Page 41 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

She punched a pillow and settled herself down beside him. “I couldn’t sleep much last night; I was too excited,” she confessed.

Again, her words had that same effect on his chest. A sort of squeezing sensation. “Will I fit in your bed?” he asked, using practicality to dispel the strange sensations. “Or do I need to buy us a new one?”

“Oh.” She eyed him up and down. “Well, by rights, you should,” she said doubtfully, “if you were a regular-sized man, but you’re so large that I can’t be entirely certain.”

Clem grinned. “Think I’m large, do you?”

“You must know you are.” Her gaze lingered over his exposed chest a moment, before skittering away.

“A fine specimen?” he persisted.

“Now you are just fishing for compliments, Mr. Dabney.”

He laughed. “Maybe I am.”

She smiled back at him. “You’re a fine figure of a man,” she said warmly, but it wasn’t enough. Not by a long chalk. He wanted her touch.

He rolled onto his side, toward her, reaching for her hand and drawing it onto his chest. “Stroke my chest, Dora,” he ordered.

“How do you like it?” This threw him, for he had never actually requested this kind of touch from a woman before.

“That’s cheating. Why don’t you experiment and find out.”

Dora gave a smothered laugh and then started lightly circling his chest. “How’s this?”

“Nice,” he admitted, rolling once more onto his back. “Keep doing it.” He let his eyes drift shut.

“Maybe it’s not so bad having hot hands,” she observed aloud.

“Not so good for handling pastry,” he agreed without opening his eyes, “but very good for handling dick.”

Dora met his words with an astonished silence, then she burst out laughing. “I wonder if all husbands talk to their wives as you do,” she mused aloud.

That struck him into silence. He cleared his throat. “You don’t like it?” he asked.

“No, I do! What I meant was, do men start being much franker with women once they happen to be their wives.”

Clem shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t really know.”

“But you’re a married man now,” she pointed out reasonably.

Well, that was true enough. Clem swallowed. “I suppose I am,” he agreed dazedly.

Her hands stopped circling and were now rubbing gently back and forth. Clem had to suppress a groan.

“Clem?” she said softly.

“Hmm, what?”

“I lied earlier,” she said quietly.

He turned his head sharply. “About what?”

“The touching thing. I know I like to be touched … I have touched myself; I mean.” She was bright fucking red at this point, though her voice was steady. “Down there.” The last two words were little more than a whisper.

He couldn’t speak for a few heartbeats, not a single fucking word. “Between your legs?” Clem asked carefully, not using his usual word for it. She was a lady after all. She nodded. Clem clicked his tongue. “What a pretty little liar you are, Dora mine,” he breathed admiringly. “Now as a penance, you have to tell me all about it.”

“Tell you?” She sounded surprised. The tantalizing thought struck Clem that she might not have been averse to showing him. “Well,” she started weakly, “you see in our house we have always shared books. My uncle encouraged us to buy all the books we wanted and to discuss them freely over dinner. We’ve always done it.”