Page 86 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

He would reward her, though, remembering what the widow had taught him to do before she allowed him to impale her with his cock.

Iris would be different, though. She would feel different beneath his hold, her skin smooth and soft and silky. She would taste different, too. He practically groaned aloud at the thought.

When she finished her ministrations, he was quick to lie back and wait for her to return to the cot.

“What do I do?” she asked.

He did a double take when he turned his head and saw she had removed her chemise. Her breasts, mounded on the underside, were tipped with dark nipples that caused his mouth to water. The slight belly beneath her curved waistline would provide the perfect pillow for his forehead when he used his tongue to tease her womanhood into readiness. The jet-black curls that hid that pearly button were already glistening with her arousal.

Lifting himself onto an elbow, Angus moaned. “You look like a goddess,” he murmured in awe.

“A virgin goddess?” she replied. Her hands were once again hiding her mons from view.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Lie down, allow me to worship you.”

He watched as she slowly did his bidding. He moved to the end of her cot, knelt, and smoothed his hands along the outside of her legs and then to beneath her knees.

She quivered in his hold, her breaths sounding feathery light in the quiet that was occasionally interrupted by a sizzle or pop from the fireplace. Gently, he lifted her knees and urged her to spread them apart.

He inhaled the musky scent of her quim, drawing his nose through her curls. “You smell delicious,” he whispered.

Her response was a gasp followed by a whimper. “Should I be doing something?” she asked, her hands fisting the bed linens.

“Lie back, and let me do it all,” he replied. Fairly sure she would leave her knee where he held it open, he moved his hand to her quim. Using two fingers, he separated the glistening folds before adding the tip of his tongue to the quest to coax her womanhood from its hiding place.

A few flicks of his tongue, and she was practically off the cot, her back arching up, her hands gripping the frame as if she had to hold herself down.

Angus dared a quick glance up her body, glad he would have more opportunities to learn everything there was to know about Iris O’Connor.

Six months, he reminded himself. He had six months to prove he would make the perfect husband for her—the perfect bedmate—and he had every intention to see that he succeeded.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

All About a First Time

Meanwhile, at Agremon House

“Do you remember the first time we ever engaged in sexual congress?” Stella asked, her fingertips spearing the short hair on her husband’s head, so her nails scraped his scalp.

Darius was using her belly as a pillow, the rest of his naked form splayed across their bed. His entire body shivered in response. “I was reminded of it only yesterday,” he murmured.

Surprised Stella sounded a scoff. “Oh?” She felt him inhale deeply before she watched as he used an elbow to lift himself from her. She had to resist the urge to sound a mewl of disappointment at the loss of contact. After they made love, she always craved his touch, his closeness.

He straightened his body on the bed, moving so he could pull her into his arms and cover their bodies with the bed linens. “Angus had questions.”

Alarm had Stella’s pulse quickening. “About us?”

“About me. About… providing protection. He’s determined to prove himself to Miss O’Connor.”

Stella scoffed softly. “I would have thought he had accomplished that yesterday,” she murmured.

“It’s not a one-time act,” he countered. “It’s a lifetime commitment.”

“One he’s willing to make?” she asked, hope in her voice.

He nodded. “I believe so.”

She heaved a sigh. “If you had asked me about those two Sunday evening, I would have said his only motivation to be with her was to gain better quarters,” she claimed. She felt the vibration of Darius’s chuckle through her entire body. “Why do you find that amusing?”