The Wagered Wench by Georgia Fox Page B

one with anxiety this evening.
    “I know,” he said gently, “that you are afraid. But you need not be. I will make certain you are well pleased. Now,” he moved one arm toward her, “come.” He thought she might not, that she would resist again. But she released the bed post and came closer, timid as a mouse. His anxiety softened. A jab of heated pleasure hit him solidly in the gut.
    The wench’s haughty pride was not in evidence at this moment. He almost wished it was and then he wouldn’t feel so much warmth toward her. It would be better if she stuck her nose in the air and insulted him again.
    But surely it was impossible to break a heart twice. He should be safe.
    Slowly she pulled up her gown and raised it over her head. Aha! The laces were an excuse. She could get in and out of it without undoing them. Now she wore only her thin shift. The rain had dampened it, made it translucent in places. He could see her pale pink areolas through the cloth as it swayed over her breasts and when his gaze swept lower, he thought he could see a hint of pubic hair—golden like the hair on her head. His cock pulse quickened, but he resisted the urge to touch himself.
    She glanced down at the organ twitching and stretching up from his lap. He let her look.
    “It’s not going to fit,” she murmured, eyes widened, reflecting the flames of the candles in the iron stand beside the bed.
    “We’ll see,” he replied, amused. “Let me look at you.”
    Her saw her shoulders square as she took another, deeper breath, and then she lifted her shift over her head, dropping it to the floor.
    Somehow he kept breathing. She was not so skinny as she appeared when clothed. In fact she was quite pleasingly rounded. Could still use a few heartier meals though. Her skin was not so pale as he’d imagined, but lightly tinted, like a peach not yet ripened. He held out his hand again. This time she finally accepted it and he pulled her closer until her knees touched the edge of the bed.
    “Climb up here,” he said, tapping the mattress beside him.
    “Why?”
    “So I can see whether you might take all of me.”
    She frowned, still wary.
    He lay back, his head resting on the bolster. “Kneel up on the bed, astride me so I can examine you.”
    After a moment she did as he suggested, a knee on either side of his waist. Dominic felt his excitement mounting with every breath. She was exquisite, more finely made than any woman he’d ever seen naked. Her breasts were not large, but shapely, crested with delicate pink nipples that looked almost too fragile for his mouth and fingers. At the apex of her thighs, a nest of soft, downy hairs covered her mound.
    “Closer,” he whispered, beckoning her further up the bed.
    She shuffled forward on her knees, inch by inch, straddling his chest. He could see the sweetly blushing lips of her cunny and his seed responded to the sight until his balls grew uncomfortably heavy. He parted his legs, drawing his knees up. Again he beckoned her further.
    “But then I will be…” She was flustered.
    “Over my face,” he finished for her. “That’s where I want you.” His voice sounded strange in his own ears. There was a dangerous amount of need in him. He had not realized, until then, how much he was looking forward to his wedding night. He should tell her to close her eyes, he thought, so she did not look down at his scarred face. A shudder of anxiety rendered him powerless suddenly to move or speak again. No wonder she was so reticent now. The poor creature was curious about the act of coupling and clearly had needs of her own, but if she had a choice, she would have chosen any man but him—any man but the scarred, ugly monster in her bed.
    Apparently she overcame her doubts enough to move again, resting her knees on the bolster, on either side of his head. Now he looked up at her and exhaled, trying to steady his pulse. He had to take his time or she might bolt.
    “Close your eyes,” he murmured.
    She