she protested.
But he was already off the bed and crossing the space.
Her spine knotting, she scrambled to get under the covers, pulling them to her chin as she lay flat on her back.
The strike of a match was like nails on a chalkboard. She couldn’t let him see the damage her pregnancy had wrought on her body. But she also needed the marriage consummated so he couldn’t spurn her.
Her husband was near the stove. His back was broad and more firmly muscled than she would have expected in a shopkeeper. Her eyes dipped to his narrow hips and the firm hemispheres of his backside. Her breath snagged and then came out shakily.
He turned, a stubby candle in a holder illuminating his chest, and lower, where his instrument stood tall, surrounded by a nest of dark hair. Her breath whooshed out. A frisson of energy rolled through her.
She snapped her eyes shut. But the image of John seemed glued to the inside of her eyelids. The covers lifted beside her, the breeze making her shiver even though it wasn’t cool. The mattress swayed and dipped as he slid in beside her.
“You can open your eyes now. I’m covered,” he said flatly.
She opened her eyes.
Propped up on his elbow, John lay beside her. His brow puckered. He wasn’t entirely covered, as the sheet was tugging down where he’d put his arm over it, and she was trying to keep it up to her chin. Poor man, she must be confusing him with her nunlike modesty.
Although what was he waiting for? She’d thought she’d indicated her willingness to proceed several times. She’d even kissed him, a bold move if ever there was one. Her face heated.
“I’ve never seen a man naked before.” Technically, that was true. When Clarence had had intercourse with her, she hadn’t really seen his member, as her skirts and petticoats had been heaped between them. The closest she’d come to seeing a man in the altogether was the museum paintings she’d viewed when she was younger. Although they had never shown a man in such a state.
“You didn’t see any natives in loincloths on your travels?”
She shook her head. Even if she had, the loincloths would have covered that part of them. “I have only seen old paintings and statues or plates of them in books.”
He watched her steadily. Did she have to kiss him again to get things going? Truly, she hadn’t had to prompt Clarence.
“I think they would have been glad to paint you,” she said.
John cocked his head a little and narrowed his eyes.
Did she have to spell it out for him?
“You could have been a model for Michelangelo.” She wanted to snatch the words back. Did he even know who Michelangelo was? How comprehensive an education would a boy from an orphanage have?
Goodness, she was lying naked next to an equally naked man. She shouldn’t be worried about whether she was offending him because his education might not have been up to snuff.
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “And you look like a scared rabbit.” He touched her cheek with the pads of his fingers and she tried very hard not to flinch. “A beautiful, enchanting, scared rabbit. A woman any art master would love to paint or photograph...”
She flinched, dismay grinding like broken glass in her stomach.
His brows beetled together and he lifted his hand from where it rested against her jaw. “What?”
“You don’t have to compliment me.” No, all he had to do was get on with it. Kiss her, knee apart her legs and mount her. A strange energy slid through her and mingled with the churning apprehension in her stomach.
She didn’t understand. His body seemed ready, but he was taking forever to do anything. And his gaze on her made her want to die.