ROMANCE: Regency Romance: Fated to His Kiss (Historical Victorian Romance) (Historical Regency Romance Fantasy Short Stories) (6 page)

              Pulling gently on her wrists, Henry willed Anabelle to sit up; when he placed one of her hands on his excited member, he gritted his teeth before he gave the both of them a premature surprise. “Undo them, 'bell,” he told her, in reference to the breeches that stood as one of the only remaining barriers between them.

              Caught in a mixture of exhilaration and shyness, Anabelle did as she was told, knowing that the moment of final joining was on the brink of occurring. Once she was done, and Henry was at last freed from his final confines, Anabelle leaned back on the pillows and enjoyed her first view of her fully nude husband.

              He was beautiful, and the unexpected rush of possession that filled her was unexpected. He was hers, this man, he was! From the smattering of hair on his chest to his lean hips, to the legs that were roped heavy with muscles. He was hers, this possessor of a cock that stood straight up and was proudly ruddy-tipped, he was hers, this man who dropped down to his forearms to kiss her again, to unsnap the garters from her belt and to move her undergarments all the way down her legs. Henry Princely was hers—actually hers! --and he was kissing his way down her calves to the heated center of her above which he poised himself, eyes locked on hers as he nudged her with that part of his anatomy that God had intended for him to use. The quiet rumble of fear in her throat was dislodged by the look of love in his eyes, replaced instead by a mixture of trust and anticipation as carefully and slowly, Henry entered her, filling her up past the point where she thought she could be filled, breaking past the single moment of pain, and answering that deep unending ache inside of her that she had had from the first moment he had ever kissed her.

              They were joined; neither could believe it. Anabelle was stretched comfortably tight, and as Henry moved inside of her, she gasped aloud. She clutched him inside of her, terrified he was going to leave, and he chuckled again and told her to relax. She did, and he parried, thrusting up inside of her smoothly as a knife cuts into butter, teasing the inner mouth of her so deliciously that it was not long before she was bucking against him, searching for something, seeking a kind of release she did not know about yet, only sensed with the whole of her being. Grasping her hipbones in his hands, Henry slowed her, drawing out of her until he had almost left and then thrusting back in, higher and higher, faster and faster, until both of them were shuddering, both of them wet and gasping and aching.

              “Oh Henry,” she cried, her eyes huge, her brow damp with sweat. “Oh Henry, please.”

              And he held back no longer, increasing the tempo between them until he felt her soar, felt her body shudder around him and under him, heard her cry pierce the air and experienced release himself, falling against her with his name on her breath as she said it, again and again, incomprehensibly and lost to the world.

*              *              *

              Marriage suited Anabelle happily. She could not make sense of it, since she had not seen a proper one growing up, but she supposed that running her own household for so many years had prepared her for this exact role.

              It had been a delicious month being married to Henry Princely, most delicious of all the nights. She had expected a terse marriage of convenience growing up, then had resigned herself to no marriage at all, but it seemed that she had gotten far more than she had ever bargained for. There was nobody who she laughed with as much as Henry, and nobody who she could have imagined enjoying her days—and nights—with more.

              He was tender. The way that he explored her body and encouraged her to explore his made her understand—he was in no rush because he truly expected to spend the rest of his life with her. The soaring heights he brought her to were beyond her wildest dreams, but it was also that he gave her the courage to explore his body. Anabelle was standing in the kitchen, preparing the menu for the week, when she was struck with the memories of the nights past, so hot and heavy that she almost doubled over at their force.

              The way Henry's chest looked, dappled by the shadows of the fire in his study, where they made love on the fire. To protect her from rug burn, and also, he joked, because his skin was much tougher than hers, he had lain on the ground before her. Anabelle smoothed out the paper in front of her and was struck by the fact that she had done the same motion over her handsome, nude husband just a few nights ago, running her palm gingerly over the lean muscles in his hips and stomach until he took her gently by the hand and pressed it firmly against him.

              “Any way you want to touch me works, sweetheart,” he told her, his eyes half-closed, his voice tight. “Don't be afraid to try anything. But for God's sake—” here he opened his eyes—“be gentle.”

              She chortled aloud, but looked at the man beneath her in wonderment. Dancing her fingers up the muscled belly to the wide expanse of his chest was delightful; he was built so differently than she was. As her fingers tangled a little in the dusting of hair on his chest, she wondered what he smelled like, tasted like there. She bent her head and buried it; he smelled of musk and man, and slightly sweet, like a freshly baked bun. It was utterly delectable, and, unable to resist, she kissed him there. Beneath her right hand, she could feel his heartbeat accelerate ever so slightly, and the knowledge that her inexperienced touch could excite him so was wonderful.

              She scattered kisses all over his chest, including the small nipples that puckered underneath her touch. Dragging her mouth over the smoother skin at the sides of his torso, she allowed herself to taste him there with her tongue and felt him suck in a sharp breath at the sensation. A glance upward revealed his face at complete and utter ease, eyes closed, enjoying what she did. Anabelle felt a rush of her own power, and disbelief that this beautiful man was actually hers. Wrapping her hands where they fit so neatly in the curves of his muscled upper arms, she planted a kiss at the smooth skin of his lips and felt his mouth open beneath hers.

              Anabelle moaned a little at the memory, thankful for the fact that she was alone in the kitchen with none of the servants around to hear her. Suddenly, she quite wished she had somebody to share this with, despite the fact that she knew that what she had was private between her and Henry. Relations between her and her sister had been mended somewhat after Anabelle's wedding, but there was a distance between them that she did not know how to broach. Her sister was still seen often in the company of Lord Haversham, and it appeared as if she was headed down that perilous path come hell or high water. When she revealed her worries to Henry, he asked her simply if she thought that her sister would actually risk tarnishing her reputation to such a degree that she would do something foolish with the rakish young man. Anabelle sincerely hoped not; after all, she had to have something right in raising her sister.

              Her thoughts drifted again to her hot nights with Henry; Lord, but what was he doing to her? She could not think straight every time that she walked into a room with him in it these days. She recalled that at his sharp intake of breath, she had allowed her hand to stray, almost innocently, to below his waist, where a certain part of him had fast firmed up and whose silken skin required her attention. It was a shock, still, to feel the hard press of that organ against her hand, particularly when it stood in such stark contrast to the softness of the sack beneath, and she shifted the weight of that sack in her palm, hearing Henry groan above her in appreciation.

              She allowed her hand to skim over from there to his shaft, enjoying the contrasting sensations, and was interested to discover that the head of his cock—oh how wonderfully she blushed at the word!— was silken too, and incredibly sensitive to the touch. As she wrapped her fingers around him, feeling the muscles there, too, a few drops of liquid appeared at the exit of the organ, dampening her fingers. She enjoyed the feel of it, and used it to spread moisture all around the head of his cock, which seemed to drive Henry quite wild. With her fingers dancing in a kind of massage, she continued to touch him there, amazed at how his breath seemed to escalate and change from a steady cadence to a chaotic one. Amazed still at how suddenly he wrested the sheet she held to her chest to free one plump, pink-tipped breast while murmuring for her to continue on. Doing her best to ignore the feeling of him playing with her there, stringing her own desire tight as a drum as she played with him, making a ring with her hand once, then stroking him, cock to balls, over and over until his breath hinged on a catch and a hot, creamy liquid came shooting out from him and onto her, wetting her hands, stomach, and breast with an incredibly large amount of Henry's juices.

              “Oh!” she cried, astonished at the amount that came from him and how positively wicked it made her feel to be marked thus. “Oh, well, that was quite a lot!”

              Still shuddering with the effects of his release, Henry opened an eye and laughed a shaky laugh. “Pineapples, my dear. And celery.”

              Smiling in the kitchen over the talk they had after that, about foods and aphrodisiacs and all of that nonsense, Anabelle closed her eyes and leaned dreamily against one the butcher block in the kitchen. How happy he looked, her husband, leaning against her, speaking of proper diets and joking with her lightly. She understood now the meaning of post-coital bliss, and wondered if all wives in good marriages had husbands who were quite pleased to lean against their naked chests and speak of the medicinal benefits of certain fruits for production of certain love juices, all the while their eyes gleaming with a positively wicked spark—

              She yelped aloud as a firm male hand closed around her hip and drew her towards him.

              “What are you dreaming about so hard, my darling?” Henry purred into her ear.

              “N-nothing,” she gasped as she felt her rear end bump against a rising hardness in between her husband's legs behind her. He pressed her hard against him for a moment, then turned her deftly around so that her back was against the table, the menu forgotten for the moment.

              “Did not look like anything to me, dear,” he told her, and leaned in for a tantalizing kiss that scrambled Anabelle's senses utterly. Lost in a haze of desire at the softness on her lips, she was lost to the world, and thus doubly shocked when she realized that somebody was not only present in the room with them, but also clearing their throat for their attention.

              Anabelle gave a start, but Henry only looked up lazily, slightly irritated at the interruption that Manley, their butler, had provided. Manley, given his due, was standing stoically at the entrance of the kitchen, pretending that he had not seen anything improper. In fact, Anabelle could have sworn that she saw a cheerful glint in his eye at seeing his master and mistress so wrapped up in each other.

              “Yes, Manley?” Henry asked.

              “Your Grace, I apologize for troubling you, but Lord Sunders is in the drawing room and is insistent upon seeing you.”

              “What the devil is Rafe doing here?” Henry wondered aloud, releasing Anabelle with some regret. “I will rejoin you in a few moments, my dear. No doubt Rafe wants me to help him settle some gambling debt or another.”

              “Please, sir.” Manley looked positively pained. “He insists that your wife be present, as well.”

              Anabelle and Henry eyed each other speculatively. What on Earth could be so important that she had to be present? Without further ado, the married couple hurried into the drawing room.

              Rafe looked spectacularly nervous, which was so unlike Rafe that Henry realized immediately that something serious indeed had transpired. Rafe was tugging at his hair until it seemed to be standing positively on end, giving him a half-mad appearance.

              “Rafe, what is it? What do you need Anabelle for?” Henry asked while Anabelle's heart began to pound. She had only the slimmest of acquaintances with the young man before her, having not yet moved beyond the honeymoon phase with Henry and had not yet been formally introduced to all of his friends.

              Rafe glanced from face to face before him and cleared his throat. “You see, Princely dear, I was at the racetrack yesterday when I ran into Isadora Givens. It appears she was in the company of Haversham, and that the two of them were quite cozy together.”

              A flash of pain came across Anabelle. So her sister was still besotted with the horse-mad lord. “I trust that since you are a friend of Henry's, you have not come here to spread idle gossip,” she said to Rafe, her tone as even as she could make it. “It is known that my sister is often in Lord Haversham's company; what of it?”

              At this, Rafe managed to look even more uncomfortable than before, if that was possible. “Ah, yes, my lady. You see, the thing is that at some point, Devon's mother decided to pay an unexpected visit to her family box.”

              Anabelle froze.

              “And it appears that she did not know about your sister's connection to her peach of a son.

              “Oh God,” whispered Anabelle and closed her eyes, as if doing so would blot out the occurrence.

              “I'm afraid so,” said Rafe, ruefully shaking his head. “She caused quite the scene when she discovered the two of them together, with no regard for either her own or Isadora's reputation.”