Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(81)

Slowly he entered her with one finger, and she moaned against his mouth. Perceiving the increased pliancy of her flesh, he added another finger, caressing gently until she was swollen with arousal. As soon as he freed her mouth, she begged incoherently, “Simon, please…please, I need you…” She trembled all over as he withdrew his fingers. “No, Simon—”

“Shhh…” He grasped her knees and carefully pulled her across the bed. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you…let me love you this way…” Bringing her h*ps to the edge of the mattress, he eased her over, until her pale bu**ocks were turned upward. He stood on the floor, positioning himself between her thighs, the rigid head of his c**k slipping easily into the slick entrance of her body. Grasping her h*ps firmly, he entered her in a long glide, not stopping until he was fully embedded. A flare of heat covered his entire body, as if he had stepped before an open furnace, and his groin tightened with an ache of lust that was nearly too acute to bear. He breathed in sharp pants, fighting to control the intensity of his desire before he unraveled completely. Annabelle lay passive and still on the mattress except for the clenching of her fingers against the counterpane. Afraid that he was causing her pain, Simon somehow managed to restrain his savage need long enough to bend over, and murmur hoarsely, “Sweetheart…am I hurting you?” The movement impelled him even deeper inside her, and she whimpered. “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

She was slow to respond, as if it took her several seconds to comprehend the question, and when she replied, her voice was thick with pleasure. “No, don’t stop.”

He remained hunched over her, moving in deepseated nudges that caused her inner muscles to flex greedily around his hardness. His hands covered hers, fingers wrapping around her fists…a position that overpowered her completely, and yet he was not forcing his own rhythm on her. Rather, he was moving in response to the demands of her body, thrusting in complement to the pulsing grasp of her flesh…each time she tightened helplessly, he pushed farther, using himself to stroke and caress the depths of her. She hovered on the edge of a nerve-shattering release, and yet she couldn’t quite reach it, her breath coming in long gasps, her bottom pressing hard against his loins. “Simon…”

He reached beneath her, easily finding the place where she was stretched to accommodate him, and the tender hood above. Using his fingertip, he spread the warm moisture of her body over the engorged nub and manipulated it delicately, circling and stroking, varying his rhythms until he found one that made her cry out as she clamped tightly around him. She groaned as he thrust and stroked in tireless counterpoint, her back arched in ecstasy. The lush twisting and gripping of her body became too much for his overstimulated senses…he gasped with his own cl**ax, tunneling inside the sweetness of her flesh as relief roared through him in uncontrollable bursts.

The worst moment of their honeymoon came on the morning that Annabelle cheerfully told Simon that she thought the old saying was true—that marriage was the highest state of friendship. She had meant to please him, but Simon had reacted with bewildering hostility. Recognizing the well-known quote from Samuel Richardson, Simon had commented tersely that he hoped her literary taste improved, so as to spare him having to hear cheap philosophy garnered from novels. Stung, Annabelle had reacted with cold silence, unable to understand why her comment had provoked him so.

Simon stayed away for the entire morning and part of the afternoon, returning to find Annabelle playing cards with some other matrons in one of the hotel salons. Approaching the back of her chair, he rested his fingertips on the curve of her shoulder. She felt his touch through the corded silk of her dress, the sensation wrapping delicately around her nerves. Strongly tempted to prolong her wounded resentment, Annabelle thought briefly of shrugging off his hand. Instead, she told herself that it would cost her nothing to show him a little tolerance. Summoning a smile, Annabelle glanced up at him over her shoulder. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hunt,” she murmured, referring to him in the formal way that most married couples adopted in public. “I hope that you enjoyed your outing.” Impishly she showed him her cards. “Look at the hand I’ve been dealt. Do you have any helpful advice?”

Sliding his hands along the sides of her chair, Simon bent his dark head to murmur in her ear. “Yes—finish your game quickly.”

Conscious of the other women’s interested gazes, Annabelle kept her face expressionless, even though she felt warmth creeping up from her neckline. “Why?” she asked, while his mouth remained near her ear.

“Because I’m going to make love to you in precisely five minutes,” he whispered back. “Wherever we happen to be…here…in our suite…or on the stairs. So if you would like some privacy, I suggest that you lose the game with all expediency.”

He wouldn’t, Annabelle thought, her heartbeat quickening with alarm. On the other hand, knowing Simon, there was a possibility…

With that thought in mind, Annabelle laid out a card with trembling fingers. The next player took a torturously long time to play one of her cards, and the next woman paused for a humorous exchange with her own husband, who had just come to the table. Aware of an accumulating mist of sweat on her bosom and brow, Annabelle considered ways to bow out of the game. The voice of reason calmed her, as she reflected that no matter how audacious Simon was, he wouldn’t actually ravish his wife on the hotel staircase. However, the voice of reason was abruptly strangled as Simon leisurely consulted his watch.