Page 23 of Raked Away in September

And the lovemaking would come. She had enjoyed his touches tonight; he was certain of it. She wasn’t frigid, terrified, or disinterested. In fact, she seemed captivated. She just needed a little more time, and he was more than willing to give that to her. When they finally did consummate their marriage, he wanted her to want it just as much as he did.

He rested his left hand on his aching member, shifting himself again and letting out a pained breath. It would be worth the wait.

He lay in the cozy little bed he’d made for them until the fire guttered out into ashes, then finally eased away from her and stood. He stretched, glad his arousal had finally dissipated, then reached down and picked her up tenderly.

One day soon, he would wake up in Tamsin’s bed, and he thought he would indeed enjoy that very much.

Carrying her across the room, he tucked her into bed, then leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “Good night, wife,” he whispered. “Sleep well.”

Chapter Twelve

Though he’d only been married a little over a week, Rowan felt as though he were seeing London through a completely different lens. As he sat in the shadows of his private box at the Drury Lane Theatre, he realized with a start that he was enjoying himself. That wasn’t due to the tedious comedy he’d stopped paying attention to ten minutes in, but the woman sitting beside him.

Tamsin sat with her spine straight and chin tilted at a defiant angle. He knew she could feel the weight of the opera glasses trained on them from the pit, the whispered barbs of the ton wondering if the Rake of September had grown bored of his scandalous young bride yet. But Tamsin hadn’t shown them one bit of fear or shame.

He felt a fierce, unfamiliar surge of pride. He hadn’t expected her to be so brave, and the fact that she didn’t seem to need protection made him want to protect her even more

The ease of their companionship had startled him. He had spent his life surrounded by people, but he had very few friends. Not real ones, at least. Lysander Thorne, the Marquess of Ashford, would probably take a bullet for him, but he couldn’t talk to him about the dusty volumes in his library or the pain of his childhood.

But every day that he spent with Tamsin—riding in the park, debating over breakfast, or reading in the library—he felt the walls he’d built around his heart crumbling. He wanted to believe this was real. That he could trust her.

The nightly kissing and touching were driving him mad with desire. Slowly easing into the physical side of their relationship was testing every ounce of his self-control. He had worshipped her skin, learned the specific catch in her breath when he touched her breasts, and shared kisses that left him aching and restless. He had never had to wait for a woman in his life. The anticipation was a new kind of fire, one that burned hotter because it was fueled by respect rather than just appetite. He would have never guessed that friendship was such a powerful aphrodisiac.

She squeezed his hand as the candles in the great chandelier dimmed, plunging the theater into a heavy, artificial dusk as the second act began. The music swelled to a deafening pitch, and he realized how much it could mask. The idea of doing something daring, something secret and sensual, caught hold of him, and he shifted uncomfortably at the mere thought of what he could accomplish, unseen, in the darkness of the private theater box.

The railing in front of them hid everything but their upper bodies. Now that the lights had lowered, even those watching them with theater glasses would be able to see very little. But would she let him slide his hand beneath her skirts? It was a scandalous thing for a husband to do to his wife in public, yet that was precisely what made the idea so exciting.

He had yet to touch her anywhere below the waist. In her bedroom, that was the point where she always stopped him. But perhaps here, where she’d have the comfort of knowing things couldn’t go too far, she’d allow it. He wanted to show her that it was nothing to fear.

Rowan leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers. “Tamsin,” he whispered, his breath ghosting against the shell of her ear. “There is something I could do to make you feel so good right now. Do you think you could be quiet while I give you pleasure?”

He felt her shiver, and the delicate tremor made his blood rise even hotter. “I think so,” she murmured back, her eyes fixed on the stage, though her pulse was visible in the hollow of her throat.

“Then stay very still,” he commanded softly.

Under the cover of the heavy velvet railing, Rowan removed one of his gloves and then gathered the voluminous folds of her silk skirts until he could slip his hand underneath. He found the warmth of her silk-clad knee and moved higher, his fingers deft and certain. When he found the sensitive skin of her inner thigh above her stocking, he heard her let out a tiny, sharp puff of air—not a protest, but a gasp of pure shock.

He didn’t stop. He moved higher still, seeking the damp, hidden core of her. Bloody hell, she was so warm and wet. This proof of her desire sent a jolt of pure fire straight to his groin. He began a slow, rhythmic pressure, his thumb finding the center of her pleasure with the unerring accuracy of a man who had spent years studying the subject.

Tamsin gripped the edge of the railing, her knuckles turning white. She didn’t look at him; she kept her gaze locked on the actors below, but her breathing had turned shallow and ragged. Rowan watched her profile—the flush in her cheeks, the way her lips parted—and felt a dark, possessive satisfaction. Here, in the middle of a crowded theater, surrounded by the very people who sought to tear them down, he was giving her something that belonged only to them.

He leaned in, his lips grazing her ear again. “Come for me, Tamsin,” he breathed. “Let yourself go.”

He continued the steady, relentless motion of his hand, watching her succumb to the sensation until she was trembling against him. She turned her head and bit his shoulder to keep from crying out in pleasure. As the play continued below them, he wrapped his arm around her and held her tight, aching with need but feeling more satisfaction than he ever had.

“That was… incredible,” she finally whispered. “I didn’t realize… I didn’t know it could feel so good.”

“I will make certain you always find your pleasure,” he assured her. “I always want you to enjoy our lovemaking as much as I do.”

“Was that what we just did?” she asked, obviously confused. “I thought lovemaking was when you were inside me.”

His cock throbbed heavily at hearing those words from her sweet lips. “This is another way for me to give you pleasure,” he breathed. “I suppose it’s like what you saw at Vauxhall Gardens. Only for you, instead of me.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening, and he realized she finally understood. But she didn’t seem shocked by it. No, she looked… fascinated. She even dared a quick glance at his lap, where his state of arousal was easy to see.

“Shall I…?”

She couldn’t get it out, but he knew what she was thinking, and the mere thought that she’d considered it nearly made him come on the spot.