The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(11)

Gareth took a deep breath. He could do this. He could. “Uh, my nightshirt . . .”

Cecily rose up on her knees and pulled his nightshirt up, past his kneecaps, past his thighs, past his groin . . . and there was his cock, rising stiff and rosy from its nest of hair, exposed to Cecily’s gaze. Gareth found himself equally aroused and embarrassed. Blood rushed to his cheeks—and to his groin. His cock became stiffer. He wondered whether Cecily knew how to touch it. She was so very nearly a virgin that it was possible she didn’t. Would she glide her fingertips up his shaft? Rub her thumb teasingly over the head? Or did she not realize she could do those things?

“Would you like to take it off?” Cecily said, and for a moment he didn’t understand. And then he did. It: the nightshirt.

Gareth flinched. He put his hand out to stop her. “No.”

Cecily blinked, and then released the nightshirt, leaving it balled at his waist. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Gareth swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I don’t.”

“All right.” She gave a businesslike nod. “Now what?”

Gareth swallowed again. He looked down at himself. The panic had affected his cock. His erection was flagging. Pull yourself together, man, or you’ll fail a second time tonight. He inhaled a shallow breath and remembered what it had felt like to have his fingers inside Cecily, remembered the sounds she’d made as she climaxed. To his relief, his cock perked up again. Not as stiff as it had been, but still stiff enough. “Now you, uh, sheathe yourself on me.” Quickly, he wanted to say. Before I lose it. But he bit the words back.

Cecily rose up on her knees again. She fussed with her nightgown for a moment, pulling the fabric out of the way, lifting it up to her waist, twisting it into a knot at the back. When she’d finished, she was as exposed as he was.

Blood surged to Gareth’s cock. He felt a little lightheaded. He’d had his fingers in Cecily’s quim, but to actually see it, to see that little thatch of golden hair . . .

His throat was very dry. His pulse thrummed in his ears. He was no longer worried about losing his erection. He swallowed once, swallowed a second time, found his voice: “Hold onto my shoulders to steady yourself.”

Cecily obeyed.

Gareth took hold of the head of his cock and wished that he had two hands. “Lower yourself. Not too fast.”

Again, she obeyed.

He feared awkwardness and clumsy fumbling, but it didn’t happen. Cecily knelt poised above him, her warm, damp curls brushed his hand, he parted her lips with his thumb and fingers, she shifted her weight, he shifted his cock, and somehow—miraculously—it worked. The head of his cock slid into place, and they both took a breath, and then Cecily eased herself down on him, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed.

Gareth watched his cock sink into her. By the time their groins were snug, his throat was so tight that it was almost impossible to breathe, but he managed a few words. “How does that feel?” He knew what it felt like to him: incredible.

“Good,” Cecily said, and her voice was as low and breathless as his had been. Gareth glanced at her face. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. To his relief, he realized that it felt incredible for her, too.

Her eyelids lifted. She gazed at him, dark-eyed. “Now what?” she whispered.

“Now you move,” Gareth said, placing his hand at her waist. “We’ll find a rhythm that feels good. Take it slowly.”

Cecily braced her hands on his shoulders, rose slightly, and then sank back down. “Like that?”

Gareth stifled a groan of pleasure. “Yes.”

Cecily’s movements were tentative at first, but she quickly gained confidence. It didn’t take her long to find a rhythm that was perfect for them both. Not a vigorous rhythm; a slow, tortuous one. Gareth squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed his head back against the pillows, arching his throat, and tried not to dig his fingers too deeply into her hip. He was gasping for breath. So was Cecily, and her arms were around his neck and she was leaning into him, and every time she slowly bore down on him they both groaned.

Gareth gritted his teeth and hung on to his control. Wait, he told himself. Wait for Cecily. Wait.

The rhythm became a little faster, became a little jerky, and then Cecily climaxed, her inner muscles clenching tightly around his cock.

Gareth let go of his control and climaxed, too. His orgasm went through him like a huge wave.

Cecily sagged against him. He gathered her close, his arm around her, panting and gasping. His body felt boneless. It also felt as if it might be floating. Or perhaps the whole bed was floating.

Gareth drifted on the aftermath of that wave for quite some time, enjoying the deep sense of contentment, the lingering glow in his body. His cock was still inside Cecily, warm and soft and replete, and that felt almost as good as the moment of climax had. Or perhaps, in its way, better.

He could easily fall asleep like this.

Gareth raised his hand to rub his face. A faint fragrance teased his nostrils and for a moment he was puzzled . . . and then he remembered dipping his fingers into his wife. He inhaled, breathing in Cecily’s scent. It was musky, tantalizing.

Gareth lowered his hand and snugged his wife closer to him and thought about tasting that scent. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or was that too soon for such an intimacy? Should he wait until there was ease and playfulness between them? A few weeks, maybe?