The Secret Pearl(125)

He stood up beside the bed and undressed very deliberately. And he watched her watch him, as he had done on a previous occasion. Except that then he had been angry, daring her to show distaste, while this time he waited for it with a dull certainty that it would happen.

“Adam,” she said when he stood naked beside the bed finally, “you are not ugly. Ah, you are not ugly. But I am so glad I did not know you before the wounds. I would not have been able to bear it.” She reached out a hand to touch his left side lightly, and ran the hand down his side and thigh. “You are not ugly.”

He lay down beside her on the bed, looked into her eyes, smoothed back the silky red-gold hair that he had loosened. And he kissed her again.

She spread one hand over the heavy hairs on his chest and lifted the other to explore the rippling muscles of his arm and shoulder. She moved it down over his chest, around to his back. Her tongue circled his, stroked over it, was stroked in its turn. And she felt his hands move over her, touch her, explore her, arouse her.

And she was no longer afraid. Her breasts were taut and tender to his touch. His hands were sending aching vibrations from them up into her throat. There was a heavy throbbing between her legs.

He had taken her once, briefly and dispassionately. Apart from that one occasion, it was many years since he had had a woman. He wanted to be perfect for her. He needed to bury himself in her and release his seed into her with a few swift thrusts. But he wanted to be perfect for her.

He moved a hand down between her thighs, opened her gently with his fingers, touched her, stroked her lightly. She was hot and wet to his touch. She moaned and twisted against him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, his mouth against hers again. “This time it won’t hurt, Fleur. I promise you. Are you still afraid?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a sob. “Yes. But come to me, Adam. Come to me.”

He lifted himself over her and lowered himself on top of her, his head turned against the side of hers. And terror flared again as his legs came between hers and pushed them wide and his hands came beneath her to lift and tilt her.

And then he was coming into her, warm hard maleness mounting all the way into her. Without any tearing. Without any pain. Only the throbbing and the aching all about him and the waiting for him to put an end to it. She could hear someone moaning.

He drew his hands from beneath her and lifted himself on his forearms and looked down at her. Her eyes looked back into his. Her hair was spread like a flaming halo all about her head.

“I want it to be good for you,” he whispered. “I want it to be perfect for you, Fleur. Tell me what to do. Do you want it ended quickly?” He withdrew from her, pushed slowly in again.

She raised her knees, set her feet flat on the bed on either side of him. She closed her eyes and threw her head back. She moaned again. He stroked her slowly and deeply, over and over again.

He lowered his head to brush her lips with his. “I want it to be perfect for you,” he said. “Tell me when to come, Fleur. Tell me when you want me to come.”

She opened her eyes and looked up into his. And she saw the dark hair, the hawkish face, the scar, the powerful shoulder muscles, the dark chest hair. And she felt his strong thighs pressing her own wide and felt his slow and deep and intimate strokes into the very depths of her. She remembered very deliberately that first encounter with him. And she let it go, let it slip beyond the realm of conscious memory.

“I think the aching will drive me mad,” she whispered to him. “And I want it to go on forever.”

But when he lowered himself onto her again and brought his arms about her and quickened his rhythm, she raised her knees to hug his hips and knew that forever must be held to a moment. She tilted herself against him, tensed against him, waited for the shattering of sanity.

He felt her come, though she said nothing. And he slid his hands gratefully beneath her again and thrust and held deep inside her several times until he could feel her tension soften and tremble about her central core.

“Now, my love,” he said against her ear. “Now. Come with me now.”

And he listened to her strange cry as he pushed into her once more and felt his own breath release with a sigh against the side of her face just as his seed had sprung deep inside her.

She shuddered and trembled about him and against him and abandoned herself to the aftermath of love, content to feel his body bear her down into the bed with its relaxation, content to rest her spread thighs against his, content to feel his hands cupping her hips, and to feel him throbbing deep in the part of her that belonged to herself and the man to whom she chose to give it.