“Ride me.”
She lifted herself up and drew off her chemise so that she might be as naked as he. This was the consummation of their marriage, and she wanted to meet him as an equal, bare before God. When she lowered herself, her wet folds met his hardness.
She looked at him. “You do it this time. Put it in me.”
He met her eyes and reached down between them, his hand right there, brushing against her.
“Like this?” he asked, and she felt that first push, that stretching and yielding as his head breeched her.
“Yes, like that,” she whispered, entirely enthralled by what he did.
His lips tightened.
She leaned a little forward, grasping his shoulders, and then he shoved up and suddenly was all the way in. They were joined together. Bound by their bodies and the vows they’d made. She trembled a little at the thought, and her eyes met his. Did he feel the importance of the occasion as well? She couldn’t be sure; his eyes were black and fathomless, impossible to read.
“Ride me,” he said again.
So she did. She rose up carefully, letting him slide from her depths and then shoved herself down, gasping as he refilled her. His eyes half lowered, his upper lip drawn back from his teeth. He palmed her breasts with his big hands, flicking over her nipples with his thumbs, and she fought the urge to close her eyes. This was important. This was an act of holy significance, and she wanted to be aware of every bit of it.
She leaned forward, grinding herself against him, and quickened her pace. It was coming soon now, that awful bliss. She could feel her body tightening as she rode toward her release. His cock was hard and slick, and she swiveled on it, grinding her folds against him, pleasuring herself even as she pleasured him. His head was arched back, his eyes slitted. She darted forward to lick his nipple and he moaned. She watched him as his clever black eyes unfocused. Watched him as he opened his mouth and shouted. He arched under her, his body a taut bow, and she clutched his shoulders to keep her seat even as she spasmed, sweet pleasure flooding her belly.
She fell against his heaving chest, openmouthed, and tasted the salt on his skin even as another wave hit her. She closed her eyes and buried her face against his strong neck.
It was almost perfect.
She lay against him, on him, and felt his chest rise and fall beneath her. She could stay here forever, lost in the blissful aftermath, but eventually the outer world would intrude. So she asked the question she’d been withholding since he took off his shirt.
“How did you get the scars on your back?”
HE SHOULD’VE REALIZED she’d seen through his prevarication, but her question came as a shock nonetheless. For a moment, he considered ignoring it or even pretending he didn’t know what she was asking about. But they were married now. She’d see it soon enough—and for many years to come, God willing.
So he braced himself and said, “I’ll tell you once, but I don’t ever want to speak of it again. Is that understood?”
He thought she might pout—or worse, be hurt by his curt tone—but she simply looked at him with those wide gray eyes. “Very well. May I see?”
He scowled, looking away, but then abruptly rolled so that his back was to her. She gasped and then was silent.
He closed his eyes, imagining what she saw. He knew from looking in the mirror—once and only once—that his back was a mass of scars. Thin white ones carved through the tan of his skin. Thicker, reddened scars, the ones she’d felt before, roped from midback to his right hip.
She asked, “How did this happen?”
He turned back to her, his eyes still closed. “It was the second winter I was with Gaho’s family.”
“Tell me,” she said simply, and he opened his eyes to see her watching him. Her face was unlined, pure and beautiful, her gold hair still pulled back. She’d covered her breasts with the sheets, but her white shoulders were still revealed.
“We had more food come spring.” He tilted his head to focus on the bed curtains. “The bears and deer might be thin from the winter, but they were easier to hunt. And the women gathered berries and vegetables from the woods and fields once the green things began to grow.”
“Things were better,” she said quietly. There was no impatience in her voice, though he was avoiding the reason for this tale.
“They were better, yes,” he said. “And I should’ve been, too. There was finally plenty to eat after a winter of starvation. But the summers can be very hot in that part of the world. Hot and damp and I think the combination crept into my lungs. I became very ill with fever and purging. Gaho and the other women of her family tended me, but there are days I don’t remember.”
“How horrible,” Beatrice said, lacing her fingers with his. “But you survived.”
“I survived, but I almost didn’t,” he said. “And then . . .” Odd, he could feel the sweat start at his back at just the memory. He breathed deeply, fighting down the nausea that climbed his throat. He was so ashamed of the event.
“What happened?”
He drew a breath. “Gaho left the camp to attend a ceremony. She took with her both daughters and their spouses and her husband. I was too ill to travel. Only I, a few old men, a female slave, and Sastaretsi stayed behind. He said he had had an argument with the chief of the tribe Gaho and her family were to visit, but I think he stayed behind solely to kill me.”