Wizards Daughter

What if she were repulsed? What if she thought him the ugliest creature on God's earth?

She was breathing hard; he heard it and wondered what she was thinking, feeling. He continued to stand there, looking down at his big toe, stubbed in his haste to get her away from his grandfather's bedchamber. It pulsed with pain. It steadied him. What was she thinking? What-

She came up on her elbows, never looking away from him. "You are beautiful, Nicholas. I never imagined a man could look like you do, all hard and smooth. I mean-" She actually broke off, swallowed, and her eyes went right to his sex.

He was aroused, nothing he could do about it. He was beautiful? He cleared his throat. "You think all of me is beautiful? Or just parts? Or maybe just my feet? I was told once that I had David's feet, you know, Michelangelo's sculpture? What do you think?"

Whatever she thought remained unspoken. She looked utterly absorbed, staring, staring, and her eyes were looking nowhere near his face. Because he was a man, because a woman's attention was focused on him, he predictably got bigger.

She sat up suddenly, swung her legs over the had, and reached out her hand toward him. Then her face flamed red and she dropped her hand back to her lap. A pity that, he thought. She whispered, "Oh, dear, as fascinating as you look, I don't think this will work. I'm very sorry, Nicholas."

"It will work, I promise you." He walked to the narrow had. She squeaked, rolled, and nearly fell off the other side.

"Didn't you see it work quite well in your book? And all those gentlemen were far more well-endowed than I am."

She clutched a pillow to her chest. "Well, yes, I suppose so. But you're not a drawing, Nicholas, you're a man, all real flesh and blood and you're standing right by my had."

"We will go slowly," he said, and prayed he could manage that tall order. It would be a close thing, but he was determined not to muck it up. "Come back to me, sweetheart, and let me see you. You want to be fair about this, don't you?"

"No."

"Here I am, naked to my feet, and you're still dressed ready for a ball."

She gave him a long, considering look. "All right," she said and scooted back to him. She lay on her back, her arms at her sides, and closed her eyes.

Again, he couldn't help himself, he laughed. "If you would clasp your hands together over your breasts, I could slip a lily between your fingers. Oh, Lord, Rosalind, you look like a half-dressed sacrifice."

Her eyes remained tightly shut. "I am."

He was still laughing when he tossed her gown to the foot of the bed. He studied the acres of virginal white petticoats, her slippered toes sticking out. He must be careful not to rip the lovely lace-edged white chemise. He got her slippers off, pulled her stockings down, smiled at the hand-stitched pale blue garters she wore. He looked at those long narrow feet of hers, the nice arches. He wanted to lick her toes.

Her eyes popped open when he lifted her bare foot to his mouth. "What are you doing?"

He licked and caressed his way up to her knees. "You are really going to like this." He raised her leg, her petticoats frothing around them, and began kissing and licking the back of her knee.

Bless her heart, she didn't move, but since his ears were attuned to any sort of sound she might make, he heard her breathing jerk a bit. Suddenly, she shot upright and leapt on him, taking him backwards. They rolled off the bed and landed on the floor, Nicholas thankfully on bottom. A rug was beneath his butt but his back was on the bare oak planks, scratchy and cold.

Who cared?

She kissed his nose, his chin, his ears, licked his jaw, and he thought he'd die when she slipped her tongue inside his mouth.

He went to work on the billowing petticoats-five of them-and soon they looked like small snow mounds scattered across the small bedchamber. When she was wearing naught but her lovely chemise, she was lying on top of him, her hands all over his face, tugging at his hair, kissing his nose, his eyebrows, his mouth. He eased his hands beneath the chemise and nearly expired at the feel of her.

"Now there is nothing between thee and me," he said.

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She reared up, stared down at him as he kneaded her flesh. She moaned, looked horrified, then she whispered, "Nicholas," and kissed him again.

His fingers stroked her i

Her maidenhead. He knew she'd have one, virgins did, though he'd never before been this close to one. But feeling it, actually touching her maidenhead nearly made him howl. He grabbed her up and tossed her onto the bed, came down over her, and shoved her legs wide.

He breathed hard and fast into her mouth. "Rosalind, tell me you want me this very instant."

"I want you. But I'm still wearing my chemise."

He cursed, reared back, and tore the chemise off her.

"Oh, dear, Nicholas, we mustn't tell Aunt Sophie what happened to the chemise she made. Perhaps-"

He knelt between those lovely white legs, pushed them wide, lifted her hips, and gave her his mouth.

She yelled so loud surely Cook could hear her, and jerked away, pressing hard against the headboard of the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, and jerked the covers over her.

Nicholas stared at her. His mouth was wet with her, her scent in his nostrils, her taste in his mouth, and his brain empty. He was panting hard. He wanted to cry. What to say? She didn't look frightened, she looked appalled. He must be a man of the world here, fluent and self-assured. Was he capable? He cleared his throat. "Listen to me, Rosalind, this is very important to me. Kissing you with my mouth is vitai to me, it is what a man must have in order to gain pleasure from coupling. Surely you know that, don't you?"

"No, I've never heard of such a thing. That can't be right, Nicholas, it is a mistake, your aim was wrong. You wanted the back of my knee again, or perhaps you wished to lick the bottom of my foot, not-oh, dear."

"You would deny me pleasure on our wedding night? You do not care for me at all?"

She saw him between her legs, his mouth, his tongue, touching her, kissing her, and she nearly folded up into nothing at all at the mortification of it.

He gave a very deep sigh. "I see you do not trust me to do what is right and proper." He sighed again, not looking at her, but at his toe, which was throbbing again.

"Oh, no, Nicholas, it isn't that, it's-"

A man made a decision and acted, he thought. He grabbed her, flattened her onto her back again, pulled her legs apart, and sat on his heels between them. "Now," he said, "you will enjoy this." Again he gave her his mouth and this time, to be on the safe side, he held her down with the flat of his hand on her belly. When, thank the blessed Lord, her shock became astonished pleasure, she moaned, twisted the sheets in her fists, and moaned again. If he could have thought of any words, he would have sung to the heavens. When her hands were wild on his naked back, on his hips, her nails scoring his flesh, he was quite willing and ready to conquer the world.

Her fists struck his shoulders, her fingers shoveled in his hair, yanking hard, but it was nothing. Suddenly, quite suddenly, she heaved up, arched her back, and screamed as her orgasm tore through her. It was wonderful, beyond wonderful, and he reveled in it, holding her firmly in those precious moments, pushing her, giving her all he could. He welcomed the strength of it, the intensity of it, and it burrowed deeply inside him. He began to love her more gently now as he felt her ease. Finally, when she was as limp as the sheets, he raised his head to see her staring up at him, her eyes a deeper blue, if that were possible, dreamy and bewildered. Her red hair was tangled around her head and face and all her beautiful white flesh, her legs sprawled-he reared up and came inside her, hard and fast and deep. When she screamed again, as he knew she must, his palm was over her mouth. He felt her pain, but he didn't stop, not until he pressed against her womb. His heart pounded, he trembled like a palsied man, but discipline was the important thing hare.