Sherbrooke Twins

“Oh dear, James, what’s wrong with you?”

It was enough; it was too much.

“It’s lust, isn’t it?” she whispered, eyes alight with appalled excitement.

“Yes.” He grabbed her around her waist, lifted her and tossed her onto her back. He came down over her, fitting himself between her legs. The touch of her, the scent of her flesh, the sound of her breathing, harsh and loud, it pushed him right to the edge and shoved him over.

He knew in some small corner of his brain that he was a clod; his father would disown him if he ever found out.

But it didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. There was only the here, the now, and the two of them, and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He raised her legs, looked at her soft flesh, lightly touched her, and that was all it took. He was shuddering so violently he knew he was going to spill his seed, right here, and he knew that couldn’t happen, just couldn’t, or he’d have to throw himself off the cliff into Poe Valley.

He parted her with his fingers, didn’t think about any consequences at all, and came into her. Oh God, she was tight; nowhere near ready for him, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t have stopped himself if someone had dumped buckets of cold water on him. He went into her, hard, felt her maidenhead. He closed his eyes at the knowledge that he was the first and that he would be the last. He looked down at her white face, her eyes filled with tears, and he said, “Corrie, you’re mine. Never forget that, never-oh damn, forgive me-” and he pushed through her maidenhead, kept pushing until he touched her womb, and then it was all over for him. He reared back, yelled to the ceiling of the bedchamber, then stared, frozen, down at her, and collapsed heavily on top of her. He managed to kiss her ear.

He was dead, or very nearly, and who cared? He felt wonderful. He felt whole. He no longer felt the surge of lust that had driven him mad; he felt complete, his world was perfect, and he was very sleepy. Hit to his soul, he was. He kissed her cheek, tasted the salt of her tears, and he wondered only an instant about that, and fell asleep, his head beside hers, dead weight on top of her.

Corrie didn’t move, wasn’t about to move. He was still inside her, and she was content to lie there absorbing the feelings, letting the pain ease away from her, feeling his sweat drying on her body, feeling the smooth pumping of his heart against hers, feeling the hair on his chest against her breasts. He’d touched her breasts, touched between her legs-looked at her-and come into her like he was going to ram through a door.

He gave a light trilling snore. He was asleep? How could he be asleep? She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to pace the bedchamber, perhaps stagger a bit because she hurt, deep inside, but it was fading quickly now. Her tears were drying and itching her flesh, and he was heavy on top of her, and he felt wonderful, big and solid, perfect, truth be told, and he was hers.

He was also still inside her, but not so much now. She was naked, James was naked, and he was snoring lightly in her left ear, and what was one to think about that?

The room was cooling down. She tried to move, but couldn’t. Should she wake him up and ask him to pull himself out of her, perhaps cover himself before he went back to snoring?

No. She managed to pull the counterpane over both of them. That was better. It was nearly dark, the light dull and gray as it filtered through the window curtains.

She clasped her fingers together at the middle of his back, lightly squeezed. Her husband, this man who was once the boy who’d tossed her into the air when she was a little mite of a thing, and he’d tossed her one too many times and she’d vomited on him. She didn’t remember doing that, but her Aunt Maybella would laugh even today when she remembered it. “James,” Aunt Maybella said, “didn’t pick you up again for at least a year.”

And she remembered very clearly when he’d explained her woman’s monthly flow to her when she was thirteen and he barely twenty, a young man, but he’d done it, and he’d done it well. She realized now that he’d been embarrassed, had probably wanted to run, but he hadn’t. He’d taken her hand, and he’d been kind, matter-of-fact, then told her the cramping in her belly would go away soon. And it had. She’d trusted James more than anyone in her life. Of course, he and Jason were gone much of the time, to Oxford, then young men turned loose on London. He’d been so very grown-up when he’d been home, and that’s when she’d learned how to sneer.

Corrie sighed deeply, tightened her hold around his back, realized that he wasn’t inside her any longer, and fell asleep herself, his breath warm and sweet in her ear.

JAMES WANTED TO shoot himself. He couldn’t believe what he’d done.

And now Corrie was gone. She’d left him, probably returned to London to tell his father and mother that their precious son had first ravished her and then fallen asleep on top of her, not a sweet or comforting word out of his mouth before his head had hit the pillow.

He rose, shivered because no one had come to light the fire in the grate, thank God, and saw that her valise was in the corner. He felt immense relief. She hadn’t left him.

There was a knock on the door. “Milord?”

“Yes?” He looked around for his own valise.

“It’s Elsie, milord, here with hot water for yer bath. Her ladyship said ye’d be wanting it.”

Five minutes later, James sat in the large copper tub, hot water lapping at his chest, his eyes closed, wondering what the devil he was going to say to his wife of, what was it? Oh yes, his wife of approximately six hours. She’d sent up hot water for him. What did that mean?

At least she hadn’t left him.

The hot water sank all the way through him, and he let himself sink deeper until he was nearly asleep again.

“I had no idea that this marriage business would require you to sleep for a week to recuperate. How do men accomplish anything at all, if-” She stalled.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Thank you for sending up the water. It’s nice and hot, as I like it.”

“You’re welcome. You’re looking quite lovely in that tub, James, all sprawled out, just hints of what’s under that water.”

He cocked open an eye at that. Corrie was gowned in a lovely green wool, her hair was up in a knot on her head, but her face was pale, too pale. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Corrie. I’m sorry that I rushed you. How do you feel?”

She flushed. She’d thought she was beyond that, believed nothing could make her tongue-tied or embarrassed, not after what he’d done to her, but here she was flushing like a-a what? She didn’t know; she felt like a fool, and somehow a failure. “I’m quite all right, James.”

“Would you wash my back, Corrie?”

Wash a man’s back? “All right. Where’s the sponge?”

“Here’s a cloth.” He brought it up from the depths of the water. Where had that cloth been? She swallowed, took the cloth, and was relieved to move behind him.

That long stretch of back, the muscles well-defined, smooth, and she wanted to throw that wretched cloth across the room and smooth soap over his back with her hands, feel him, let her fingers learn him.

She rubbed soap on the cloth and went at it.

He sighed, leaning more forward.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll do it. Thank you. That was wonderful.”

He held out his hand and she dropped the wet cloth into it. Then he started washing himself.

“Men have no modesty.”

“Well, if you wish to watch, there’s little I can do to stop you.”

“You’re right,” she said, sighed, and went to sit in a chair across the room. She sighed again, stood up, and pushed the chair much closer, not more than three feet away from him in his tub. James gri