Page 21 of Cold November Rake

Fear of the unknown. Excitement at finally being with her husband for the first time.

She had thought about this moment many times while lying awake in Sutton Hall, wondering what it would be like to lie with him, what his hands would feel like, what his mouth would taste like, how his skin would smell. In those imaginings, he had been tender and teasing and had always had a smile on his face. She had not pictured the pale, serious man now crossing the room toward her, or the impersonal terms of their bargain.

Sutton moved closer to the bed, naked, aside from the linen strip over his wound.

She could see all of him now. She had been correct in her earlier assessment of his godlike figure.

The only part that differed from the marble was the thick, flushed, vein-traced length of him, which was entirely and startlingly alive. Her stomach gave a nervous, thrilling swoop.

He stepped closer, and now she could see only his chiseled chest, his strong arms, his broad shoulders, and his beautiful, if thunderous, face.

He looked so serious.

His eyes were dark in the dim light, his lips pressed flat. She tried to read his face, to find a trace of the boy who had laughed so easily, and found nothing she could hold on to.

He touched her knee, then his hand traveled up her inner thigh until his fingers brushed the juncture of her legs.

Temperance's eyes fell closed, and she let out a soft moan.

No gentleness, he had said, but his touch was anything but.

It was soft, tentative, almost reverent.

Or perhaps it only seemed so to her because she had not been touched in years.

Perhaps with his other lovers he is even more gentle⁠—

No. She refused to think of anything that would sour this moment.

She was going to lie with her husband, and she was going to enjoy it.

He climbed on top of her, covering her body with his own. He gently pushed her knees apart and settled into the cradle of her thighs. His weight pressed her into the mattress, warm and solid and real.

His fingers moved deeper, stroking her, while his other hand traveled from one breast to the next, caressing her nipples.

Temperance could not help her moans. It was so nice just to be touched, especially like this. Something inside her, locked tight for years, loosened a little with every stroke.

She braced her hands against his chest and let her fingers move over his skin.

With a little groan, Sutton caught both her hands in one of his and pushed them aside.

"No gentleness, Tempe," he whispered.

The nickname slid through her like warm wine. No one had called her that in years, and certainly not in that voice.

"You can touch me and I cannot touch you?" she asked sulkily.

He nodded. "I need to prepare you so I do not hurt you. All you need to do is hold on."

She wanted to protest but caught herself and pursed her lips.

They had just made an agreement. She did not want to give him a reason to change his mind.

And a part of her thought she would die if he stopped touching her now.

So she nodded, moved her hands to his strong shoulders, and held on.

Her fingers slid over his silky skin; she could not help it. He did not protest this time, only closed his eyes and went on with his slow exploration of her.