Little does she know.
“Did you think I wouldn’t see you naked?” I inquire softly.
She flinches. “No.”
“Or that I’d only come to you at night, when it’s dark and you’re under the covers?”
A flush stains her cheeks, but she lifts her chin. A queen could not be more imperious than she looks now. Her arms lift away from her body. She might be at a dressmaker’s for all the concern she shows. “Lila, you may begin.”
Lila works first at her gloves, pulling back the satin to reveal slender forearms. I turn an armchair in front of the fireplace to face Isabella. Then I sit and cross one leg over the other. Patience. Control. Command. No amount of wild lust will consume me.
Isabella keeps her eyes on mine while Lila moves behind her. The process of deconstructing the dress happens in stages. The wedding gown comes away first, lifted carefully over Isabella’s head and laid over one of the satin-backed chairs to wait. Then her petticoat comes away. It gave her gown its dreamlike shape for our ceremony.
Next comes her delicately embroidered corset.
My bride’s cheeks pink up at the loss of the corset, but she doesn’t look away. Neither do I. I’m marking time by the rise and fall of her chest.
“Stop,” I say.
Lila’s hands drop to her sides, her eyes going to the floor. “Come closer.”
Isabella glances at Lila, then takes a few tentative steps toward me. Watching her move in the corset and nothing else briefly tests my commitment to patience.
I gesture to Lila to continue. Her hands are efficient on the laces, and my bride stays straight-backed and blushing as the material comes away from her skin to reveal her breasts. Pink nipples. Creamy skin that will mark beautifully. I could tie her hands behind her back and hurt them now, but that’s not for our wedding night.
She’s starting to wonder when I’ll touch her, my perfect bride. I can see it in her eyes. She’s remembering my mouth between her spread thighs, hidden from her by the lace of her dress. There’s nothing to hide her from me now.
Another test. For her, and for me. A less-disciplined woman might not be able to stand the wait. Might disobey me and climb onto my lap before I’ve commanded it.
Isabella doesn’t. She stands before me in only her heels. A tremble in her arms suggests that she would very much like to cover herself. I wish she would so I could punish her now instead of waiting. It’s a powerful wish, and one I won’t indulge. She’s not ready. My cock disagrees. I overrule.
“Bathe her,” I say, gesturing to the steaming tub. “There’s lavender oil. Use it over every inch of her skin. Then dry her well.”
It’s torture to watch Lila’s clever hands working over my wife’s slippery skin. It’s an exercise in restraint, which is of course the entire point. Proving to myself that I can wait.
When the bath is done, the maid dries Isabella with a plush white towel.
I rise from my chair and put a hand on her elbow. My bride allows herself to be guided to the bed. At the edge, she hesitates. Her teeth worry at her bottom lip. The serene expression she wore as she came down the aisle slips back into place.
Isabella does not ask the question I know she wants to ask.
“On the bed,” I tell her. “On your back.”
Her cheeks turn a deeper red, and I wonder how long she can hold out before she finally blurts out her burning question: Is the maid going to watch us consummate our marriage?
No. She will not.
However, what comes next will probably shock her more.
Isabella’s knees spread under the pressure of my palms. She keeps her hands flat on the comforter. I run my fingers over her slick folds. Her arousal is obvious and intoxicating. More intoxicating than it has any right to be. I keep my mind on the task at hand. “You’re wet,” I comment. “But not ready. Lila.”
Lila steps forward without hesitation and kneels between Isabella’s knees. Isabella pushes herself up on her elbows. “What is this?” Fear sings in her voice, but her curiosity hasn’t gone away. She does not close her legs. “Sir.”
It sounds so pretty on her lips. “On your back. Lila is going to prepare you for me.” I use the same words intentionally. This is the way my bride will learn the shape of my expectations. The range. “Knees wide. Get her ready, Lila. Dripping.”
There’s a battle on Isabella’s face. Her breathing quickens and hitches as Lila puts a hand on each of her thighs and leans in close. “Wait,” she says.
Lila pauses.
“Yes, my dear wife?” I ask, my tone mild.
“She’s not… you.”
I stroke my wife’s beautiful blonde hair back from her cheek. “No, she’s not me. I tasted you once tonight, and though you were delicious, now your maid is going to prepare you for me. She’s going to make you wet and slick for my cock.”
My wife flushes hard. “I don’t know what to think.”
“You don’t have to think. Only feel. Are you going to be a good girl for me?”
A short, hesitant nod.
I glance at Lila to give her permission to continue.
At the first stroke of her pink tongue, Isabella closes her eyes.
I pinch one of her nipples. Hard. Her eyes fly open. “I want to see you.”
More than that. Lila’s tongue on Isabella’s flesh sends lightning strikes of need to scorch the earth of my mind. Of emotions. Isabella makes a soft sound, her thighs trembling, because Lila has given up her tentative licks and pressed her face into Isabella’s slit. She devours her in hungry strokes, the slip and slide of her tongue loud in the quiet room.
Another moan from Isabella. Her hips move up off the bed, and a small piece of my restraint snaps. “Enough.”
Lila pulls away and stands, her eyes on the floor, her hands behind her back. Her chin is coated with my wife’s juices. Isabella looks from me to her and back again, lips parted and desperate.
“Leave us,” I mutter to Lila, and she exits the room gracefully and silently.
It takes everything in my body and in my soul not to leap over Isabella like a wild animal. The urge is there, and strong. I won’t indulge it, or the sharp jealousy that pierces my chest. I wanted to embarrass my pretty bride, and I did. I wanted to push her toward one of her boundaries, and I did. I might also have pushed us toward one of my own.
Between Isabella’s knees, I use my hips to stop her from closing her legs and unzip my pants. It’s a visceral relief. I’ve needed this since I touched her after our ceremony. Since I kissed her in front of all those people in the church. Since her mouth was on me in the car.
I thought that would sate me, but I’m aching for her.
“I’m going to take you now.” My fist is wrapped tight around my length, and I bring the head to her opening with great care. “There will be pain. You will bleed.”
Isabella searches my face, panting. “And you’ll—like that?”
“Yes.” I’m not going to lie to her.
She’s tight. Her opening grips me at first touch. Isabella inches her thighs apart, her expression determined. Her hands close tight on the bedspread. I sink in another inch.
Isabella arches. I can see the pain in her eyes. The shake in her thighs gives away how much I’m stretching her. An experimental thrust makes her breathe out hard. Giving in to the pain. Mastering it, if only a little.