The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

her bottom lip. “Well, you’re very good at this, apparently. And what with the dark . . . It’s all very shadowy and sensual. Like one of those feverish dreams one has on a hot summer’s night.”

      “This is something you’d dream about. Being pawed by a hulking stranger in the dark.”

      Emma squeaked out her tentative reply. “Maybe?”

      Unbearable moments passed in silence.

      “You are incredible.”

      Whether he meant that as a compliment or censure, she didn’t know. She didn’t have a chance to ask. He released her wrists and moved between her legs, shoving her skirt and petticoat to her waist.

      Rubbing his fingers up and down her sex, he made a sound of approval. “Wet for me already.”

      The heel of his hand pressed against her mound. Emma tried her best to remain still. It wasn’t easy. But if he stopped now, she would expire of frustration. His fingers penetrated her, stroking deep. Oh, God. Perhaps she would expire not of frustration, but of bliss.

      Instead of shifting his weight to move atop her, he lowered himself onto one elbow. She felt his tongue again. Not on her nipple this time.

       There.

      She couldn’t help it now. Her body convulsed with pleasure, arching and twisting beneath his mouth. He licked her over and over, spinning her into new landscapes of arousal with languid strokes of his tongue. All the while, he kept up rhythmic thrusts with his fingers, hitting a place deep inside her that made her clutch the bed linens in her fists.

      Emma didn’t know how much more she could take. But even if she wished to beg him for mercy, what would she cry out? Duke? Ashbury? No. She refused. Intimate moments called for intimate address, and she feared his wrath if she tried “dear” or “darling” or “precious angel muffin” instead.

      No, there would be no begging for mercy. She surrendered to the pleasure, letting him nudge her closer and closer to the brink of madness with each flick of his tongue.

      She whispered, “Don’t stop.”

       Don’t stop.

      As if she needed to tell him so.

      Ash would not have stopped for anything. Never mind a feral cat. The royal menagerie could crash down the chimney, and he would not have lifted his head from his task.

      She was so close. He could feel it. He could taste it. And as badly as she needed to come, he needed her to come even more.

      Bringing a woman to orgasm had always been a particular pleasure for him. With most women he’d known, even if no deep affection was involved, a climax required a bit more than a skilled tongue and fingers. It took closeness, trust. Intimacy. Feeling a woman come beneath his hand, his mouth, his body—well, it made him feel like king of the planet, of course—but it also made him feel connected. Human.

      Now he was a monster.

      Look, it even said so in the Prattler.

      Ash had expected—he’d feared, to put a finer point on it—that he’d never know a woman’s intimate trust again. Not this way. What woman would allow this scarred, repulsive face between her thighs?

      Emma would, apparently. Whether that labeled her a lunatic or a fool, he would decide later. She was likely both. He’d convinced her to marry him, after all.

      Then she arched her hips and began to ride his tongue in a halting rhythm, chasing her own bliss. The unbearable sweetness made him moan. His already hard cock pulsed with impatience.

       Now. By the gods, let it be now.

      She gasped, her full body tensing as the pleasure took her. The wet heat of her sex squeezed his fingers. He savored each shudder, each soft, lovely sigh.

      When her body relaxed, he slid his hand free and stroked her silky essence over his cock. She parted her thighs, and he knelt between them, hooking her legs over his hips. Taking himself in hand, he placed the broad crown of his erection where it needed to be, tensed his thighs . . . and pushed.

      Then he was in her. And in her. And God, so exquisitely deep in her—and still he wanted more.

      He couldn’t help but groan.

      He began to thrust in earnest, working himself further and further into that narrow tunnel of heat. He hoped she’d experienced the worst of her discomfort last night, because gentleness was beyond him now. He thrust with purpose, determined to get at the very heart of her and feel her body sheathing him whole. She made a bridge of her body, lifting her hips to connect his pelvis to hers.

      “That’s it,” he whispered between shaky breaths. “Just like that.”

      He worked both hands beneath her bottom and lifted it, tilting her hips. Her body yielded to him a fraction more, and he sank home.

      Perfect. So perfect.

      Still on his knees, he held her by the hips and thrust faster. With the help of the dim firelight, he could just make out the taut globes of her breasts, rolling with his every stroke. God, how he wanted to see those breasts in full daylight. The nipples alone. He’d learn their color; trace their shape with his fingers, then his tongue. Nuzzle and feel the softness against his cheek.

      But as much as he wished to see them, Ash had to admit that picturing them . . . It was working, too. Really, really working. It threw him back to his youth, when he’d made do with nothing but a hand and his imagination. Except this wasn’t his callused hand, and his imagination had never been anywhere near this good. This lover wasn’t a fantasy, but real. She had shape and heat and scent.

      She had a name.

      “Emma.”

      When he called to her, her body tightened deliciously around his cock.

      So he did it again.

      “Emma.” The pleasure was keen, slicing through him like a knife. He gritted his teeth. “Emma.”

      Words were beyond him after that. He squeezed her plump little bottom in both hands and took her hard and fast, relentless in his race to the peak.

      And then he came. He came hard, spending into her with fierce joy. His hips jerked with each wrenching spasm. The climax seemed to go on and on, approaching forever. And yet it wasn’t nearly enough.

      He collapsed on the bed beside her, weakened and emptied. If he’d known taking a wife would be like this, he would have married ages ago.

      Of course, marrying ages ago would have meant taking a different wife. He wasn’t certain wives like this one abounded.

      He turned his head to face her in the dark. “Where on earth did you come from?”

      She was silent for a long moment. “Hertfordshire.”

      He laughed, without restraint or apology.

      “You really must give me something to call you,” she said. “If we go on like this, I’m going to need a name to cry out, and I don’t think you want it to be honeybee.”

      “Just try it, blossom.” He sat up in bed. “But if you insist on something else, just use Ash. It’s what my friends call me.” Or called me, when I still had friends.

      He reached for his trousers.

      “You don’t mean to leave me,” she said. “After that?”

      Her obvious satisfaction swelled his pride, but staying the night was out of the question. He was not going to allow her to wake up beside him in the full light of day, mere inches from his mangled face, let alone the wreckage that remained of his neck, chest, shoulder.

      Not now, not yet. Perhaps not ever.

      She’d think she’d woken from a nightmare. She’d shrink from him.