“Isabel.” His brow rested on her chest. “Let me touch you there.”

How could she refuse? It didn’t seem possible to accomplish what she knew they must accomplish without some part of him touching her there. But her panic built as his hand crept slowly higher, up the sensitive slope of her inner thigh, knowing that he would most certainly discover—

He groaned as his fingers reached her cleft. “You’re so wet.”

To her surprise, he didn’t sound appalled, but pleased. Approving. His fingers rubbed against her, and Bel gave a sharp cry. She couldn’t help it. The sensation was so intense. The hairpins bit into her palm as she struggled for control.

He kissed her, stifling her next unwilling moan. “I knew it would be like this,” he said between kisses, his fingers rubbing her more firmly. More quickly. “You’re so serious, my darling. Always so serious. But not here, not with me. Here, I knew you would be so passionate. So free.”

No, no, she wanted to protest. I’m a woman of faith and principle. I refuse to be ruled by my passions. That way lies madness.

But then with a single finger, he parted her folds and slipped inside her. Inside her. The feeling was … shocking. Glorious. Incompatible with thought, much less conversation. A hot, restless longing built as he stroked her relentlessly, inside and out. The sensation was not wholly unfamiliar. Sometimes in the night Bel woke with this same dull ache between her legs. And she’d learned years ago that if she rolled over and ground her hips against the bed, first it got a bit worse, but then it got a bit better—until it broke into pieces and mercifully went away.

But it was never like this. Never this bad. Never this good.

Without ceasing his sweet torment, Toby sank to the floor and knelt in front of her, spreading her legs. It seemed wrong, in so many ways: him kneeling before her, her thighs splayed in this lewd posture, the manner in which her most intimate places were revealed to his gaze, to his touch …

To his mouth.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

Never this bad. Never this good. It was too much, too much.

“Toby.” She wriggled away from him, but his hand tightened over her thigh. “Toby, please. Don’t you want to take your pleasure now?”

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” He licked her over and over, so very lightly. And sensation detonated in her each time, destroying her presence of mind. She understood why her mother had gone mad from passion. With each tender caress, he pushed her closer to some terrible brink of sanity. She would shatter apart. She would never be whole again.

“Toby, please.” She forced the words out. “You must … must stop.”

“What must I stop?” he asked, his voice joking. “This?” He licked. “This?” He stroked. “Or this?” He pursed his lips and did something ineffably wicked.

Another little cry escaped her. “You’re teasing me.”

“Yes, I am. Because I know how you love it.”

She did. She did love it. In this insane moment she nearly believed she loved him for it. Because she trusted him so completely. She knew that when he teased her, it meant she was strong enough to bear it.

Proving the point, he took pity on her unease, kissing his way back up her belly. His hand resumed stroking her, inside and out, as he fastened his lips around her nipple. Pleasure built, rolling through her body, making her quiver and writhe helplessly. Bel tensed again. She didn’t like feeling helpless. This all felt so wrong. She’d been fully prepared for Toby to take pleasure from her, but she didn’t know how to handle receiving it from him.

“Let go,” he murmured, kissing his way from one breast to the other. “Don’t fight it. You’ll make it better for me, if you just let go.”

Let go. You’ll make it better for me. His words freed her. She could do this—even this—for him. With a rough gasp, she bucked against his hand.

“Yes,” he sighed, stroking her faster. “That’s it.”

She clutched his shoulder with her right hand, and her left unfurled. The hairpins fell to the floor in a cascade of metallic pings. His hand and lips made wet sounds of suction as they worked her moist flesh. But the crashing roar of her pulse overpowered all; the pleasure overtook all.

And she let go.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Toby held her tight.

In all his life, he thought he would never hear a sound more arousing than Isabel’s hoarse cry of passion. As her climax subsided she slumped against him, spent and breathless. Her intimate muscles were still clenching around his sheathed finger, but Toby’s restraint had reached its limit.

“Forgive me,” he said, withdrawing his hand and lifting her onto the bed. “But I must have you. And it must be now.”

She gave him a groggy nod and a murmured, “Yes.”

Toby scrambled to unbutton his fall before his erection burst right through his trousers. God, he was still almost fully clothed. But then, so was she—and he had no intention of slowing down for even the few seconds it would take to rectify the situation. In fact, he loved her this way. The contrast of her glossy black hair and olive skin against that virginal white lace took him from aroused to fair frenzied with desire.

He worked his trousers down over his hips and positioned himself at her entrance, gathering his control just long enough for one last murmured apology: “I’m so sorry. The pain lasts only a moment, darling.”

He eased into her, a bit. Then a bit more.

She winced. He held still, offering her body time to adjust even though every cell in his own body urged him to drive home. “Better?” He grated out the word.

She gave a little nod, and he advanced again—this time sheathing himself in one long, gliding thrust that seemed interminable in all the best and worst ways. When at last he was fully seated, he stretched his body over hers, guarding her between his arms. “Isabel,” he whispered, closing his eyes and reveling in the blissful sensation of her warm, wet body gripping him, holding him.

Her body made a home for his, her legs spreading a bit wider to cradle his hips, her soft breasts cushioning his chest. When he felt her relax, and every muscle in his own body tensed, only then did he start to thrust. Slowly, at first. As gently as he could. And then, bracing himself on his elbows, he drove a bit harder, a bit faster. Which was a mistake, because as he drove harder and faster, she began to make little sensual noises with each thrust. And those magnificent breasts began to dance to his tempo. Which aroused him further, pushed him harder and faster

—until he knew he was striking a most inconsiderate pace, for a gentleman bedding his lovely, innocent virgin bride.

But damn if she didn’t give everything he asked, and then more. Her body yielded to his, moved with his in ways that made his mind go blank. She felt so good. He was on the verge of abandoning gentleness in favor of brevity and making a desperate surge toward climax, when he looked down to find those solemn, dark eyes staring up at him.

“What should I do?” she asked. “Tell me what to do.”

And that was when Toby changed his mind. For this, he would take his time.

“Tell me what to do,” she repeated. “I… I want to please you.”

Just the words shot a thrill down his spine. His jaw clenched. “You could touch me.”

Her eyes skipped over his body. “Where?”

“Wherever you like.”

She frowned, and stayed still.

“My chest,” he said hoarsely, making the decision for her. “Help me remove my shirt.”

She grasped the hem of his shirt and gathered it toward his shoulders, and together they worked his arms free before she pulled it over his head. Then, slowly, she reached for him with both hands, until her fingertips rested against his chest. “Like this?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

Her touch feathered toward his shoulders, tentative and achingly sweet. He allowed himself to move again, just the slightest of nudges into her intimate embrace. Then her thumbs brushed his nipples, and he had to freeze again, to keep from spilling his seed that instant. That would have been a tragedy, because this was too good to rush.

Using just the pads of her fingers, she cautiously skimmed every contour of his chest, his shoulders, his upper arms. Such light caresses, so devastating in their tenderness. His every nerve, every capillary pressed to the surface of his skin, eager to meet her seeking fingertips. He felt alive, in ways he’d never felt before.

Her fingers skimmed up his neck, pausing against his throbbing pulse.

“Kiss me there,” he said, realizing too late that his tone was a bit brusque. To be ordering his wife about on their wedding night, without so much as a “please” … he’d always prided himself on being a patient, solicitous lover. But Toby was several inches deep in paradise, and his hands were full of Isabel’s generous curves, and charm was simply not within his grasp. She didn’t seem to mind. Without so much as a blink, she craned her neck and pressed her lips to his pulse—once, then again. His low moan of pleasure earned him a third.

“Like that?” she asked, her breath tickling his throat.

“Yes. More.”

She trailed light kisses over his neck and chest, and the torture of her velvet-soft lips was even more exquisite than that of her fingers. Impatient with need, his hips drove home of their own accord. Startled, Isabel fell back against the pillow, her swollen lips parted in invitation. And Toby was never one to refuse an invitation.

He kissed her hungrily as he began to thrust again, relishing the sensation of pressing himself into her two ways at once. Her lovely, fresh scent wreaked its familiar havoc on his senses, but now that hint of verbena mingled with the heady aroma of arousal—his, hers. Theirs. Oh, this was good. So good. Better than he could have dreamed.

And still he wanted more.

“Isabel.”

“Yes.”

“Wrap your legs around my waist.” She obeyed. Another terse command, another accommodating response. It drove him wild, to know that she would comply with his every wish, willingly. Even eagerly. It seemed the more curtly he spoke, the more aroused she became. Those serious eyes were now heavy-lidded, drugged with desire, and her breath was a shallow tide in her chest, lifting her bosom as it ebbed and flowed. He growled, “Hold tight to me now.”

Yes, she loved it. She ground against him, her mounting desire evident as she laced her fingers behind his neck.

What more would she do for him, if he only asked? A thousand erotic possibilities overflowed his mind, forcing all awareness down to his groin. They would all have to wait. His body clamored for release— now. He took her hard and fast, raising up on his arms for better leverage, and she clung to him tightly. Just as he’d told her to.

Rebalancing his weight, he worked one hand between them. He found that small, sensitive nub at the crest of her sex and covered it with his thumb, circling lightly. Her eyes flew open. Her neck rotated back and forth, as if she were shaking her head no.

“Yes,” he insisted through gritted teeth. “Yes. Come for me again.”

And she did. Just as he’d told her to. Crying out and convulsing around him in hot, satin waves, pulling him deeper. Pulling him closer.

Toby clenched his jaw tight, silencing his own passion. The only words that came to mind now were unspeakable, coarse and profane. And then there were no words at all—just a harsh, primal growl of release as the pleasure ripped through him.

It had never been like this. Not ever.

He collapsed onto her, panting into her silken hair. He felt wrung out, exhausted. He felt blissful and blessed. He felt like starting from the beginning and doing it all again. And again. But most of all, he felt inexpressibly fortunate in his choice of a wife. Or more accurately, in his wife’s choice of him.

“Isabel, my darling.” He kissed her brow, damp with perspiration. “Thank you.”