Free Her Wicked Sin by Sarah Ballance Page A

back, and she marveled at the strength she had not yet seen—at the rise and fall of tightly formed muscle under smooth skin. Her mind wandered lower, and though she dared not risk the barrier of his breeches, the thought of what awaited left her undeniably shaken.
    “I wish to know you as my wife,” he said, his words a coarse and desperate whisper.
    “Then you shall,” she replied, her words a breathy promise, the consequences of which she would neither consider nor deny.
    He released her hair and began to work on her bodice, though he could only grope clumsily at the tiny buttons at a pace much too slow. But when her attention turned from his fumbles to the expanse of his chest, she decided he could tarry the process all he desired, for never had she seen a man so magnificent. Thick, wide shoulders gave way to a powerful chest, which then narrowed into a chiseled stomach as rigid as a washboard. Though she had seen shirtless men in her time, never had such a combination of raw power met with such fine, unmarred skin. Never had she imagined something so hard could be so silken to her touch—or that she would tremble with such anticipation for any man, let alone that one existed who could release her every inhibition in a single day’s time.
    Every layer of clothing from which he freed her begged new urgency for their coupling, though he seemed to grow steadier with each displaced piece. When he uncovered her chemise—the last barrier—she shivered in spite of the warm fire.
    He paused to stare, his expression one of awe. “You are far lovelier than I dared imagine.”
    “You have spent much time in thought of this?” she asked.
    “Verily, you have not an idea.”
    “What if I might?”
    “Then you are a far greater match for me than I thought possible, my love.” And with that small concession, he touched his mouth to hers, wasting not a moment before pressing for entry.
    She welcomed him, shy but willing, and was treated to the exquisite pleasure of his explorations. His tongue swept thoroughly her mouth, drawing from her urges she dared not speak, no matter how great her need.
    Her peaked breasts begged without shame for his attention, and he managed acknowledgement of this without lessening his hold on her mouth. Still standing—though she did not know how, for his knee surely protested—he cupped her womanly curves through the thin chemise and held, gently. The unexpected pleasure of the sensation momentarily left her in a fit of pleasurable moans.
    “Do I maintain your permission?” he asked.
    She looked from his chest, where a light sheen of moisture had taken hold, to the richness of his eyes. Several strands of hair fell across his face, begging to be brushed aside, but the roughness of him delighted her without mercy. “You do,” she whispered.
    His grin had such a naughty side she swore to herself she would remember it always. “I cannot throw you to the mattress,” he said, “lest I render myself further useless, but rest assured my passions are justly heightened.”
    “And suppose you could,” she dared say. “What would come of it?”
    He answered by feasting again on her mouth, distracting her so fully she did not realize until her legs met the bed that he had managed to move her backward across the floor. He released her, then disrobed from his breeches with haste.
    She gasped at the sight of him, hard and true.
    “You may speak your protest at any time,” he said, his voice a rather unsteady version of itself. “And I will honor it.”
    Lydia stared, wishing she dared touch him. “Surely you do not wish to free yourself of the burden of due benevolence, husband.”
    “I think not,” he said. He crawled over her, caging her against the mattress, keeping his weight to his good leg. He raised her chemise to her belly, baring her womanhood, and gently worked the garment over her head. Basking in his appraisal, she knew the heat of her pooling desire—a sensation she had never