“Then don’t,” she whispered.
He shuddered as his lips rejoined hers, nipping and teasing. His movements, once languid and seductive, grew hot and needy, and she gasped as his hands splayed over her thighs and pushed them apart.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he growled, and she felt him at her entrance. “Please tell me you’re ready.”
“I-I think so,” she whispered. She knew she wanted something. When he’d pressed his fingers into her earlier, it had been the most amazingly intimate sensation, but his member was so much larger.
His hand snaked between their bodies and touched her the same way he had before, although not as deeply. “My God, you’re so wet,” he groaned, and then he pulled his hand away, bracing himself above her. “I’ll try to be gentle,” he promised, and then his manhood was back, slowly pushing forward.
Sarah’s breath caught, and she tensed as the friction increased. It hurt. Not a lot, but enough to dampen the fire that had been burning within her.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
She nodded.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m almost all right.” She gave him a weak smile. “Really.”
He started to withdraw. “We shouldn’t have—”
“No!” She wrapped her arms tightly around him. “Don’t go.”
“But you—”
“Everyone tells me it hurts the first time,” she said reassuringly.
“Everyone?” He managed a shaky smile. “Who have you been talking to?”
A nervous bubble of laughter crossed her lips. “I have a great many cousins. Not Honoria,” she said quickly, because she could see that was what he was thinking. “Some of the older ones like to talk. Quite a bit.”
He braced himself above her, leaning on his forearms so as not to crush her with his weight. But he didn’t say anything. From the look of intense concentration on his face, she was not sure that he could.
“But then it gets better,” she murmured. “That’s what they say. If your husband is kind, it gets much better.”
“I’m not your husband,” he said in a hoarse voice.
She sank one of her hands in his thick hair and drew his lips down to hers, whispering, “You will be.”
It was his undoing. All thought of stopping was swept aside as he captured her in a searing kiss. He moved slowly, but with great deliberation, until somehow—she was not sure how they managed it—their hips met, and he was fully sheathed within her.
“I love you,” she said, before he could ask if she was all right. She wanted no more questions, just passion. He began to move again, and they tumbled into a rhythm that brought them to the edge of their precipice.
And then, in a moment of blinding beauty, she quivered and tightened around him. He buried his face in her neck to muffle his shout, and he thrust forward one last time, spilling himself within her.
They breathed. It was all either of them could do. They breathed, and then they slept.
Hugh awakened first, and once he assured himself that they were still several hours from dawn, he allowed himself the simple luxury of lying on his side and watching Sarah sleep. After several minutes, however, he could no longer ignore the cramping in his leg. It had been quite some time since he’d used his muscles in such a manner, but while the exertions were delightful, the aftermath was not.
Moving slowly so as not to wake Sarah, he slid himself into a sitting position, stretching his injured limb before him. Wincing, he dug his fingers into the muscle, kneading through the stiffness. He’d done this countless times; he knew exactly how to locate a knot and jab his thumb into it—hard—until the muscle quivered and relaxed. It hurt like the devil, but it was an oddly good sort of pain.
When his fingers grew tired, he switched to the heel of his hand, moving it against his leg in a tight, circular motion. This was followed by a firm, sweeping motion, then—
“Hugh?”
He turned at the sleepy sound of Sarah’s voice. “It’s all right,” he said with a smile. “You can go back to sleep.”
“But . . .” She yawned.
“It’s hours yet until morning.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then returned to his slowly relaxing muscle, going back to using his thumbs against the knots.
“What are you doing?” She yawned again, pulling herself into a slightly more upright position.
“It’s nothing.”
“Does your leg hurt?”
“Just a bit,” he lied. “But it’s much improved now.” Which wasn’t a lie. It was feeling almost well enough for him to consider exercising it in exactly the manner that had got him into this situation.
“May I try?” she asked quietly.
He turned in surprise. It had never occurred to him that she might wish to minister to him in such a manner. His leg was not pretty; between the fracture and the bullet (and the doctor’s ungraceful probing to remove the bullet), he’d been left with skin that was puckered and scarred, pulled tight over a muscle that no longer held the long, smooth shape it had been born with.
“I might be able to help you,” she said in a soft voice.
His lips parted, but no words emerged. His hands were covering the worst of his scars, and he could not seem to lift them from his leg. It was dark, and he knew she would not be able to see the angry, pinching welts, at least not well.
But they were ugly. And they were an ugly reminder of the most selfish mistake of his life.