Dilemma in Yellow Silk (22 page)

She saw it in the mirror, a small pink pearl nestled between her legs. Opening her delicately, he continued to caress her, sliding his fingers in her wetness. When he stood, he brought one hand back up to stroke her left breast as he worked her. His cock pressed against her back, hot and fleshy, the head leaving a spot of dampness when he shifted his position.

He watched his movements as she did, the way he stroked and aroused, each touch bringing her closer to the peak she had experienced once before. Sharp edges of sensation ran along every part of her body, forming her, defining her.

“That’s it. Enjoy. Don’t think of anything but this. But us.”

His voice thrummed along her veins, stirring her senses. The sound of what he was doing between her legs came to her, illicit and infinitely arousing. Soft and wet and altogether wicked.

When he slid his fingers from that place, she murmured in protest, but he put his hands on her waist and urged her to turn towards him. When his eyes met hers, he smiled. “That’s better.”

Bending, he lifted her, one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and carried her to the bed. Laying her down, he came after her, inserting his knees between hers, opening her up.

She put her hands on his shoulders, his muscles tensing under her touch. He was magnificent, powerful, his hair tightly drawn back, leaving his features in sharp relief. “Lift your knees, my darling.”

She did so, hugging his narrow hips between her thighs. Watching her eyes all the time, he took his cock in his hand and guided it to her. It slid down her crease as easily as his fingers had a moment earlier, until he reached her opening. He pushed.

Shards of pain shot through her, and an unbearable tension, as if he were probing a part of her that fought back. Her back arched, and her face contorted.

“Keep looking at me,” he commanded, his voice harsher now.

She obeyed him. His eyes were dark with passion, but reassuring. This would be over in a moment, and she knew it would never hurt this much again. He pushed again. More pain.

“No.” Closing his eyes, he climbed off her and rolled on his back by her side. “That’s too much.”

“Are we not to do this, then?” Bewildered, she turned her head and gazed at him.

He cupped her face, and despite the pain of a moment ago, she nuzzled into his palm. “Not like that, sweetheart. I can’t hurt you.” Drawing closer to her, he planted a kiss on her lips, sweetly soothing.

Was she to retain her virginity? How were they to get past this without a little pain? “It didn’t hurt too much, truly.”

“Yes, it did.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Don’t lie to me, Viola. Never do that.” He sighed, his breath warm on her cheek. “Some women find more difficulty than others.”

“How do you know?” she demanded indignantly.

He smiled. “Gossip at White’s.”

She neatly fell into his trap. “They gossip at a men’s club?”

Leaning back, he hooted with laughter. “Where else? Although that kind of gossip is more likely at the House of Lords.” Still grinning, he turned back to her. “Sorry, sweetheart, I couldn’t resist. I just know, all right? Take it from me. I have never deflowered a virgin before, but I did do a little reading.”

Her eyes rounded. “There are books?”

“Pamphlets and books, yes.”

He studied the subject before he tried it. The knowledge melted her heart. “Won’t you come back?”

“I have a better idea,” he said. “You come here. Come, sit.”

He stayed on his back. She stared at him, not knowing what he meant. “I am here.”

“Have you ever ridden a horse astride?”

Heat rushed to her skin when she finally understood.

He grazed her face gently with the knuckle of his first finger. “Your skin is so beautifully soft. Sit astride me. You can take me at your pace and the angle that is best for you.”

Yes. But he would see everything—everything she had. The prospect of such intimacy cowed her, made her think. But this was Marcus, lying next to her stark naked and aroused. He would do it. So could she.

Holding her bottom lip between her teeth, Viola rose and mounted him. That was what she would have called it. She’d ridden astride as a child, before learning to do it side-saddle. These days she could do anything side-saddle she could do astride. Except this.

She pressed against him, her…private parts against his stomach. When he tensed, he nudged the knot of flesh. Daring, she touched it. “Is there a name for this?”

“Clitoris,” he said immediately, and touched her hand where she touched herself. His eyes burned. “You look beautiful doing that. Do you remember what I did for you at the inn?”

He touched it, sent pleasure rocketing through her. “Yes.”

“Let me do it again. Move your hand. Not only will it give you pleasure, it will make you wetter. You can take me easier then.”

When she slid her hand out from her clitoris, he took over. He had a sure touch, confident as hers was tentative.

“Put me inside you, Viola.”

“Yes.” She licked her lips before rising up on her knees. That brought her opening close to his member. His cock. She had to support it with her hand, so with him touching her, their hands nudged each other, their touches deeply intimate.

He felt hard, hot, but essentially human, the skin delicate, especially over the head. His cock was slick, the liquid clear. She moved over it, feeling the rounded head nudge her. When she pressed, the pressure began again. She leaned back a little, and the pressure eased.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Keep going.”

She pushed a bit more and found she could take more. His sharp “Oh!” told her she had worked him farther inside.

He moved his hand. He was watching. “I’ll keep still. You do it,” he said in a tight voice.

She pushed in farther and waited until the stretching had ameliorated somewhat. Then a little more. She took him a tiny bit at a time. Stopping to rest, she smiled down at him, trying to show him she wanted it. “I’m not boring you?”

His laugh shook his whole body, including the part inside her. She must have gained an inch from that alone. Still laughing, she bore down more, and more. Until suddenly he was fully embedded inside her.

The ball sack was under her, touching a part of her she had not realized was so sensitive. She felt every wiry hair as it brushed against her skin. “I’m full.”

“So you are. Full of me.” Reaching forward, he grasped her hips and moved her a little.

She liked that, liked it a lot. A new experience, but not exactly unexpected. It was just knowing about it, seeing the animals in the fields and occasionally a villager taking his pleasure with his woman out of doors. Seeing that and knowing it were so different she had no words to properly describe it. Only part words. Intimate, certainly. Strange, yes, that too.

Wonderful. It was wonderful.

She wasn’t aware she’d said the word aloud until he answered her. “It is rather wonderful, isn’t it? How do you feel now?”

“Better.” More used to it.

She dared to move and found the response good. So good she did it again.

He urged her to lift up. “Up and down. I’ll take care of the rest. Just tell me when it feels particularly good.”

Doing as he told her, she lifted up so the bottom part of his cock left her body.

He pushed her back down. “More.”

She did it again. Some liquid seeped out of her, easing her passage. She tried again. Easier this time. And again. Until she realized she was riding him, and his analogy made sense. A laugh surprised her, escaping to echo around the room.

As she pushed down, he thrust up. She gasped, but did not stop. Repeating the motion felt so good.

She was sitting upright, not as much as when she rode a horse, but not leaning forward, as a jockey did. Her breasts shook as he moved. When she leaned back even more, his cock nudged a spot inside her. Intense quivers rocked her, so much that her vision went out of focus, and she cried out.

“A small orgasm,” he said. When she frowned he said, “The climax of passion, when every part of you peaks. You will have more, sweetheart, if you want them.”

“Oh, yes, yes I do.”

“Then
move
.”

Not needing to be told twice, she kept working, riding him, moving from an easy trot to a canter, faster. He met her plunges, forcing his shaft deep inside her, more powerful with every stroke. Her body slammed down on to his. When he put one finger down there, where her clitoris hit it every time, he urged more intense responses from her. Sweat broke out on her body, but she ignored it. This was too good to stop now.

Deeper, harder, her reactions rose, the piercing pleasure rocketing through her, taking her to a point she had never known. He grunted, an essentially male sound as his groin tensed and became hard.

Everything in her coalesced, peaked, and exploded, like a shower of fire, spreading the warmth right to her fingertips. He cried her name, froze, and his cock pulsed deeply inside her.

She watched in wonder, saw a powerful man come completely within her orbit. He hid nothing, showed her his response to her lovemaking, gasping. The pulse in his throat throbbed, speeding up.

He pulled her down and gave her an open-mouthed, luscious kiss. He thrust his tongue into her, imitating their play below, supporting her when she collapsed against him.

They kissed until the pleasure ebbed, leaving contentment in its wake.

“So that was it,” she said, when they finally broke apart.

“Some of it,” he replied shakily. “We have a long way to go, though. Many avenues to explore together. You were wonderful, sweetheart. That was perfect.”

As a learning experience, she could not disagree.

They practiced a great deal over the next week. With the news of her father spreading, Viola took to wearing a black armband and subdued colors. She felt right doing that, although black would not be appropriate for a new bride. When she thought of her father’s fate, such happiness seemed wrong, but Marcus listened to her, held her, and let her weep when she needed to. Then he made love to her.

He brought her a deep joy she had not known possible.

“You should go out a little,” his mother said after he first week when they were sitting at dinner. “Not to dance, of course, but the theater, the opera, and dinner with friends is entirely allowable. Did you not say you wanted to see more of the city?”

“No,” Marcus said firmly. “Viola is in danger, and we are no nearer discovering who did it than we were before.”

“I should be safe in company,” she responded. “You said so yourself.”

He had. Nobody would shoot at her in a crowded place, surely. They could hit any number of innocents. She had fired weapons more than once herself and knew how inaccurate they could be. “If nobody can get close enough to stab me, or I’m with people you trust, surely I’m fine.”

“I don’t like it.” He took her hand as if to assure himself of her safety.

“Marcus, this house is beautiful, and the garden too, but…”

His mother continued when Viola’s voice trailed off. She had not seen the look of helplessness in Marcus’s eyes. Or if she had, she chose to ignore it. “She will run mad if she stays here much longer. Marcus, Viola is a country girl. She is used to roaming free.”

He turned his attention to her as if nobody else sat around the dining table, giving her his complete attention. “Is this true? Are you unhappy?”

“No, of course not,” she said, but his mother’s exasperated sound told another story.

“Take her out,” Lady Strenshall said. “Show her some of the city. And for heaven’s sake, let her meet our friends. Not just the family. People will begin to believe something is wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong!” Viola said.

Marcus lifted her hand to his lips. “Yes, it is. Mama is right. Would you like to go to the opera tomorrow night?”

Instead of preparing for a night at home, Viola had her maid dress her in a brand new lavender silk. Then she tied the black band around her upper arm. She wore black gloves, too, but excitement simmered low in her belly. She had never been to the opera before. Plays, of course. Her aunt in York adored going to the theater, but she had an aversion to opera, so on opera nights they’d stayed at home.

Viola liked singing, doing it and listening, although her voice was not above average. She could play, though, and she enjoyed music.

What she did not feel was fear. Marcus would take care of her, and just in case of danger, she had a small knife secreted in her pocket, sheathed in soft leather. Small, but enough to do serious damage should she wish it. She would not hesitate if anyone attacked her.

The opera held a danger if she sat in the Strenshall family box. Isolated in that way she could form a target. So Marcus took her to a more public seat on the balcony. A footman sat behind her, not in livery. Tranmere made Viola feel much safer. She suspected Marcus had employed others, but when they had taken their seats, he leaned to her and murmured, “Julius knows we are here. He has put men in the audience.”

She almost laughed. Who was she to draw such attention? She still felt like Viola Gates, the unimportant daughter of an estate manager, a woman who could not expect her appearance to attract undue interest.

She had not changed.

People stared at her. They would not know the secret of her parentage, so they were staring at her because she was a new bride. She had unexpectedly taken one of the most eligible bachelors in the country off the market. They wanted to assess. Maybe the ladies who were freer with their favors wanted to see exactly how devoted Marcus was as a husband.

He gave her most flattering attention. He took her fan from her and wafted cool air over her face when she exclaimed it was hot in the theater. A chandelier blazed above them, the a hundred burning candles heating the air.

Despite those distractions, plus the constant chattering of the audience, Viola thoroughly enjoyed the opera. At a particularly poignant moment when the soprano was giving her all, a tear escaped from the corner of her eye. It slipped down the side of her cheek.