At present, however, it seemed she loved battling with him as much as she loved looking at him. Indeed, she found herself wanting to explore their wedding night more than anything in that moment. Thus, Willow gave him something better than her word.
She turned and gave him her back. “Unlace me.”
Her boldness amazed her. Empowered her. Then she felt the caress of his hand brushing her neck followed by the soft graze of his lips against her skin. Her lashes drifted shut.
“Are you certain?” His velvety voice whispered in her ear.
Heat pooled in her belly. Breathless, she answered, “Yes.”
Three heartbeats later, her dress pooled around her feet. Seconds later, her petticoat, chemise and stays followed.
She heard him suck in his breath.
Emboldened by his response, and seeing no point in holding onto modesty, Willow turned and brazenly met her husband’s gaze. The impact was so strong the air rushed from her lungs. His eyes were intense. More intense than usual. And the way he was staring at her singed skin.
Her tongue darted over her lower lip. He reached for her, drawing her against the hard ridges of his body and then he was kissing her again. All at once, she was lifted up into his arms.
Willow barely had time to soak up the delightful heat of his skin. Dropping her on the bed, his eyes were warm as they searched hers.
She liked his eyes this way—warm, expressive—and wondered what it would take to keep them so.
“Earlier, when you were running for the door . . . you wanted to escape me.” His voice was low. Seductive. He stretched over her, covering her with his entire masculine length. “Did you not?”
“I’ll admit to no such thing,” Willow muttered, her wits scrambled. It was hard to draw a thought with him this close.
His chest rumbled with laughter and he pinned her with ruthless, glowing eyes. His face could have been etched in stone at that moment. The breath in her lungs burned. But the answer he sought was there in her eyes—she never once thought she could escape him.
The look of sheer male satisfaction that crossed his features ought to have raised the hairs on her neck but his lips lowered to slide over her collarbone, skimming breasts, her belly, burning through her annoyance. Nowhere was off limits. Fire spread through her.
The hard contrast of his muscles against her softness made Willow’s head spin. Without warning, his hand settled at the junction of her legs and she yelped, not expecting his dexterous fingers to make such a play.
“Relax,” he murmured before his fingers continued their exploration. His eyes locked on hers as sensations rocked through her, radiating out from her core. “Did you not think about this when you chose to walk down the church?”
No, absolutely not had she thought about what his hands might do.
“Or this?” His finger disappeared, only to be replaced by his mouth.
Lud no, she had not imagined that either.
When his tongue flicked over the folds of her core, Willow whimpered. It was just so wicked. She may die from delight. Or embarrassment. Or something. Yet he seemed not at all ashamed by what he was doing.
He continued until she thought she might explode. She writhed beneath him wildly, impatient. With a quiet laugh, he lifted himself up and surrounded her with his body, his hands and mouth on her breasts, her neck, his throbbing member pushing at her entrance.
“This may hurt,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Hurt?
Nothing could ever hurt again. It seemed most ridiculous for him to say that. She was riding in a haze of pleasure.
He surged forward, driving past her innocence.
“Dear lord,” she cried out, nearly bulking from the bed at the unexpected pain. “You could have warned me.”
“I did,” he bit out but sounded amused.
She writhed beneath him and he groaned, noting his clenched jaw. “Is it painful for you, too?”
He shook his head.
