A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(47)

Charlotte shot him an exasperated look as she bounced onto the bed.

Wrong suggestion, then. She’d offered to bare her treasures, and he’d bungled his response in aid of his self-restraint. Sherbourne climbed in beside her and found another dose of cold. Some fool by the name of Lucas Sherbourne had again forgotten to warm the sheets.

“Too much inspiration,” Sherbourne said, “and my self-discipline will fail us when most needed.”

Charlotte scooted down and flopped to her side facing him. “Inspiration?”

“You.” Sherbourne said, kissing her on the lips. “Without your clothes. Inspiration.”

She smiled against his mouth. “Like you without yours.”

Charlotte was not a prude. She’d given him a thorough inspection as he’d strutted around the room, which had been the point of the exercise. That, and a moment to think, to concoct a strategy.

The only helpful notion to form in Sherbourne’s tired brain was an admonition from his grandfather, who’d been something of a rogue in his youth: The lady’s pleasure must come before all else, or a fellow wasn’t likely to get a second chance to impress her.

So Sherbourne devoted himself to kissing his wife. Charlotte was inexperienced rather than reticent, and she was a fast learner. When Sherbourne slid a hand over her hip, she retaliated by pressing her palm to his heart.

When he eased his tongue across her lips, she scooted closer and ran her toe up his calf. Sherbourne trapped her foot between his legs, and she pulled his hair.

Fatigue fell away, replaced by a compulsion to mount and start thrusting, but this was their wedding night, more or less, and Sherbourne was determined to earn a standing invitation to Charlotte’s side of the bed. He rolled to his back, taking Charlotte with him.

She straddled him on all fours, not touching him, and once again looking impatient. “You might have asked.”

“Charlotte, darling wife, would you please consider settling over me such that I am surrounded by your abundant glories? I like having both of my hands free to plunder your charms while you kiss me any way you please. I like your weight on me, your warmth pressing on me intimately.”

She curled down to his shoulder, not fast enough to hide a smile. “I have married a foolish man.”

“An incompetent poet but not a fool.”

“Abundant glories, Mr. Sherbourne?”

“These,” he said, palming the sides of her breasts. “I’d love to worship these with my body, et cetera, if you’re inclined to grant that boon.”

Charlotte sat up, expression wary. She still wore her nightgown, though it was bunched at her waist.

Sherbourne lay on his back, hands resting on her hips. For the sake of the next five decades of marriage, he remained relaxed and still, though arousal had become a sharp ache.

Slowly, slowly, Charlotte raised the nightgown over her head, then leaned forward to tuck it under her pillow. Before she straightened, Sherbourne caught her breast in his mouth and slid his hands up her back.

By touch, he suggested she linger in that position and learn the pleasure of her husband’s teeth on her nipple. She sank closer, and he rejoiced.

“Pleasant?” he asked, switching breasts. Warm, sweet, soft, delectable.

“Married, and pleasant.” She sounded a tad breathless.

Erotic impressions piled up—the silky-smooth contours of Charlotte’s breasts beneath his fingers, the texture of a puckered nipple in his mouth, the throb of desire. An ambition landed amid all these pleasures, a determination that Charlotte get a taste of the destination before the consummation.

More than a taste. Sherbourne was her husband, very likely the only man whom she’d take as a lover, and he owed her that consideration. In a way that speaking vows or sharing a long journey had not, Charlotte’s intimate trust struck Sherbourne with the enormity of the commitment they had made to each other.

They were husband and wife, joined for the rest of their natural lives. She was his and he was hers and by God, he would make certain she was pleased with that bargain.

He slid a hand down to her hip and around to pat her bum. “Time to enjoy a few more abundant glories.”

“Must I? I was rather enjoying—”

He kissed her. “Glories, Charlotte. Plural. We have many more to sample.”

She slipped to the side, brushing her sex over his rampant cock in the process. The haste with which she scooted away confirmed that the caress had been inadvertent—this time. Give her a week, and with any luck, she’d be driving him mad.

Sherbourne fixed his figurative eye on that prize and began rearranging pillows.

“What are you doing?”

“Embarking on an experiment.” He propped himself against the headboard, spread his legs, and patted the mattress. “Let me hold you.”

Charlotte had the covers drawn up under her arms. “You want me.…?”

“Between my legs, using me as your personal chaise. Your back to my front.” And my hand between your legs.

She remained right where she was. “Why?”

“So I can worship you to the utmost.”

Her expression turned mulish. “When do I get to worship you? The vows were reciprocal, you know.”

“Next time, Charlotte. If you want to worship me by taking a riding crop to my bare bum, or licking every part of me while I’m bound hand and foot, we can negotiate that later. This time is just for you.”