Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 156907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 785(@200wpm)___ 628(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 785(@200wpm)___ 628(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Just his wife and himself, a bed, perhaps a few books, the waves lapping the shores…and sleep.
He could not do that.
He might not be able to do that for months, or with all he had planned, even years.
But he wanted nothing but to do just that.
Helga had said she’d needed a word with Farah after dinner, therefore Farah had followed Helga, and True had gone to visit with Alfie on his own (and in the end, that had been a boon, for he would not wish his wife to see Alfie behave that way, and he might not have said what he needed to say after he did).
Now, he hoped she was in their chambers and did not mind going to bed early, for he wanted nothing but to curl into her soft warmth and get as much rest as he could before the bad dreams chased it away.
This was his thought upon entering their chambers, seeing their sitting room dark, but their bedchamber brightly lit.
“Farah,” he called, making his way there.
She didn’t answer.
He called her name again.
“Farah.”
He took not a step into their bedchamber, for he stopped dead in the doorway.
This, because his wife sat cross legged at the end of the bed.
And she did it wearing naught but her wedding chain.
Her dark hair was long and falling down her chest, mostly covering her bared breasts. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, covering her sex.
Her eyes were on him.
True was struck still, his mind scattering, his eyes not knowing where to go. Thus, they roamed the entirety of her, drinking in her beauty.
That was, he was struck still, except one part of him which had been called to stiff attention.
“I think,” she broke the silence, her beautiful voice floating across the room, “it is high time we truly became husband and wife, no?”
In normal circumstances, he would shout his agreement.
Her injury.
The death of her mother.
The death of his mother.
“Farah—”
“I am cold, True,” she whispered before adding a verbal invitation to the one she’d been issuing since the moment of his arrival. “Come and warm me.”
The fire was blazing on its iron in the grate.
The room was awash with light as every lamp was lit.
But he could not have his wife feeling cold.
He moved her way.
She adjusted her position, coming up to her knees, exposing her slightly rounded belly, her bare hips, her sex.
True moved faster.
Her arms came out his way.
He walked into them, watching her head tip far back, as his bent down…
And he took her mouth.
Her lips opened under his, her arms rounding him.
He slid his tongue inside, diving both his hands into her thick hair.
But at the taste of her, the knowledge she was bared to him, the invitation she had offered, the wanting of her for so long, and not having her, he could not hold himself in check.
He leaned into her, taking her to her back in their bed.
He was atop her, the scent of her all around, the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her softness squirming beneath him, all of this unraveling him.
She started tugging at his clothes.
He did not stop her, his hands roaming the silk of her skin.
Some vague sense of chivalry permeated, and he tore his mouth from hers, murmuring, “Your shoulder.”
“It has been fine for days,” she breathed, tugging at his frock coat.
True shrugged it off and tossed it aside.
When he dipped back in, he went for her neck.
Gods, but her perfume was extraordinary.
Spice and Farah.
He ran his tongue along her neck as he ran his hand up her side.
She was struggling with the buttons on his waistcoat.
“Your clothes must go,” she demanded.
She was right.
They must.
Immediately.
He wanted his skin against hers.
He pushed up to his knees, straddling her.
She pushed up to her behind, and both of them went after the buttons on his vest, fingers bumping into the other’s.
He caught her hands.
Her hair tumbled all around her shoulders as she tipped her head to catch his eyes.
“How about I do the waistcoat and you do the shirt?” he suggested throatily.
She grinned and lifted her hands to the buttons on his shirt.
He saw her hands were trembling.
His hands were not.
His were impatient.
He had to stop to take off the vest, but he did not bother with all the buttons of his shirt. Once a few were loose, he pulled it over his head.
And felt his cock kick when her heated gaze fell on his chest.
“You are just…so beautiful,” she breathed before she pressed her lips to his skin, running her tongue along an indentation in the muscle there, on her way down.
It would be later when he both wished she did not do that, at the same time he was glad she did.
For he had thought, when this happened, when he had deemed she was ready, and that would be when it could be about naught but them, their touches, tastes, joining, with nothing bearing down on them, he had wanted to take his time in giving her pleasure.