Page 41 of A Desperate Proposal

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he pleaded between kisses. As much as he’d tried to prepare her with his fingers, she was so small beneath him… “Forgive me this once. I won’t hurt you again,” He thrust into her velvet heat and froze in place, praying she could endure the piercing of her virtue. She tensed, her arms wrapping around his back as she buried her face against his shoulder. A small, stifled cry burned his skin and his conscience. Tristan slid his hand under her back, holding her carefully until he felt her breathe.

“Th—they weren’t lying,” she whispered, drawing back with glistening eyes.

“They weren’t,” he admitted, leaving feather-light kisses along her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “Breathe, love. Let your body adjust.” He ran his fingers along her side, up to her breasts. “We can stop if it’s too much.”

“No!” she said quickly, shuddering. “Don’t stop.” She took a deep breath, her hands rising to his shoulders. After a few more breaths, he felt her clench around him once and then again, her breath catching. A tremulous smile dawned on her pale face. “Show me more, Tristan.”

“As you wish, love.” He withdrew only a fraction before thrusting back. He kept his motions slow, slight, waiting to see more arousal than bravery in her eyes before he pushed her further. His hand slid back down between them, seeking her clit to build further distraction for her. “I’m going to take care of you tonight, love. Let me make you come again…” He drew her nipple into his mouth, laving and teasing the sensitive flesh as his thumb made similar patterns on her swollen sex. “You feel so good.”

With each stroke, her moans grew louder until she finally cried out his name, her body fluttering around him until she collapsed back onto the mattress, her breasts heaving, gasping for air. “You—you feel good, too,” she breathed, her heavy eyes opening.

His control hung by a thread, and her acceptance snapped it. Tristan reclaimed her mouth, his hips moving faster as he drove himself into her. He came quickly, tearing their mouths apart to gasp her name, his seed pulsing into her. He imagined continuing—God, he was still hard—but dared not on her first night. He kept himself propped up over her, reveling in the feel of her body under his, accepting him. This sliver of relief would be enough until Elinor recovered.

His eyes lingered on her swollen lower lip. He didn’t withdraw from her or roll away, but searched her face for signs of her thoughts. “Are you all right?” Elinor opened her mouth but all that sounded was a sigh that almost sounded like she was trying to say his name.

Her hand moved to cup his cheek, pulling his lips back to hers, and once the kiss ended, she breathed, “God, yes.” Elinor nestled her cheek against his shoulder.

He held her tightly, momentarily thanking the stars she wasn’t crying or begging for release from wifely obligations. When he’d marshaled his emotions somewhat, he withdrew from her, pausing when she whimpered. “Elinor?” He spoke urgently, stretching alongside her and putting a worried hand over her concave stomach. “Love?”

“N-nothing. Just getting … used to this. I-I have to tell you my dreams are going to be very different now.”

“How so?”

“Well, I think I underestimated how very fond of my breasts you are.”

He smirked and laid a hand over her right breast, squeezing the soft flesh just enough to see her breath catch. “I’m glad I hid my fervor for them so well.”

“And now I, um, I think I understand why brides aren’t expected to be seen out and about for a week or so after the wedding.”

That made him laugh. He gathered her close, none too eager to let go of her either. “I think you may discover there’s a secondary reason for that once you try moving around.” He kissed her temple and ran a gentle hand along her bare leg. “You may be rather sore for a day or two. But I’m glad you’re not dissuaded from trying further bed-sport once you’ve recovered.”

She did wince as her legs came together, but she laid her head on his chest, her hand idly stroking beneath his shirt. “To think of all the times I imagined touching you, and now… Can I confess something to you, my lord?”

“Of course.” He tightened his hold on her, breathing in the rose-and-amber scent of her hair.

“That day we met in the garden, I thought you the most handsome man I’d ever laid my eyes on. I was too distracted looking at you to pay attention to my feet.”

“And here I thought you were an angel that day, and myself a boor for wishing I could carry you up to my chamber instead of that damn couch.”

“I rather wish you could have,” she said with a winsome smile that drove him to brush his lips against hers.

“I shall confess something as well. I wanted you so badly, I might have considered killing your wretched cousin Henry once or twice.”

She replied with a breathy laugh. “Tristan! Don’t fib—” He put a finger on her mouth to stop her. Someday she might realize just how close Henry Weston came to having an unfortunate accident or fatal duel. Tristan knew himself too well for solid optimism on that score. He’d hated the man. And still did. He’d toyed with Elinor, hurt her, and abandoned her. Tristan had no intention of forgetting those crimes.

“I didn’t want to condemn you to endure this family, or the Ton, so I convinced myself it would be better to let you go. Until he threw you over, and you came to me for the governess position.”

“You’re joking. You must be.”

“I’m not. You were so collected. Calm. I saw strength in those lovely eyes, and I decided if there was the slightest chance you might survive being my Countess…” Tristan cupped her cheek, holding Elinor to his chest, as if their closeness would keep the world from hurting her. “I couldn’t let anyone else have you, Elinor. I’ve dragged you into a life you didn’t seek, because I could not bear the thought of another man touching you. But I’ll make it up to you every moment I am able, love. You will have anything you want in this world, all the comforts fortune can provide, and all of my sorry, selfish heart.”

Perhaps if he was open now, giving Elinor all he could, she would not shrink in on herself as Lady Wellington had, nor learn to fear and resent him. He had seen the general’s wife shy from her husband and society, noted the joy Wellington sought in his mistresses thanks to the disastrous shambles of his marriage to a woman unsuited to the role he pulled her into. Tristan had spent the last two months examining every strategy he could think of to avoid such an outcome with the woman his heart desired, but in the end theories would do him no good—he could only do his best and let Elinor herself choose whether they spiraled downward or forged a new path.

“You are more than I dared to hope for,” she replied, her eyelashes caressing his skin as she blinked. “There is much to learn, and I admit that I am nervous. But my determination is stronger. I will learn how to be your partner. Your countess. No matter what others may say or think, you are worth fighting for. I can endure whatever whispers or barbs they have for me. So long as I have you, you will have all of me.”

“Then it is settled.” He let his fingers trail along the rise of her breasts. “We will go forward together. Once we’ve both changed for dinner.” He smirked. “Cav may eat the tablecloth if we hold things up much longer.”

Epilogue