The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(58)

“And then?”

“I’d want to describe your breasts.” His tone had dipped and roughened. “But I’d have to see them first.”

She drew in a shaky breath. He breathed close to her ear. His presence surrounded her body, but he made no move to touch her. She raised her hand and grasped the ribbon at her throat. Slowly, she pulled it, and the whisper sound of the silk sliding free in the bedroom’s quiet was unbearably intimate. His breathing hitched as the edges of her chemise fell apart, baring the upper slopes of her bosom.

“So beautiful, so pale,” he murmured.

She swallowed and drew the fabric down her shoulders. Her fingers trembled. She’d never willingly exposed herself to another like this, but the roughened sound of his breathing drove her on.

“I see the soft mounds, the shadowed valley, but not the sweet tips. Let me see them, angel.” His voice shook.

Something feminine and primeval leaped within her at the thought that she could make this man tremble. She wanted to expose herself to him, her husband. She closed her eyes and pulled the chemise down. Her nipples peaked in the chilly air.

He stopped breathing. “Ah, God, I remember them. Do you know what it did to me to turn away from you that night?”

She shook her head, her throat clogged. She remembered as well, his hot gaze on her bare breasts, her own wanton craving.

“It nearly unmanned me.” His hands hovered over her breasts, tracing her curves without touching. “I wanted to feel you so badly.”

His palms were so close to her skin that she could feel his heat, but he didn’t touch her. Not yet. She found herself straining toward his hands, anticipating that first contact. She withdrew her arms from the chemise sleeves but clutched the material at her waist so it wouldn’t fall.

“I remember you touched yourself here.” His hands cupped the air above her nipples. “May I?”

“I . . .” She shivered. “Yes. Please.”

She watched his hands descend and lightly touch her breasts. His warm fingers curved about her. She arched and her breasts thrust themselves into his palms.

“God,” he breathed. He stroked in a circle around her breasts.

She looked down at herself and saw his big, long-fingered hands on her skin. They looked unbearably masculine. They looked unbearably possessive. He brought both hands toward the tips of her nipples and gently but firmly squeezed them between his forefingers and thumbs. She inhaled at the shocking sensation.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, his lips in her hair.

“I . . .” She swallowed, unable to answer. It was more than good.

But that seemed answer enough for him. “Let me see the rest. Please.” His lips skimmed across her cheek, his palms still cradling her breasts. “Please show me, my wife.”

She opened her clenched fists, and her chemise fell to the floor. She was naked. He brushed one hand down to her belly and pulled her back against him so her nude buttocks brushed the fabric of his breeches. They were warm, almost hot, from his body. He pressed against her, and she felt his male organ, long and hard. She couldn’t help it. She began to shake.

He chuckled in her ear. “There was more I was going to say to you, but I can’t.” He pressed into her again and groaned. “I want you too badly, and I’ve lost the words.”

Suddenly he lifted her into his arms, and she could see his eyes, shining silver. A muscle in his jaw flexed. He set her on the bed and put one knee beside her, making the mattress dip. “It will hurt the first time; you know that, don’t you?” He reached both arms behind him and pulled his shirt over his head.

She was so distracted by the sight of his bare chest that she hardly heard the question.

“I’ll go as slowly as possible.” He was lean, the long muscles on his arms and shoulders moving as he climbed into the bed. His nipples stood out in startling contrast to his fair skin, brown and flat and so very naked. A diamond of short, fair hairs grew in the very middle of his chest. “I don’t want you to hate me afterward.”

She reached to touch his nipple. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I won’t hate you,” she whispered.

Then he was on her, kissing her wildly, his hands at either side of her face. She felt like giggling and would have, if his tongue hadn’t been in her mouth. It was so wonderful to have him want her like this. She cradled the back of his head in her hands and felt the bristles of his shorn hair against her palms. He lowered his hips to hers and all thought spun away. He was hot. His chest slid across her breasts, damp with sweat. His hard thighs, still encased in his breeches, were nudging her legs apart. She opened her legs, welcoming the weight of his body, welcoming him. He settled against her most vulnerable part, and for a moment she was embarrassed. She was wet and the moisture must be staining his breeches. Would he mind? Then he pressed against her with his maleness and she felt . . .

Wonder.

It was so extraordinary, better even than when she touched herself. Was it always this good, this physical sensation? She thought not. It must be him—her husband—and she gave thanks that she had married such a man. He pressed again, sliding this time, and she sighed.

“I’m sorry.” He lifted his mouth from hers, his face tight and without humor.

He fumbled between them, and she realized he must be releasing himself. She skewed her head sideways to look. But he was on her before she could see.