The Wagered Wench by Georgia Fox

throat.
    “My lady wife, you seem anxious to get to bed,” he muttered wryly beside her. “I see you looking at it constantly.”
    Elsinora took a breath and set down her goblet. “We may as well get it over with.”
    She felt his gaze on her face, searching. “You are ready for me?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you prepared?”
    A shiver of fear slipped through her body. Ready? Prepared? What did she need to be ready for? He made it sound like a pagan sacrifice. “Of course,” she exclaimed, her eyes watching that tapestry curtain across the hall and the bowers of evergreens wound around the thick oaken bed posts. “Are you ready for me, Norman?”
    He gave a funny little snort. “Oh yes.” Suddenly he reached for her hand, where it rested around the foot of her goblet and drew it down beneath the table to his lap.
    Elsinora almost jumped out of her seat when she felt the ridge pushing hard at his breeches, under his tunic. That was supposed to fit inside her? Dominic held her hand, pressing it slowly up and down, letting her palm and fingers explore the shape. She glanced sideways, her face hot. Fortunately her father was half-asleep in his chair already and hadn’t noticed.
    Dominic raised his free hand and signaled to the minstrels. The music halted while he announced that he would now take his wife to bed.
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    She snatched her hand away, her heartbeat tumbling over itself. Her father stumbled to his feet and blessed her forehead, then Dominic’s, with loud, sloppy kisses in the manner of a boisterous hound. A cheer rose up from the crowd and in the next instant they were converged upon, both lifted out of their seats and carried down the hall. The tapestry curtain loomed closer, as did the thing that lay in wait behind it. Elsinora did not know what to think or feel, while the wedding guests heaved them along, bellowing well-wishes and various bawdy remarks about the begetting of Gudderth’s first grandson and Lyndower’s next heir.
    Eager hands jerked aside the curtain and the newlyweds were carried to the bed. The Norman submitted without complaint, and only a slightly bewildered smile, to an immediate stripping, as was the custom in Lyndower. It was important the groom’s “equipment” be assessed and found adequate. Elsinora watched grimly as his breeches were tossed aside and several tipsy women dared get a little too close with their hands, until their men folk called them to order. A hush then descended. The candle flames stretched tall while no breath and no activity tried their balance, and her new husband was bathed in gold light, every muscle gleaming, carved by a master craftsman.
    Dominic Coeur-du-Loup was anything but lacking in equipment. There was nothing to be joked about or mocked in the traditional, good-natured way. His penis was solidly erect, stretching to heaven like a knight’s jousting lance. His heavy balls—the size of goose eggs— nestled in a pelt of dark curls, like those that grew on his head and across the upper slabs of his wide chest.
    Rather than look at the other women’s awestruck expressions, Elsinora scrambled quickly under the covers, still fully dressed.
    “You may leave us now,” she commanded shrilly.
    Dominic signaled with a nod and they all backed out, stumbling over one another, grinning and twittering. Finally the curtain was drawn across and the minstrels resumed their playing.
    He turned to look at her. “Why are your clothes still on?”
    She shrugged, not able to speak at that moment, her perusal of his splendid form continuing steadily.
    Dominic reached for the coverlet and with one surly tug, ripped it from her fingers. “Clothes. Off.”
    She got up on her knees. “There are laces in the back. I can’t reach.”
    He too knelt on the straw-stuffed mattress to help her, but the moment she felt his fingers on her spine she yelped and jumped off the bed. “I can’t,” she gasped. “Go away. I