A Fairy Tale Wedding

By S. Faith, © 2016
Words: 31,210
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

(Time for sexytimes!)


Chapter 3: The Wedding

The Autumnal Equinox—the wedding day

Before Mark knew it, the month had slipped by, and the day of the wedding was upon them. The wedding party from Grafton Underwood was being housed in the palace, had arrived three days prior, but the bride was being kept away from wherever Mark and his family were, as per tradition. He thought it was a bit silly given the circumstances, even as he admitted that being denied the sight of her, the chance to talk to her, was exciting his interest more than he wanted to admit.

He was dressed in the finest regalia he had ever worn, tailored especially for the day. He wore a closely fitted jacket and trousers in charcoal grey, crisp white shirt under the jacket with only the collar showing; a crimson sash laid across his chest, and the broad band of a black leather belt encircled his waist. Over the left side of his chest was the regalia of the honours he had achieved in university, the study and practise of the law, an invaluable skill as a potential ruler of a kingdom.

Just before his departure to the cathedral, the crown was placed upon his head, the hand-embellished and embroidered cloak draped over his shoulders.

Of course, his brother had commentary to make. "You seem a bit more eager to take on this duty than you were before," he said. "Can it be that this marriage is something you are no longer just resigned to do?"

Mark pursed his lips.

Peter slapped his thigh and laughed. "You have nothing to say in response because I'm right."

They made it to the cathedral with time to spare; the roads between the palace and the cathedral were lined with spectators. He rode in one of the royal carriages, peering through the window, waving to the assembled, wearing the persona of the public figure as easily as he wore the cloak on his shoulders. His parents rode in their own carriage in front of him.

As he understood it, the princess and her family would come to the cathedral in their own royal carriages, and would arrive after the Huntingdon royal family. When he arrived, he was led to an area in which he could wait undisturbed. He had been through a rehearsal already, though not with the bride. As he waited, he found his anxiety growing ever so slightly… until it was time to go through the ceremony itself.

Just like that, the public persona enveloped him again; he straightened his shoulders, adjusted the bottom hem of his jacket, then strode out to take his place at the top of the aisle.

The cathedral was packed with invited guests, a sea of faces looking to him in rapt fascination. Affecting a detached demeanour, he gazed out over them, at least until the music began heralding the start of the ceremony.

There she was. Guided in by her father, she seemed to be wearing a veil from the top of her head down to her feet. He watched; it was his turn to be spellbound as the pair came closer. When they came closer, King Colin lifted the veil up and over; Mark realised then that the veil had simply blended into the skirt of her dress. At that moment he got a glimpse of the bodice, which fitted snugly to her. It was styled similarly to the ball gown she had worn that he had seen her in, except in ivory silk, glittering crystal gems sewn into it. Her hair was drawn up from her face then cascaded down in spiralling curls; her coronet was gleaming with gems.

As she came forward, he stretched out his hand towards her, which she accepted.

The ceremony itself was brief and to the point; there was an exchange of vows and rings as tokens of fidelity and commitment to the unity of kingdoms, then signed the documents as required before a brief, chaste kiss to conclude it. They processed down the aisle towards the front of the cathedral to the celebratory applause of those in attendance.

They were whisked away in his carriage, of which she clearly approved, heading back to the palace where the reception ball would be held. She peered with interest at the crowds lining the street, waving as he did to them. When the crowds disappeared in favour of passing landscape, she looked to where he sat beside her, and smiled. "You look very handsome," she said. It was the first time she had spoken to him that wasn't part of the ceremony. The first time she had spoken to him since he had seen her last, after they had kissed in the hallway.

"And you look even more beautiful than you did the night of the ball."

"You're very kind," she said. "Thank you."

He said nothing more, nor did she, for the remainder of the ride; he just looked at her appreciatively, admiringly, and he flattered himself in thinking that she was looking at him in a similar way. Before long, the carriage came to a halt, the door opened, and the footman helped the princess out and onto her feet.

"The palace looks gorgeous," she said as she looked up onto the façade, which had been decked out for the celebration with bunting: blue and white in honour of the bride, burgundy and black for the groom. Neither had had a good look at it before now.

He held out his hand. "Let's go inside." She gave her hand to him; he tucked it into his elbow, then led her inside.

Inside they were greeted by one of the servants, who led them directly to the grand ballroom. "Would you like a beverage? Something to eat?" He asked this of her, as if he were hosting her as a guest at a party; it still didn't quite feel real that she was now his wife.

Adjustments obviously would have to be made.

"I'm parched. That would be wonderful," she said. "Thank you."

He went to find her something cold and refreshing, and by the time he returned to her with a couple of goblets of cold lemon-water, his parents had returned from the cathedral, and were just introducing her to his brother. They all looked like they couldn't be happier.

"What a wonderful, touching ceremony," said Queen Elaine. "And my dear, you are the picture of regal beauty."

The wedding night

"Thank you."

Bridget took the goblet from her new husband, taking a draw to refresh herself; she was terribly glad she looked the picture of regal beauty, because inside she was a thrumming bundle of nerves. The day had, so far, flowed as smooth as satin, but for some reason she was extremely anxious.

Perhaps it was anticipation of the night ahead. Not that she was worried that he would be cruel or cold. On the contrary. Before she had spent that brief amount of time with him, she had almost expected he would be thus, given his reputation for being taciturn and unapproachable; the fact that he revealed himself to have another side altogether had been a complete surprise.

A side that could stir her in ways she couldn't quite explain.

Her parents arrived then, as did her brother Jamie, who had arrived from wherever he had been with a day to spare. It felt just as strange to introduce her brother to her husband as it had been to be introduced as 'wife' to Mark's brother Peter, with the impressive title of the Duke of Eastport. She liked Peter from the moment she met him; he had an easy smile and an open, friendly manner, and even was a little self-deprecating about his title: "I'm sure Eastport's a lovely place; I've never actually been there, though. They wouldn't know me from the average fishmonger." He was so very different from his brother, and she supposed he was very popular with the court (and especially the ladies of the court).

His brother Mark, so reserved and cool in the eyes of the masses, was not so easy to read. And she found herself eager to be given the chance.

Within the hour more guests came; the musicians began to play, the food was served, and the evening was in full gear. After multiple courses of sumptuous food came the dancing—very few with her husband, much to her surprise—and after the dancing came their cue to take their leave.

She said good night to her mother and father, and to his as well; once they had gone, he led her past the guards and upstairs, then handed her off to her lady's maid, who was ready to prepare her for her wedding night. Two other girls helped her out of the gown, then took it away for storage. Once they were alone, Magda eased the coronet up and into its protective chest, then pulled the pins that held up her hair in order to brush it out onto her shoulders, then drew it into a plait that she pinned up and off of her shoulders.

Magda then led her to a hot bath that the girls had drawn. They helped to bathe her, then dry her and otherwise ready her for the night, perfuming her with soft powder and dressing her in a soft silk nightie. Magda then helped Bridget slip into the dressing gown, unpinned the plait, then brushed it out around her shoulders again.

"There," she said, setting down the brush. "You're ready."

She wasn't sure she was, but it was as ready as she was ever going to be.

Magda led her out of the room, and into the hallway towards the chamber door where she knew him to be waiting. Faintly she could hear the music drifting from the ballroom; their wing was private, though, so she did not need to worry about an errant guest wandering up uninvited. When they got closer to the door, Magda curtseyed, then withdrew.

The door opened. Taking it to be an invitation, she stepped forward, and that was when she saw him standing there, his face bathed in shadow, a genial smile playing on his lips. "I thought I heard you," he said. "Please, come in." He stepped back to allow her in.

He wore a long brocaded dressing gown, tied at the waist with a sash. Seeing the peek of his chest made her instantly wonder what he wore beneath, if anything. This thought made her flush pink. After passing through a small anteroom, they entered the bedchamber itself, and it was lushly decorated and enormous, bathed in the gentle light of candles and the fire crackling in the hearth. He gestured towards a table, where a small decanter sat beside two tiny glasses. "I thought I might offer a nightcap," he said. "If you would like one."

She nodded.

He poured what looked to her to be a very thick chocolate liquid. "I had heard how much you liked chocolate and hazelnut," he said, "so I called upon the royal distillery to create this for you." He then turned and handed her one of the small glasses, and lifted his own. "To the beginning of our new life."

She lifted hers and sipped; the liqueur was incredibly delicious, creamy, rich, and very flavourful, and she drank the whole thing at once. He, though, seemed not to like it as much, and pulled a face; he noticed her noticing.

"It was a bit sweeter than I expected," he admitted. "How did you like it?"

"I liked it very much," she said. With a small smile, she added, "I'll finish yours if you don't want it."

He chuckled, then handed her the second glass. "Here you are."

She finished that one too—they were minuscule, after all—and resisted the urge to swipe the inside with a finger to get out the rest and lick it off. "Thank you," she said as he took the glasses back and set them down again.

And then he just looked at her for a long while. It was in appreciation, certainly, but she didn't know if she should say something, or do something. "Shall we sit by the—" she began, but he interrupted softly.

"I can't decide if you look more lovely now or when we met at the altar," he said.

"Thank you," she said, blushing fiercely, then sighed a little. "Honestly, I don't know what to do next."

He didn't say anything for several long moments. "If you want to sit by the fire," he said, "we may."

She did so, perching on a sofa at the fireside.

"You're not cold, are you?"

"I'm fine."

He sat beside her. "You're trembling." She hadn't even noticed; she leaned into the warmth of the fire. Tenderly, he added, "I hope you're not afraid."

She turned and looked at him; he was all concern and warmth, but still she snapped, "No, of course not."

"Of course not," he repeated, leaning back against the back of the sofa. "Relax, then." There was humour in his voice. "I'm not going to bite you."

She turned back to the fire, but did allow herself to lean against the arm of the sofa, then against the back of the sofa, close enough to feel his warmth, but not actually touching him. She realised that with the way she was acting, she did seem like she was afraid. She realised that maybe she actually was. Maybe a little.

She looked at him again, then turned to better face him. I'm not afraid, she thought. Let me prove it.

He brought his hand up, brushed his fingers along her shoulder, then her face. She drew in a deep breath, to steady herself, then put her hand on top of his, leant into his touch.

He drew his hand away, then placed it around her shoulders, pulling her to sit closer, drawing her up against him. His warmth, the closeness of him, was somehow reassuring and familiar; she could not help thinking of the kiss in the hallway outside of her chambers. She placed a hand against his chest, rested her cheek against him; she felt his breath against her hair, felt his fingers brushing against her arm through the light fabric of the dressing gown.

His actions did have the intended effect. She did feel less nervous, felt herself relax into him, felt his heartbeat under her hand. Another pervasive sensation was washing over her, though; that same sensation she had felt when they had kissed.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

"I told you I'm fine," she said.

She felt him laugh low in his throat. "Of course you are." His hand came up to stroke her hair. "Just fine." He shifted a little, and she felt a gentle touch against her temple. His lips, brushing against her there, zinging sensation along her skin, causing her breath to catch. "You keep saying that, but you have nothing to fear."

As he placed another kiss on her forehead, her lids felt heavy; he drew gentle fingers over her face to her chin, lifting it up. She looked at him again as he shifted beside her, turning slightly. "I know," she said. And she did.

And that was when he kissed her again on the lips, tender, chaste kisses, just as he had done the first time. But she felt his hand slip down from cradling her face, to her shoulder, to rest on her hip; nothing was between them now but a few light layers of silk.

She parted her lips, inviting another deep kiss as they had shared before; his fingers pressed into her hip as he accepted this invitation, covering her mouth with his own. She arched up into him with a sigh as the kiss deepened even still, his tongue trailing along her lower lip, teasing ever so slightly.

Then his hand moved again, catching her slightly unawares, causing her to suck in a sharp breath as his hand met with her breast, which was far more tender and sensitive than she could have ever guessed. And then he pressed that hand against her, running a thumb over a suddenly-hard tip.

She heard a moan—then realised it was her own.

Fingers pulled at the edge of her dressing gown, played at the edge of her nightgown, slipping down under the fabric.

He whispered her name. Then he kissed her chin, her jaw, her throat. His hand was now on her knee, on her thigh, pushing up the hem as he laid her back against the arm of the sofa. His hand was gentle but insistent there, raking his nails against the tender skin, shifting upward again.

But then he stopped. He drew back, meeting her eye.

"Why did you stop?" she asked, suddenly worried that she had somehow not met his standards… but he smiled tenderly.

"Because I'm sure we could be more comfortable elsewhere," he said. He shifted again, slipped his arm under her, then swooped her up off the sofa.

He set her down again to stand on her unsteady feet, which confused her. But then he leant aside to push the bedspread and sheets aside, then turned to push the dressing gown from her shoulders.

Then he reached down for her nightgown hem, and drew that up and off of her.

He regarded her with obvious appreciation of her as she stood there, completely bared to him. He reached to touch her again, but she held up her hand.

She thought it only right, only fair, that she should do to him what he had done to her. She vowed not to betray her ignorance of the male body, though the slight tremble in her hand as she reached to untie the sash around his waist gave her away.

With the sash undone, the sides of his dressing gown fell away, and it became immediately clear that he had not, in fact, worn anything beneath that dressing gown. What stunned her more, though, was the portion of his anatomy that seemingly had rose to attention since they had begun to kiss—she would have noticed it pushing out the front of his regalia, otherwise—which had emerged from between the halves of the brocaded dressing gown as if from behind a theatre curtain.

Oh my God, she thought. That's got to go where, exactly?

"Are you all right?"

And then she realised she had betrayed herself, after all, by covering her gaping mouth with a hand. "Sorry, yes," she said, shaking her head a little. "Just… unexpected."

He reached a hand forward, and she allowed him to take hers. "I'm sure it's shocking to a lady as yourself," he said quietly, stepping closer to her.

It was true; as a high-borne lady, she had no experience with the male body, except maybe when she and her brother had both been children, but that had been nothing like what was before her now.

"I hope you believe me though," he continued. "I won't hurt you."

She could not help but be sceptical given the evidence before her eyes, and it in all likelihood showed on her face, because he bent and kissed her, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush to him; the feeling of that firmness against her stomach took her aback, but the kiss soon had her head swimming in sensation. He directed her backwards to the bed; she felt the mattress against her legs. He let go of her.

"Go on," he said gently. "Climb in."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, then scooted back, slipping her legs under the bedclothes. When she looked up again, he was faced away, and he had slipped off his dressing gown; on display before her was his bared back, muscled and lean, and a tight, firm backside. It reminded her of the marble sculptures she had seen in the kingdom's art trust and gallery. Truly a thing of beauty. All she could think about was running her hand over the contours—

And then he was beside her again, seemingly so suddenly that she blinked with surprise. "All right?"

She nodded. Then she leaned and kissed him. Not a chaste kiss, either; still flooded with the heady sensation from the sofa, she was eager to pick up where they had left off. Eager for what was next, even if a bit uncertain exactly what that was.

Apparently, he was too. He pushed them back onto the pillows with a fierce kiss in return; his hand played upon her hip as he pulled up against her. Then his hand was on her backside, splayed and grasping, pulling her closer to him, as if that were possible.

His mouth was on her chin, her throat, her shoulder, and, to her surprise, her breast, teeth teasing and pulling at the point, causing her heart to race, causing her to moan; but this was nothing compared to when she felt his hand traverse between her thighs, felt his fingers teasing her through the wetness there.

She brought her own hand up to his back, traced a line along his spine, until she reached his buttocks, raking her nails over the skin, over the taut muscles there. He groaned, his mouth close to her ear again, as he pushed more insistently into the tenderness between her legs. She cried out a breathless, "Oh."

He turned her over, pulled himself onto her, settled between her thighs, slightly on his knees. "Bridget," he said quietly, gruffly. "I can't wait. I—gentle as I can. Trust me."

She nodded; she did.

He urged her legs apart, lifted her knees, then bent down over her. She was both eager and anxious, unsure what was to happen next, but having no reason to doubt his word when everything he'd told her had, so far, come to pass.

Then he was above her, bracing himself on one arm, then, after adjusting his position, two. And then she felt him press against her between her legs, and she gasped. He lowered his head and kissed her again, tenderly, then more urgently, before he thrust forward into her, breaching her maidenhead.

A low, guttural sound issued from his throat; she cried out at the sharpness of the sensation. It was not quite painful; it was entirely too pleasurable for that.

He thrust again. Then again, and again. She found that she was able to angle herself ever so slightly, amplifying the pleasure aspect to the point that she moaned, too. And then he thrust once more before going still and shuddering. He peppered her skin with small kisses; his breath came in hard, short pants. He moved to her side to rest on the mattress, but pulled her to him.

The first thing he asked was a solicitous, "Are you all right?"

"Mm-hmm," she managed; she was aching now, but it was a pleasant echo of the pain-pricked pleasure that she had just experienced.

He drew the duvet over their cooling bodies. His hand stroked her stomach lazily; clearly he was still catching his own breath, calming his own pulse. She turned her head to look at him, and he looked directly into her eyes. She supposed she had done all right, with the way he was caressing her now. She thought it was probably gauche to ask.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked quietly.

"I said I'm all right," she said, then sighed; he was only looking after her well-being. "It only hurt a little, really."

He lifted his hand to brush fronds of hair from her face. "I'm glad." After a pause, he then said, "I hope that brought you at least a little pleasure."

She found a smile for him. "It did."

"In a little while," he said, "I hope I can bring you more—as much as you've brought me."

This intrigued her. "Why in a little while?" she asked. "Why not now?"

Of all of the things she could have said at that moment, that statement was the last thing he expected to hear. "Now?" he repeated.

"Well, yes," she said.

"I'm more than willing, but…" He trailed off. "I was giving you a little time."

"What for?"

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. No demure girl was she. Unsure what to say, he said nothing, just bent over and kissed her again, running his hand over her hip, then stomach, then cupping her breast. Soft and beautiful, and easily brought to attention by his fingers and thumb, his lips and teeth.

He heard her moan a little, felt her wriggle under his ministration; he turned his attention upon the other breast as his hand came around and held her backside. He squeezed gently, pulling her against him, moving his mouth to her hip, to her belly, pushing his tongue into her navel before kissing a trail between her breasts and back to her mouth again.

He was ready. It hadn't taken long, as beautiful and as desirable as she was, but he hoped this time he could sustain himself to bring her the ultimate pleasure. As before, he pulled himself between her legs, bracing himself with one arm; she lifted her knees in anticipation.

The second hand, though, he brought down to touch the tenderness between her thighs. He knew the moment he found that special spot—the one that the courtesan had given him instruction on, long ago—because of the way she gasped, then moaned at length, as he pressed it and stroked it.

Watching her react as she did, he was harder than ever, verging close to coming again. He couldn't wait.

"Do it," she commanded, much to his surprise. He settled down further, not ceasing his caress of her, then kissed her, drove forward and into her with much less restraint as he had the first time. He felt a modicum of regret as she cried out… at least until he realised it was a cry of pleasure, not pain.

He thrust again and again, touching her in counterpoint to each drive forward; her cries got louder in his mouth, her nails dug further into his shoulders, until she broke awake from their kiss, breathing hard, moaning low in her throat until at last—

From deep inside her he could feel the chain reaction begin, the waves of pleasure enveloping him; for his part he did not stop his own motion, and carried on until he could no longer resist the climax that overtook him. He tensed and thrust hard into her until he could no longer hold himself up; his arm gave way and he fell to the side. The way his legs were entangled with hers, he pulled her over with him so that she was atop him.

She was breathing as hard as he was, gulping and gasping, then lowered her head and kissed him.

He thought of the pitcher of water that he knew to be on the bureau, thought of how far away that water seemed. His hands ran over her back, over her backside, to cup and squeeze into the roundness there. She broke away, then rested her cheek against his, such that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck.

"If more people knew how good that could feel," she said in a raspy voice, "they'd just… do it all the time." She exhaled. "How many times could we do that in a day, do you think?"

He smiled, his face still against hers, stroked his hands up and down her back. The pull of sleep was strong after all of that exertion, but he resisted. "Can I bring you something? Water?"

She turned her head; he felt her fingers combing through his hair, and he turned his head a little to meet her gaze. "I'll have more of that liqueur," she said. "I could really use something to eat, too. I'm famished."

He laughed a little. He couldn't help it. "Yes, mistress," he said jokingly, turning to the side so that he could get out from under her, up out of bed and get her the things she wanted.

"Ooh," she said with a grin. "I like the way that sounds. You may continue to call me that."

He rose from the bed, the autumnal chill of the air almost shocking now that he was out from under the warm duvet. He went to the table, poured two large glasses of water, then gathered up a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit. After bringing it back to the bedside, he turned to pour her another small glass of the liqueur, then brought that to her, too, sitting on the edge of the bed to hand it to her.

"Thanks," she said, sitting up, pulling the sheet to her chest, reaching for a berry. "Now that the ceremony is behind me, this—" He knew she meant consummating their relationship. "—is behind me, a huge weight's off of my shoulders. A huge pressure." She took the water and gulped it, then took a piece of the bread with cheese for a bite, but froze before doing so.

He realised he had never seen a lady eat quite so voraciously, and he smiled; if he felt so hungry after such a physical exertion, why wouldn't she? He reached for some bread and cheese, too, then slipped beside her on the bed. He drank from his water glass, then set it on the table next to the bed. When he turned back, he saw she had picked the glass of liqueur up and was drinking from it, tipping the glass back to get as much out of it as possible. He was very pleased that she liked it so much.

That was not all he was pleased about. In all of the months he'd had Lady Natasha as a mistress, she had never responded in the way that his new wife had done, despite the declaration that she had loved him. In retrospect, perhaps she had only said it to try to secure a marriage. Whatever the case, he had enjoyed seeing Bridget respond as she had.

And he had certainly enjoyed her touch. He certainly looked forward to letting her explore, build up her confidence, and touch him as she chose to do. Was it normal to be stirred so much by a woman he had only really just gotten to know, and with whom he had only been intimate twice? Because he was so stirred. Perhaps the arranged marriage had been a blessing in disguise.

"You look thoughtful."

He realised she was watching him. "I was just telling myself how right you are," he said. "Though I suspect I was not feeling quite the same pressure as you."

She glanced down. "I suspect not. You have, after all, had a mistress." She picked at her berries, ate another. "I met her today. Lady Natasha of Glenwood."

"Glenville."

"Right." She smiled wanly. "Sorry. I met so many people today."

"It's all right."

Bridget went on, "She was very pleasant to me."

"She would be," he said. "She does very much want to stay in the good graces of her future sovereigns."

She smiled again. "Did she…" She paused, looking sheepish. "…teach you things?"

He shook his head; Lady Natasha had not had much to teach him. The courtesan's lessons would have, quite frankly, been wasted on her, a mere social climber. "I had… more formal instruction."

Her brows rose up in obvious surprise and curiosity. He suspected that the idea of intimate instruction was alien to her.

He explained: "A courtesan."

"Oh." She managed a smile. "Well, I do suppose there is an instinctive side to it all, but you would have needed to be a mind-reader to know—"

She stopped abruptly, but he suspected he already knew of what she was thinking, and the blush on her cheeks confirmed it: how he knew precisely where to touch to elicit that response. He understood why she was blushing; ladies don't think of such things, after all. Sympathetic, he reached a hand and covered her linen-covered knee with it, stroking with his thumb. He then glanced to her with a tender smile.

"No need for that," he said.

"I can't help it," she said. "But I suppose in time I will get used to it."

"I should hope you will always be free to say what you think to me," he said.

"I can assure you that won't be an issue."

"I mean even when we are intimate."

The pink in her cheeks intensified. "As I said. In time talk like this will not turn me into a beet."

They continued to eat and drink, and when they were through, he collected the cups and the food plates, and set them aside. "It's probably time we got some rest," he said, feeling the fatigue of the long day settling in. "Are you comfortable? Not too cold?"

"I'm fine, under cover of the duvet," she said. "The fire is not too hot, and…" She hesitated. "You're warm, too."

He couldn't help feeling a little pleased at her statement, and offered a smile.

He rose from the bed to add another log to the fire to last them the night, then snuffed out the candles until the room was bathed only in the faint amber glow from the hearth. On his approach to the bed to slip back in, he realised that she had watched him moving around the room the entire time. He didn't know why he felt so self-conscious; maybe it was because he hadn't before made it a habit to let ladies see him without clothes on. He hadn't even done that with Lady Natasha; she had always kept on a dressing gown, and he had taken his cue from her.

He brushed up to her and she gasped in a little surprise. "Ooh, you're cold now," she said, then moved closer to him. He was grateful that she was warm, too; he laid back and she curled up against him. Almost as if instinct, he turned on his side, and she turned, too, to fit up against him as if they were nested spoons.

It amazed him, quite frankly, how well her smaller form fitted against him. His arm enfolded her, his hand resting on her forearm; the curve of her backside tucked against his thighs and abdomen. He brushed his thumb lazily as he felt the draw of slumber pull him. But she shifted then, moved against him, and his hand dropped to cover her breast, her bottom moved against his pelvis; an unexpected spark of desire flickered back to life.

He placed his lips upon her shoulder, then opened them to touch the flat of his tongue to her skin, to graze his teeth against her, and he felt her arch her back a little in response. Not to push away from him, but in response to the sensation, which had the dual effect of exposing her neck to his kisses, and to pressing her bottom against a quickly growing arousal. His hand came down over her breast, brushing over a hardened tip as it passed over to her stomach and pressed flat. He heard a little moan issue from her throat, which got stronger, deeper, as his fingers pressed forward, and went between her legs.

She was already very warm, very wet, and his fingers slid over her, caressing her, pressing into that sensitive spot that it seemed she was discovering for the first time that evening. As he did, she sucked in a breath.

He wanted to have her just like this, nuzzled into her neck, bringing her pleasure with his hand; he turned her slightly onto her back, urged her legs apart, slipped his fingers up into her.

"Does that feel good?" he murmured.

She groaned a throaty, "Oh yes." She pushed herself back into him. "Please. More."

With that he shifted a little more, pushed himself forward and thrust himself into her, groaning into her neck, stroking her. The sounds she made into her pillow suggested this all brought her great pleasure, and this was confirmed when, in short order, she cried out in sync as she came, and came repeatedly. For his own climax, he thrust hard; it was only as he began to regain his breath and his heart no longer felt it might leap through his chest that perhaps he had been a little rougher with her than he'd meant. He drew away and turned her to him.

Her eyes were drowsy and heavy-lidded, but she looked to be in complete bliss. "Oh, my," she breathed. "That was… something else altogether wonderful."

He smiled, then chuckled a little in his relief that he hadn't actually hurt her. "I'm glad," he said, then gathered her up into his arms, pulled her close. He took in a deep breath; the cooler air of the room felt good upon his brow. Soon, with her in his arms, he was falling into a deep, contented sleep.