When it became too much, too intense, she bit down on the meat right below where his neck met his shoulder and he made that sound again. That dark, savage groan that became a growl in a chest as large and cavernous as his.
But he seemed to understand, as his ministrations gentled until his fingers only whispered across that bud of sensation in a tremor-inducing caress before letting his hand fall away.
“Christ, you’re exquisite,” he panted, his eyes a little unfocused, his skin flushed and his body one long knot of tension. “You’re ready,” he gritted out. “Now.”
In one graceful move he lifted her, rotated them both, and tossed her onto her back. His body was so big on top of her, pressing her legs almost uncomfortably wide. She wanted to tell him to wait, to give her a moment, but he distracted her with another deep, long kiss.
He released unintelligible words into her mouth, and Imogen knew them to be harsh and filthy. His eyes had glazed over completely now, as though his wits had deserted him, leaving her with nothing but this beast of lust and need.
He lifted himself, arched his neck, and on a smooth, brutal thrust, he was inside her, ripping through the feeble barrier of her virginity as though it didn’t exist, and separating muscles unused to intrusion. The sound he made was more roar than growl, and drowned out her whimper of protestation. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she bit down on her cheek hard enough to taste blood by the time he’d ceased his endless plunge.
Because of his height she buried her face in the crook of his neck, doing her best to breathe through the pain. To hide her tears, lest she displease him.
“Jesus,” he cursed. “Tight.”
He slid away and pushed forward again, this time gaining more ground, a hot, searing brand against her untried flesh. She could feel her body trying to adjust, molding around him.
“Too … tight…” he panted. His movements shortened, became less graceful and more frenzied. Her sex felt like a knot of tension and fire, though something beneath the discomfort whispered at the pleasure his hands had introduced her to. She wondered, as her body began to relax, as his penetrations became shallower, if that incomparable bliss would come for her again.
If she would come again.
With a low moan, his body seized and he pulled out of her, still pumping his sex between their bodies before great tremors rolled over him, forcing his head back with what looked like racking, almost painful convulsions as warm, wet moisture coated her hip.
Imogen turned her head to look away, feeling like an intruder on an intimate moment, even though that moment was her own. She watched the muscles of his arm, braced beside her head, as they clenched and flexed, forcing vivid veins to the surface of his straining skin. She’d never seen something so beautifully sensual in her entire life.
As with every violent storm, the aftermath hung heavy and silent as they each willed their bodies back under their control. He held himself above her, still but for his chest heaving against hers. She thought he’d whispered something like “Never.” But the word was lost to the darkness.
It was done. What was left of her innocence had been taken. No, not taken.
Bought.
Imogen decided that the sacrifice of her virginity had been ultimately worth it. A few seconds of pain in trade for an entire year of freedom. For an entire lifetime of loneliness. For the safety of her sister.
For twenty pounds sterling.
Tenderly, Trenwyth bent to kiss her, and some of her dark thoughts dissipated. There had been pleasure too. Illicit, unimaginable pleasure wrought by his brutal, gentle, masculine, skilled hands.
With a groan, he lifted himself off her and reached for a cloth hanging from the basin. It was red, like everything else in this room, and would hide the blood of her virginity. Cleaning himself without bothering to look, he handed a second one to her, respecting her privacy as she wiped the leavings of his pleasure from her hip, grateful he’d taken precautions against pregnancy.
It wouldn’t do to have the first child of the Duke of Trenwyth born the bastard of a prostitute.
She expected him to leave then, to dress and abandon her to the task of pulling herself together.
Instead, he prowled, completely nude, back into the bed. He reached for her and unhooked the stays of her corset in a few rough, jerking motions.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, swatting at him ineffectually.
“This,” he said by way of patient explanation, yanking her chemise off.
“Don’t … what … you … Oh!”
Somehow completely bare, her arms clutched over her breasts, he dragged her up to the pillows like some loutish, ham-fisted beast, and settled her on her back.
She lifted a knee and crossed it over herself in an absurd attempt at modesty.
He looked at her then, just knelt above her, all naked sinew and strength, and watched her with those hot, languorous eyes. A possessive sound of satiation rumbled from his throat. Something undeniably masculine, and at once oddly bestial, both a purr and a growl, she thought.
Ceaselessly inquisitive hands roamed her languidly, found little intimate places she’d never before paid much notice. The divots beside her knee, the quivering skin beneath her belly button, the sensitive hollows of her visible ribs. Places she’d not considered sensual before this moment.
“You should eat more,” he admonished, his attractive features arranging themselves with displeasure.
Imogen gave him a tight smile and nodded her complacency, biting her lip to keep from informing him that an empty larder and three empty bellies do not a voluptuous lover make. She’d love to eat more than scraps not fit for an alley cat. But that wasn’t his concern, nor was it something she wanted to consider now. Hunger didn’t present a problem at the moment. In fact, a sense of supreme satisfaction lingered in every organ and limb.