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Somehow it was both of those things all at once. As she became both weak and strong in his arms.
‘Briggs,’ she whispered.
‘Sleep, Beatrice.’
‘Will you stay with me?’
‘Yes.’
And after that, she knew nothing more.
Chapter Fourteen
Briggs did not have a restful sleep. He stayed on top of the bedclothes, fully dressed, with Beatrice curled safely beneath the blankets, nude still.
She had been beautiful. Accepting everything he had given with more strength than he had imagined possible. It was not just that she had withstood it, but she had enjoyed it. Had wholly and completely been his in that moment.
She had surrendered to the pain, and had found that glorious place where pleasure intersected with it. And her release had been brilliant.
And he had felt...
He had given her pieces of himself he had worked for years to hide. The truth of his childhood.
The truths of his needs.
Had she rejected them...
It would have been a rejection of each and every piece of who he was.
He had never shared that part of himself so completely with a woman who knew him. He had only ever come close with Serena. And Serena had been... She had been horrified. She had rejected his touch, his...
Desires. She had found them and him far too animalistic. She had never been one to give herself over entirely to the marital act, but when he had attempted to introduce more she had...
She never would have taken him in her mouth the way that Beatrice had done. And Beatrice had done so with an enthusiasm unmatched by any whore.
Though the whores he had consorted with certainly evinced a certain measure of enthusiasm, when one paid for the pleasure, one could hardly be certain as to whether or not it was authentic.
It had never mattered to him. One thing he liked about the transaction was that there was no rejection involved. There were no grey areas.
He never felt exposed in his dealings with prostitutes because it was simple. He asked for what he wanted, and if they did not wish to provide, they were under no obligation to, but they did not get their money.
With a wife it was different.
He had been young, and he had been naive, and he had been certain that they could forge a marriage much different than his parents. One that included trust and fidelity.
And that she could see to all his needs. Instead, she had found his needs appalling. After that day she had never shared his bed again, and of course, he had never pressed himself upon her. He never would have.
An essential piece of his desire was the willing supplication of the woman he wanted. He would not, and had not, touched his wife in a manner she had found distasteful.
But Beatrice had not found his needs appalling.
Beatrice stirred, soft and sleepy, and he reached out and touched her.
And the moment his fingertips connected with her hair, so silken and lovely, he imagined gripping her hips from behind, then tugging her hair back as he thrust into her from that position.
No. That was...
It would endanger her. There was a risk, even with precautions, and he could not take those risks. He would not even allow himself to think of it.
