The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(48)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“It nearly unmanned me.” His hands hovered over her breasts, tracing her curves without touching. “I wanted to feel you so badly.”

His palms were so close to her skin that she could feel his heat, but he didn’t touch her. Not yet. She found herself straining toward his hands, anticipating that first contact. She withdrew her arms from the chemise sleeves but clutched the material at her waist so it wouldn’t fall.

“I remember you touched yourself here.” His hands cupped the air above her nipples. “May I?”

“I . . .” She shivered. “Yes. Please.”

She watched his hands descend and lightly touch her breasts. His warm fingers curved about her. She arched and her breasts thrust themselves into his palms.

“God,” he breathed. He stroked in a circle around her breasts.

She looked down at herself and saw his big, long-fingered hands on her skin. They looked unbearably masculine. They looked unbearably possessive. He brought both hands toward the tips of her nipples and gently but firmly squeezed them between his forefingers and thumbs. She inhaled at the shocking sensation.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, his lips in her hair.

“I . . .” She swallowed, unable to answer. It was more than good.

But that seemed answer enough for him. “Let me see the rest. Please.” His lips skimmed across her cheek, his palms still cradling her breasts. “Please show me, my wife.”

She opened her clenched fists, and her chemise fell to the floor. She was naked. He brushed one hand down to her belly and pulled her back against him so her nude buttocks brushed the fabric of his breeches. They were warm, almost hot, from his body. He pressed against her, and she felt his male organ, long and hard. She couldn’t help it. She began to shake.

He chuckled in her ear. “There was more I was going to say to you, but I can’t.” He pressed into her again and groaned. “I want you too badly, and I’ve lost the words.”

Suddenly he lifted her into his arms, and she could see his eyes, shining silver. A muscle in his jaw flexed. He set her on the bed and put one knee beside her, making the mattress dip. “It will hurt the first time; you know that, don’t you?” He reached both arms behind him and pulled his shirt over his head.

She was so distracted by the sight of his bare chest that she hardly heard the question.

“I’ll go as slowly as possible.” He was lean, the long muscles on his arms and shoulders moving as he climbed into the bed. His nipples stood out in startling contrast to his fair skin, brown and flat and so very naked. A diamond of short, fair hairs grew in the very middle of his chest. “I don’t want you to hate me afterward.”

She reached to touch his nipple. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I won’t hate you,” she whispered.

Then he was on her, kissing her wildly, his hands at either side of her face. She felt like giggling and would have, if his tongue hadn’t been in her mouth. It was so wonderful to have him want her like this. She cradled the back of his head in her hands and felt the bristles of his shorn hair against her palms. He lowered his hips to hers and all thought spun away. He was hot. His chest slid across her breasts, damp with sweat. His hard thighs, still encased in his breeches, were nudging her legs apart. She opened her legs, welcoming the weight of his body, welcoming him. He settled against her most vulnerable part, and for a moment she was embarrassed. She was wet and the moisture must be staining his breeches. Would he mind? Then he pressed against her with his maleness and she felt . . .

Wonder.

It was so extraordinary, better even than when she touched herself. Was it always this good, this physical sensation? She thought not. It must be him—her husband—and she gave thanks that she had married such a man. He pressed again, sliding this time, and she sighed.

“I’m sorry.” He lifted his mouth from hers, his face tight and without humor.

He fumbled between them, and she realized he must be releasing himself. She skewed her head sideways to look. But he was on her before she could see.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his words sharp and bit off. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. If only”—something nudged against her—“later. Ahh.” He closed his eyes as if in pain.

And invaded her. Pushing and widening. Burning.

She froze.

“I’m sorry.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry. At the same time, she was oddly touched by his apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Something tore quite explicitly, and she inhaled but didn’t make a sound.

He opened his eyes, looking stricken and hot and savage. “Oh, God, sweetheart. I promise it will be better next time.” He kissed the corner of her mouth softly. “I promise.”

She concentrated on steadying her breath and hoped he would finish very soon. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but this was no longer pleasant for her.

He parted his mouth over hers and licked her bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

His hand moved between them and caressed her lightly where they were joined. She tensed, unconsciously expecting pain, but instead it was pleasant. And then it was more. Heat began to flow from her center. Slowly her thighs relaxed from the rigid arch they’d assumed when he’d entered her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice deep and lazy.

His thumb brushed against her nubbin of flesh. She closed her eyes and sighed.

He circled. “Sorry.”

He moved very slowly within her, sliding. It was almost . . . good.

“Sorry.” He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she sucked it.

She let her legs drop open to give him better access. He groaned into her mouth, incoherent, and suddenly it was beautiful again. She arched her hips to meet that thumb, to demand more pressure and dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his shoulders. He moved faster in reply. He broke their kiss, and she could see his silver eyes, pleading and taking at the same time. She smiled and wrapped her legs about his hips. His eyes widened at her movement and he groaned. His eyelids fluttered closed. Then he was arcing back, the tendons in his arms and neck straining to meet an invisible goal. He shouted and heaved against her. And she watched him, this powerful, articulate man driven to helpless, wordless pleasure by her body. By her.

He fell to her side, his chest still heaving, his eyes closed, and lay there until his breathing calmed. She thought he’d fallen asleep, but he reached out and gathered her to him.