Page 41 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“But I do ask.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them again, and he caught, once more, a flicker of sorrow in them.

“Yes, you may.”

He dipped his head and placed a kiss on her breast, relishing the soft scent of her skin—sweet floral notes mingled with a deeper, sharper fragrance. Her chest rose and fell with each breath as he peppered her skin with kisses, then her nipple hardened as he nudged it with his nose.

Emboldened, he flicked his tongue out, then curled it around the little peak. It hardened further against his tongue, and, compelled by a hunger that demanded to be satisfied, he clamped his mouth over her nipple and sucked, hard, drawing it into his mouth.

“Oh, sweet heaven—my James!”

Her body bucked as she cried out. Grasping her arms, he continued to suckle her breast while she writhed beneath him, until her cries subsided to whimpers.

My James…

What a sweet song for a man to hear—his name on a woman’s lips while she cried out in pleasure!

His Dahlia had taught him well.

When his bride relaxed, he continued a path of kisses along her stomach, until he reached the dark curls at her center, where the sharp scent intensified. He slipped his hand between her thighs, where her skin had turned a delicious shade of pink. Relishing the heat on her skin, he caressed her thighs with his fingers before slipping them into the nest of curls to the sweet flesh within.

How smooth and slick she was! Was that what his schoolfellows had spoken of when they boasted of how wet they made a woman’s cunny?

He winced at the crude term. Such thoughts had no place either in his mind or on his lips when his beautiful, innocent bride was before him.

Hs cock fit to burst, James gritted his teeth to fight the urge to plunge inside her. He coaxed her thighs apart, gently but firmly, and her breathing deepened. He glanced up to see her chest rising and falling rapidly, her breasts shifting with each movement, their delicious nipples still hard and erect. Her eyes were closed, head back against the pillows, mouth open as if she were awaiting entry into heaven.

There was no doubt about it. She was ready.

For me.

He settled himself on top of her, his manhood pulsing against her thigh, and she let out a long, low groan.

Drawing in a deep breath, he shifted position until the tip of him slid into her curls.

“James…”

She whimpered and tilted her hips until his tip met her entrance. He began to ease into her and looked down, relishing the wicked image of his manhood half buried in her curls.

Then he froze.

On her right thigh was a tiny pink mark on her skin, in the shape of a flower.

A unique mark. A mole.

The same mole that he’d kissed only a fortnight ago in this very building.

He withdrew and sat back, drawing in a sharp breath.

“Dear Lord, no,” he whispered. “It cannot be!”

“James?”

He glanced up to see his bride staring at him. At last, he understood the apprehension in her eyes. She was not fearful of the wedding night.

She was fearful of being found out.

She sat up, her cheeks coloring. The fear in her eyes turned into shame.