Helen rubbed her cheek against his velvet robe. “We haven’t made our vows yet.”
“We did that afternoon, when you came to my bed. That’s what it meant.” His fingers slid beneath her chin, coaxing her to look at him. Amusement deepened the faint whisks at the outer corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but there’s no getting rid of me.”
Desperately she stared at the face above hers, all strong, stark angles and shadows, a striking framework for those compelling sable eyes. Rhys hid nothing, letting her see the tenderness that was reserved for her alone. She felt the overwhelming pull between them, like the force of gravity between twin stars.
Rhys adjusted her higher on his chest, his powerful body flexing beneath her. Her breasts felt hot and full, and she turned to press them against him. Dizzy with guilt and longing, she linked her arms around his neck. She wanted more of him, his skin, his taste, his body inside hers.
Tell him, her tortured conscience screamed. Tell him!
Instead, she heard herself whisper, “I want to go to bed now.”
Beneath her weight, where she rested on him intimately, she felt a thickening pressure.
His brows lifted in subtle teasing. “Alone?”
“With you.”
Chapter 18
RHYS DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHY Helen seemed especially vulnerable tonight, at the mercy of some private anxiety she wouldn’t explain. She always held something in reserve, an edge or two of her soul turned inward. The mystery of her, the hint of elusiveness, fascinated him. God help him, he had never wanted to be inside another human being the way he did her.
He carried her to the bed and deposited her on the mattress.
With a decisiveness that caught him off guard, Helen reached for the belt of his robe and untied it. The garment listed open, revealing his aroused body . . . and then her cool fingers settled on him. His mouth went dry, and his flesh throbbed viciously as she explored the shape and texture of his aroused flesh.
Shrugging out of his robe, he stood with his hands suspended in midair, not quite sure where to put them. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that Helen would do such a thing of her own accord. It inflamed him further to see how ladylike she was about it, her pretty hands touching him with the same lightness she used on her piano keys or to hold a porcelain teacup.
Noticing the way he jumped and caught his breath as she reached the head of his erection, Helen asked in an abashed voice, “It’s more sensitive here?”
Unable to muster a coherent word, Rhys nodded with a gruff sound.
Slowly she caressed the shaft with the flat of her palm. He saw the luminous blue glow of the moonstone ring, the symbol of his claim on her, as her fingers glided to the swaying weight of him below. She cupped him so gently, as if she were handling something dangerously volatile. Which she was. His body was nothing but a container brimming with lust, ready to explode. The primitive part of his brain took obscene satisfaction in the lurid sight of her, a fair-haired nymph, sweetly caressing his cock. The contrast of grace and crudeness appealed to him on the most primitive level.
Taking hold of him at the base, she made a delicate cuff of her fingers and slid them upward. Her thumb touched the exposed tip and made a mild circling stroke, and for a few seconds he couldn’t see past the shower of sparks over his vision. A heavy pulse began deep in his pelvis, warning that he was only seconds from climax. With a groan, he tried to push her hands away. “No more . . . no . . . sweetheart . . .”
But she only leaned closer, her breath flowing gently against him. She kissed him, her lips lingering on the moist tip. A shock of response nearly unmanned him. Panting, he pulled away and lowered to the bed on his stomach, feverishly willing the sensation to die down. His chest heaved as he pulled in huge draughts of air.
“Helen,” he muttered, gripping savage handfuls of the bedclothes. “My God, Helen.”
There were movements beside him, her slight weight depressing the mattress. “Did you like that?” she asked cautiously.
His sound of vigorous assent was buried in the sheets.
“Oh good.” She sounded relieved. In a moment, he felt her climbing over him. She had removed her nightgown, and was draping her naked body all along his, catlike. He tensed, smoldering at the enticing weight of her. Silky female skin . . . the curves of her breasts . . . the little fluff of curls teasing his backside . . .
“I talked with Kathleen,” she said, her breath causing the hair at his nape to prickle and lift. “She explained a few things about the marital relationship that she thought I should know.” As he flexed and shivered beneath her, she wriggled to conform more closely to the masculine terrain of his body.
“Helen. Hold still.”
She stopped moving at once. “Is it uncomfortable when I lie on you like this?”
“No, it’s just that I’m trying not to spend.”
“Oh.” Helen pressed her cheek against his nape. “Some men can more than once,” she said helpfully.
In spite of his raging arousal, Rhys found himself burying a grin against the mattress. “You’re so well-informed, cariad.”
“I want to learn everything a mistress would know, so that I can satisfy you.”
Carefully he rolled to his side, letting her slide off his back before he moved over her. His hands clasped her head, her silvery-gold hair spilling between his fingers.
“My own,” he said, “don’t ever worry about that. Everything about you is a delight to me.”
Her gaze turned wary. “I’m sure you’ll discover things you won’t like.”
“I hope so. If you had no flaws, mine would throw us off-balance.”
“I’ll balance yours,” she assured him with a touch of irony he’d never heard from her before.
“If by that you mean your shyness,” Rhys said, “you’ll learn to overcome it.” He nudged his hips against hers. “Just look at the progress you’ve made with me.”
Helen laughed, turning pink up to her hairline. One of her hands drew along his flank and slipped cautiously between their bodies. “What’s the word for this?” she asked, taking hold of him again. “What do you call it?”
“Your sister-in-law didn’t include that in her lecture?”
“She told me some of the English words,” Helen admitted, “but I want to know what it’s called in Welsh.”
“Is this how you mean to begin learning Welsh?” he asked in mock disapproval. “With profanity?”
“Yes.”
Rhys smiled and kissed her. “Mind you, most Welsh love-talk sounds like a farming manual. The word for a man’s part is goesyn. Stalk.”
She repeated the syllables, her fingers gripping and stroking him with maddening gentleness.
“When the man thrusts inside the woman,” he said, breathing with increasing difficulty, “the word is dyrnu. To thresh.” He began to kiss his way down her body, savoring her warm skin with its faint dusting of talcum. After blowing lightly against the protective curls of her sex, he murmured, “This is a ffwrch. A furrow to be plowed.” He leaned close enough for her to feel the tip of his tongue as he drew it along the innocently closed seam. Her thighs trembled on either side of him. “And the word for this”—he paused to search deeper, finding the shy bud still hidden beneath its hood—“is chrib, a bit of honeycomb.” He delved again, tickling the little peak to wakefulness until it was hot and distinct against the tip of his tongue.