The Wagered Wench by Georgia Fox Page A

don’t want to do it. I changed my mind. I don’t think I’ll be any good at it. I feel sick. I think I ate something bad.” She backed up to the bed post, stopping only when it banged the back of her head. “I’m not ready.”
    Dominic sank to his buttocks on the bed. “You’re not ready?” With one hand he casually stroked his manhood and she saw it grow another half inch in length and width. “So what am I to do with this?”
    “Put a poultice on it.”
    He laughed easily, his eyes warm.
    She bit her lip. Why was she being such a coward? It was shameful. What would her proud, seafaring, adventuring ascendants think of her acting this way? Now that she was married, even her mother would tell her she must submit to it, as long as she got no enjoyment from it and chastised herself later for causing the sin.
    Lay on your back, Elsinora, shut your eyes and think of Lyndower.
    “Come here.” He crooked one finger.
    She shook her head, the curtain rustling behind her. Oh, she was so confused.
    “I won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “I’ll go carefully. I promise.”
    “Why should I trust anything you tell me?” He was a man and they were notorious fibbers. They were known to say anything when they wanted a tupping.
    But it was not fear of him, she realized abruptly; it was fear of herself, of what she was capable, of the wicked desires burning inside her. All those things her devout, pious mother had warned her against.
    He got up. She backed around the bed, pulse pounding.
    “You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered, striding after her, his cock bobbing and arching. “Woman, stand still!”
    She had nowhere to go. She couldn’t run out through the curtain, or the villagers would all see. They would laugh at her again. Her only option was to keep circling the bed, staying an arm’s reach from the tall naked man intent on having her.
    Elsinora feared she would never be able to pray long and hard and genuinely enough to save her soul from this lust that tormented her. The moment he touched her it would all be over. She didn’t want to go to hell, so she began to walk faster until it was almost a run.
    * * * *
    He picked up speed as she did, but realized he was just getting dizzy. The damn woman was leading him on a chase around the bed and he hadn’t caught more than a stray hair from her head. Finally giving up, a chuckle bubbling out of him, he fell on his back across the bed, fingers laced behind his head.
    “I give up. You mean to wear me out, wench, before I can do what I must to consummate this marriage?”
    She stopped running, apparently surprised he gave up. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair disheveled, some broken wilted flowers still caught in the golden flow of thick, wavy locks. With one hand she gripped the bedpost. “I’m afraid,” she admitted finally, guiltily, eyelashes limp and wet.
    He watched her for a moment, his breath taken away, not by the chase, but by her luminescent beauty. His wife. His woman. His wager won.
    It was true, as he’d told her, that when the men in his family took a wife it was forever. That was one reason why he’d always avoided the burden. One reason. Now, here he was, a married man. And his young wife resisted her duty in his bed. Well, they’d have to get around their problems somehow, because it was done now, the vows were said and he’d cut himself off from other wenches. He must have his sexual needs fulfilled, and he had to hope this woman would do it for the rest of their lives together. It was a slightly panic-inducing thought.
    But although he chose her, she, of course, had not chosen him. Did she run away because of his ugliness, his vicious scar? Would she freeze with disgust at his touch? Before, in the yard, she had let him use his fingers. However, he remembered, she had also slapped his face and hurled dung at him not long after. The woman was a riddle and, as he’d told her, he was not good at riddles.
    His new bride wasn’t the only