She was truly his wife, in every way. Just as he was her husband, in all meanings.
“Now.” He released his bruising hold on her hips, and grasped the headboard, his arms outstretched. His eyes glittered. “You take us there, Anne. Show me. Show us both.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” His jaw tightened. “The whole time. It’s been there. In you.”
For a moment, she hesitated, uncertain. It came to her: an image of herself this very night, crossing the floor of the assembly, her chin tipped up. She had been seen by everyone, and drew strength from it. It gathered in her now, her capability. Leo had shown her the path, and she walked it using the strength of her own legs.
Had he wanted to, he could have lain her down and taken her, controlling every movement and sensation. But he wanted more than that, more from her. A challenge. She would meet that challenge.
Settling her hands on his shoulders, Anne pulled her hips up, just a little. Again, that wondrous sliding within her. Then she sank down. As she did, her pearl rubbed against him.
“Oh.” She dragged in a breath. “That’s ...”
“Yes.” The cords of his neck stood out.
Anne moved again, and once again. She discovered angles, speeds. Her hands clutched him tightly, so tightly she feared she might tear his shirt and mark his skin. Part of her wanted to mark him, but she did not want to cause him pain. She grabbed the headboard, as well, and saw his knuckles whiten.
Rational thought slipped away. Anne rode him. He stretched beneath her, arching up. Her gasps joined with his groans, and the room resonated with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh.
This time, when her climax arrived, she could not be silent. At her scream, his hands released the headboard. He seized her hips, his head fell back, and his whole body went rigid.
He had never looked more beautiful, carved as a statue.
Finally, release faded, loosening its grip on both of them. They could only pant and stare at each other, sated and amazed.
Concepts, thoughts, words—all vanished. She knew only the resonance of her body and the feel of him against, and within, her. Gradual as a feather drifting in circles to earth, she regained use of her mind.
She wondered: What was one supposed to say in a situation like this? Thank you? It seemed a paltry phrase to enclose a world far bigger than any atlas.
So she let actions and silence serve her better. Her fingers cramped as she released the headboard, but they relaxed as she cupped his face. His stubble prickled against her palms.
He stared at her, grave, marveling, yet when she lowered her mouth to his, his eyes drifted shut, and he took her kiss readily.
We are outcasts no longer.
He didn’t want to, but Leo needed to get up from the bed. Reluctantly, he disentangled his limbs from Anne’s, and left her murmuring and drowsy as he padded into the closet. By the light of a single taper, he stripped off his shirt. He took a cloth and dipped it in the water-filled basin. With movements made hasty from eagerness to return to her, he cleaned himself off.
Blood streaked over his cock. Not much, but enough to prove that, for all her responsiveness and innate sensuality, he was Anne’s first lover.
First and only. For himself, he was glad of his experience, if only to have made it good for her. Thinking of her sighs and moans, the way she moved, the pleasure she took from him, his cock stirred. He wanted more.
A folded nightshirt awaited him on a small table. God, he hated having to wear it.
He walked to the glass on the table, adjusted it to get the right angle. Turning, he looked over his shoulder to see the reflection of his back.
Images of flames covered his skin there. They appeared to be drawn directly on his flesh with black ink, yet he knew that nothing could wash them away. The flames began just below his nape, spread across his shoulders, and twisted down along the length of his spine.
He did not regret his gifts from Mr. Holliday, but something about the image of flames writhing across his skin made him feel sick dread.
His resolve strengthened never to let Anne see the markings, nor understand their meaning.
Which meant he would be forced either to make love to her in utter darkness, or to wear a damned shirt when he did. And though he had always slept nude, he had to endure wearing this sodding nightshirt like some doddering old man.
He turned away from the mirror. Sleeping in a nightshirt was a small sacrifice if it meant having Anne beside him. He quickly tugged the thing on, then took a fresh cloth and dampened it. After blowing out the candle, he returned to the bedchamber.
Anne stretched out atop the bedclothes, sleek and soft and delicious as she lay on her stomach. She had taken the last of the pins from her hair, and the mass of it spread around her in silken profusion. At his approach, she smiled. Something seized within him, something tight in his chest.
Wife. He felt he understood the meaning of the word now, its significance. By giving her his name, he had pledged to her his care, his protection. And he vowed it to himself now, more binding than any words spoken by a reverend.
Seeing the cloth in his hand, she reached for it, but he held it away.
“Let me,” he said.
As she turned over and leaned back on her elbows, the embers of desire roused. She was beautiful to look upon—her lush breasts tipped with coral, the curve of her belly, her pretty little quim, the suppleness of her arms and legs. Her body held more strength than one would have guessed, for she had gripped him hard. He was glad of it. Rather than pliancy, he wanted strength to match his own.
“I like how you look at me now,” she murmured.
His gaze flew up to hers. The stain of passion still tinted her cheeks, and she wore a timeless little smile. It pleased him, knowing he put that smile upon her lips, that she could be so free with him.
“I like looking at you.” He curled one leg under him as he sat beside her. Carefully, in slow, tender circles, he ran the cloth over her. He frowned at the smears of blood at the tops of her thighs. “It hurt.”
“Some. Less than I thought it might.”
“But it felt good, too.” The need to please her burned hotly through him—as strong as his need to build his fortune on the Exchange. Stronger.
“No new bride has less cause for complaint.” She placed her hand atop his. “Truly, Leo. It was ... a marvel. Sensations I could never have conceived.”
“You may conceive.” Finished with his task, he set the cloth aside and stretched out alongside her. He placed his hand over her belly.
Her lips curved. “That is the purpose of marriage.”
“Trying to make children has its own enticements.”
She wound her arms around his neck and smiled up at him. “In truth, I hope a child comes later. Much later. For I am selfish enough to want you all to myself.”
“Nothing wrong with self-interest.” He pulled her close, his hands cupping the sweet roundness of her arse. The fragrance of her skin enthralled him, sweet and musky with the lingering traces of sex. With their sex. He pressed his face into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, nuzzling. She murmured encouragement. Her limbs made a delectable rustling in the bedclothes.
He wanted her again. The time he had waited to consummate their marriage fell away in gathering desire. Each day he had come to know her better and better, so that, for the first time, when he seated his body within a woman’s, he felt not just the pull of animal need, but a deeper communion. It had been more than simple release. It had been a bestowing of pleasure, a joining.
His cock thickened. He thought perhaps it might be too soon, that she would be sore, but she cupped him close, her leg thrown over his hip.
“Leo.” Her voice was velvet.