“There—’twill get better now,” he murmured.
Yet the sensation of extreme fullness did not lessen as he began to move slowly but firmly. He gloried in her smallness and the way she squeezed about him; yet he knew from her taut expression that he was still causing her discomfort. When she remained stiff, he reached down and stroked the tender bud of her desire.
At once Mercy’s pain became indistinguishable from her pleasure. She lurched upward to kiss him, opening her mouth wide and slashing her tongue inside his mouth.
“Oh, God, you’re so sweet,” he cried, her eagerness breaking his control. He thrust inside her with sudden, riveting vigor. Waves of tormenting ecstasy slammed her, and she cried out as he pounded toward a quick climax, pressing deep, sending darts of rapture shooting to her very core. As she trembled and clung to him, shock waves of rapture spilled outward to seize the tender bud he was still stroking with such appalling gentleness, decrying the hard violence of his loins. She tossed her head and moaned with helpless abandon, then tensed in an incredible spasm of pleasure.
A moment later, it ended. Julian’s entire body grew taut, his mouth ground into hers, and with a last, powerful thrust, he poured his seed inside her.
Afterward, they lay together, breathing hard, covered with a sheen of sweat. Julian pulled back slightly and stared down into her eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, as speech was beyond her.
He entwined his right hand with her left one, and kissed the finger wearing his ring. His impassioned gaze met and held hers. “You’re my wife now, chère,” he whispered tenderly. “In every way. There’s no turning back now.”
“I know,” she said with breathless misery.
He withdrew from her then, and she winced. “Poor chére,” he murmured, kissing her flushed cheek. “I’m sorry I had to hurt you so.”
She turned away from him, her eyes stinging, not trusting herself to reply. In truth, she had loved his hurting her—for the hurt had opened the doors to wonder.
Behind her, he pushed her hair aside and kissed the nape of her neck. She shivered as his arm curled possessively about her waist. “Are you terribly sore?”
She nodded.
“Perhaps I should kiss you there?” he suggested wickedly.
She twisted to look up at him with scandalized eyes. “Non!”
He laughed, stroking her bruised, pink mouth with his fingertip. “A bit too soon for that?” he teased.
“Never will be too soon for that!” she gasped in outraged tones.
But he only chuckled. “Mercy, you’re delightful. What fun I’m going to have schooling you in the art of passion.”
She could only blink at him in horror.
He kissed her mouth tenderly, then shifted her, settling her back against his warm chest. “Sleep now, chère. Next time it will be better.”
Staring at the dresser beyond her, Mercy clutched the sheet and blinked at tears of mingled awe and confusion. The consummation had hurt, it was true, but what had hurt even more was the shattering intimacy of the act, and feeling so giving, so devastatingly close to the man she should hate. What had hurt even more was the memory of how the pain had become indescribable pleasure, an ecstasy she knew she would eagerly reach for again, as a spoiled child might devour bonbons . . .
Even now, she could feel Julian’s manhood springing to life against her backside, and she shamelessly squirmed closer to his heat, nestling her bottom against the hard shaft, delighting in his rough moan, the way his hand curled tightly around her breast and his teeth nipped her shoulder.
“Stop it, Mercy,” he warned hoarsely, “or I swear, you may not be able to walk to the breakfast table tomorrow.”
Unwittingly, she smiled, then relaxed in his arms. He uttered a contented growl.
Curled up like two spoons, the lovers slept.
Chapter Sixteen
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The next morning when Mercy awakened, lying in the bunk in a wide beam of sunshine, Julian was gone. She scanned the room for him, then smiled. He was at the shaving stand, his broad back to her as he applied the razor to his lathered face. He wore only his well-fitting trousers, and she swallowed hard as her eyes greedily perused his tight buttocks and his bare, muscled back. She studied the sexy, dark curl at the nape of his strong neck and almost moaned aloud.
Shame and a certain primal wonderment flushed her cheeks as she remembered the night they’d spent together. Not only had she given herself to Julian freely, passionately, but later on—
She had awakened in the middle of the night in a fever of need, Julian’s firm manhood still pressing against her bottom. She had turned to him and had stroked him wantonly—
And he had refused her! She remembered him jerking awake and gripping her shoulders. “No, Mercy,” he had scolded hoarsely. “We mustn’t again. Not so soon.” Utterly shameless, she had rubbed her aching breasts against his bare chest. He had heaved a sharp, stunned breath. “Nom de Dieu! You may think you want this now, but if we proceed in your current condition, I assure you that you’ll be sorry.”
And her husband had clambered out of the bunk, donned his clothes, and left the room, leaving her bereft in the comfortless shadows of night. When he had returned hours later, smelling heavily of cigars and brandy, he had slept far apart from her, his broad back a barricade to further intimacy.
Mercy knew that Julian had been right. Even now, her insides twinged with each movement in the bunk. Still, Julian’s rejection had hurt. She was most appalled by memories of her own forwardness. Would he tease her about it now, use her own sensuality as a weapon? This she could not bear, for she was half afraid she was falling in love with him.
“Mercy?”
At the sound of his low voice, she glanced up, clutching the covers to her neck, her wide eyes meeting his in the shaving mirror. He wiped the residue of shaving soap from his face; his handsome features were creased in concern. He looked absolutely gorgeous with the sunlight playing over his bare chest, outlining the crisp, dark hair that had rubbed her breasts so sensuously last night.
“How are you, my dear?” he asked.
His tenderness was practically her undoing. She sat up, then winced. Trying to cover her appalling reaction to him with a show of humor, she said, “I feel as if I’ve been pounded by a battering ram.”
He chuckled and started toward her. “You have.” He sat down next to her, and her heart leaped wildly as the wonderful, fresh scent of him filled her lungs. He fondly stroked her tumbled hair, then leaned over and kissed her trembling mouth. “Are you hungry?”
Catching a sharp breath, Mercy glanced away in mortification; what she was hungry for, she dared not tell him.
“Get dressed, darling,” he continued gently, “and we’ll go have breakfast.”
She nodded shyly. He stood and tactfully handed her her wrapper. She donned it, then he helped her out of the bunk. It occurred to her that they were as shy as strangers together.
While he went to hunt up a clean shirt, she dug through her own trunk, pulling out fresh undergarments and a fine pink muslin dress. She disappeared behind the screen with the items. She did little more than put on her camisole and bloomers, then she sagged onto the stool in the corner.
Mercy shuddered as the contact of the hard wood against her tenderest parts again reminded her of their wild passion last night. What was wrong with her? she wondered. As sore as she was, all she could think of was making love with Julian again. He was her enemy, yet she lusted after him shamelessly. She felt so confused, her emotions raw. Julian had awakened her to sensuality, and now there seemed no turning back. She was ravenous to explore with him that dark journey to rapture in all its many manifestations.
She hadn’t expected the lovemaking to make her feel so emotionally stripped, so devastatingly close to him. And she had no one with whom to share these new, shattering feelings—
No one except him.
At last, her overstrained emotions gave way, and she succumbed to the tears she had been holding back throughout the mostly sleepless night. Tears of horror at her own lurid conduct. Tears of wonder at her devastating new feelings for Julian—
She tried not to give away her sorrow and confusion, but soon a low squeak of anguish escaped her. Immediately, the screen was thrust back and she looked up to face her thunderstruck husband.
“What is this?” he demanded. “Are you ill?”
She shook her head and sobbed.
“I knew it,” he said distraughtly. “Perhaps I should try to find a doctor—”
“Non!” She stared up at him, horrified.
“Damn it, Mercy!” He scooped his wife up into his arms. “How can I help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong?”
You’re what’s wrong! she wanted to scream at him, even as she reeled at his nearness. I hate you, but I love you, and I don’t know what to feel anymore . . . Still, the words remained strangled inside her.
She whimpered against his bare chest as he carried her to the bunk and sat down. His expression was bewildered. “Mercy, we can’t have these tears,” he pleaded, his eyes those of a drowning man. “We can’t have these . . . Oh, hell.”
Suddenly, he was kissing her with all the pent-up passion in his body, and tearing at the tie to her camisole. She clung to him and kissed him back with a fervor that rocked him to his soul. His hands eagerly clutched her bare, tender breasts as he whispered hoarse endearments into her mouth.