The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(62)

She turned until she could see his face. She knew her own was flushed with shyness. “I’m your wife. I’d like to help you.”

A tinge of red chased across his cheekbones. Funny, he wasn’t so sophisticated when it came to his own needs.

The sight strengthened her resolve. “Please.”

He looked into her eyes, seemed to search them, and sighed. “I’m going to burn in hell for this.”

She arched her eyebrows and touched him gently on the shoulder.

His hand caught hers, and for a moment she thought he would push her away, but he guided her palm under the covers and drew it close to his body. Suddenly she held him. Her eyes widened. He was thicker than she’d imagined. There was no give to his flesh, and strangely his skin was soft. And hot. She wanted very much to look at him but wasn’t sure he could take that right now. Instead, very gently, she squeezed.

“Ah, God.” His eyelids drooped and there was a dazed look on his face.

It made her feel powerful. “What should I do?”

“Here.” His fingers delved into her feminine parts and she jumped. Then he was smearing her moisture over himself. “Just . . .” He wrapped his hand over hers and together they slid up the length of him. And back down again.

And again. This was absolutely fascinating. “May I?”

“Uh. Yes.” He blinked and released her hand.

She smiled, secretly pleased that he’d been reduced to monosyllables. She kept up the pace that he’d showed her and watched his dear face. He closed his eyes. A line had burrowed itself between his eyebrows. His upper lip was curled back from his teeth, and his face shone with sweat. Watching him, she felt warmth returning to her sex. But more than that, there was a feeling of control and, underneath, the realization of intimacy that he was letting her do this. That he’d made himself vulnerable to her.

“Faster,” he grunted.

She complied, her fingers slipping over his length, gripping his skin, hot and slick beneath her palm. His hips rose to meet her hand now.

“Ahh!” Suddenly his eyes opened, and she saw his irises had darkened to a steel gray. He looked grim and driven and almost as if he were in pain. Then he sneered and his big body began jerking. Cream spurted into her palm. He convulsed again, his teeth gritted, his eyes still staring into hers. She held his gaze, pressing her thighs together.

He slumped back into the bed as if terribly weakened, but she knew already from just last night that this was usual. Lucy withdrew her hand from underneath the covers. On it was a whitish substance. She examined it curiously, spreading her fingers. Simon’s seed.

He sighed beside her. “Oh, God. That was unbelievably crass of me.”

“No, it wasn’t.” She bent to kiss the corner of his mouth. “If you can do it to me, surely, then, I can do it to you.”

“Wise, my wife.” He turned his head to take control of the kiss, his mouth hard and possessive. “I am the luckiest of men.”

Moving more slowly than usual, he grasped her wrist and wiped her palm with a corner of the bedding. Then he turned her so her back was once again to his chest.

“Now”—he yawned—“now we sleep.”

He wrapped his arms around her and Lucy did just that.

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO DRIVE ABOUT TOWN this afternoon?” Simon frowned at his beefsteak and sawed off a bite. “Or perambulate up and down the paths of Hyde Park? Seems boring, but ladies and gentlemen go there every day, so they must find it enjoyable. Once in a while there’s a carriage wreck, which is always exciting.”

They were pedestrian suggestions, but he was unsure where else to take Lucy. The sad fact was that he’d never spent much time with a lady. He winced. At least out of bed. Where did married men escort their lovely wives? Not to gambling dens or houses of ill repute, certainly. And the Agrarians’ coffeehouse was too grimy for a lady. Which left the park. Or maybe a museum. He cast a glance at her. Surely she wouldn’t want to tour a church?

“That would be nice.” She poked a green bean. “Or we could simply stay here.”

“Here?” He stared. It was too soon to take her to bed again, although the thought beckoned.

“Yes. You could write or mess about with your roses and I could read or sketch.” She pushed the green bean aside and took a bite of the whipped potatoes.

He shifted uneasily in his chair. “Won’t you be bored?”

“No, of course not.” She smiled. “You needn’t think that you must amuse me. After all, I doubt you spent your time driving in parks before you married me.”

“Well, no,” Simon admitted. “But I’m prepared to make some changes now that I’ve a wife. I’ve settled down, you know.”

“Changes?” Lucy set down her fork and leaned forward. “Like giving up red heels?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Was she bamming him? “Maybe not that.”

“Or the ornaments on your coats? Sometimes I feel quite a peahen next to you.”

Simon frowned. “I—”

A mischievous smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Are all your stockings clocked? I’m sure your hosiery bill must be enormous.”

“Are you quite done?”

Simon tried to look stern but had an idea he failed miserably. He was glad to see her merry after last night. When he thought of the pain he must’ve caused her, he still winced. And then to top that by showing her this morning how to jack him off like a gin whore, it didn’t put him in a pretty light. He was corrupting his naive young wife. And the sad thing was that were he to have the opportunity to do it over, he knew he’d place her hand on his cock once again. He’d been so hard, he’d ached. And just the thought of Lucy’s cool little hand holding his erection had him aching again. What kind of man became hard at the thought of corrupting the innocent?