she began to unbutton her nightdress, her head submissively angled downward.
I must be a good wife. I must be a good wife. I must be. . . .
Over and over, she silently repeated those six simple words, desperately trying to draw strength from them.
Having opened enough buttons, she pulled the embroidered white fabric off her shoulders and shoved it to her waist, exposing her upper body for her husband’s perusal. Fearful of what she might see if she peered at Ben’s face, she closed her eyes.
I’ve all but thrown myself at him. Surely, now he will see fit to perform his marital duty.
L aboring to catch his breath, Ben stared at his wife. Yes, he’d taunted her. But he never expected that it would result in this trembling vision of womanly perfection.
Sweet Jesus. She was a thing of beauty. Utterly, profoundly beautiful.
Her breasts were much as he’d fantasized, smooth and full. But her nipples . . . truth be told, he’d been all wrong in conjuring them in his mind’s eye. Rather than the small pert nubs that he’d imagined, Lydia instead had large dollar-sized nipples. Rosy-hued and distended, they fairly begged a man to suck on them.
And it was taking every fiber of self-control that Ben possessed not to do just that.
Just what the hell is she trying to do me, anyway?
Clenching his teeth, Ben shuddered, his body seized with a yearning so potent, he damned near choked on it. What he wanted – unrestrained, enthusiastic lovemaking – Lydia was unwilling to give him. Not that she would kick, or scream, or even resist him, for that matter. Hell, just look at her, standing there like a sacrificial virgin.
Yes, she was his for the taking. But Ben didn’t want Lydia if she was going lie beneath him, cold and brittle, her eyes squeezed shut as she silently counted away the minutes while he plowed her body. He figured it’d be a lot like making love to a corpse.
“Please tell me what . . . what you want?” Lydia whispered, her eyes still clamped shut, her hands tightly balled at the side of her hips.
Maybe I just want you to dream about me – my face, my kisses, my body – instead of some dead man. Is that so much to ask?
Ben knew full-well that most men would be satisfied – hell, they’d be downright elated – to have a woman beneath them at night. And they wouldn’t much care what she was thinking or who she was dreaming about.
But he wasn’t most men. He was Lydia’s husband, for Christ’s sake.
It wasn’t as though he was asking her to love him. He might as well try to wrest the stars from the night sky than do that. All he was asking was that she cry his name in her sleep.
Shoving himself to his feet, Ben stepped toward his wife.
“All right, Mrs. Strong. I’ve seen enough,” he muttered, yanking her nightdress over her breasts.
Lydia’s eyes flew open, her hands awkwardly grabbing at the gaping fabric of her go wn. “Aren’t you going to. . . ?” She shyly glanced at the bed, too ladylike to say the words aloud.
“ Give you a good night poke?”
Ben derived no satisfaction from Lydia’s startled gasp. He knew that he shouldn’t have phrased it like that. But he was feeling mean and ornery. And having a painful hard-on shoving against the front of his britches didn’t improve his disposition any.
“No, I’m not going to give you a poke.” He reached for the lantern and, with a twist of his wrist, plunged the wagon into darkness. “Now, get into that bed, woman. I’ve had about all I can take for one night.”
“Need I remind you, Mister Strong, that I do have a name,” Lydia snipped as she sidled past him.
Bending at the waist, Ben tugged a boot off of his foot, carelessly dropping it onto the floor. “Yeah? Well, so do I. And it sure as hell ain’t Mister.”
After tossing aside his other boot, Ben unbuttoned his trousers and shoved them off his hips, not bothering to hang them up.
Garbed in his long underwear, he pulled back the quilt and slid into the bed
I must be a good wife. I must be a good wife. I must be. . . .
Over and over, she silently repeated those six simple words, desperately trying to draw strength from them.
Having opened enough buttons, she pulled the embroidered white fabric off her shoulders and shoved it to her waist, exposing her upper body for her husband’s perusal. Fearful of what she might see if she peered at Ben’s face, she closed her eyes.
I’ve all but thrown myself at him. Surely, now he will see fit to perform his marital duty.
L aboring to catch his breath, Ben stared at his wife. Yes, he’d taunted her. But he never expected that it would result in this trembling vision of womanly perfection.
Sweet Jesus. She was a thing of beauty. Utterly, profoundly beautiful.
Her breasts were much as he’d fantasized, smooth and full. But her nipples . . . truth be told, he’d been all wrong in conjuring them in his mind’s eye. Rather than the small pert nubs that he’d imagined, Lydia instead had large dollar-sized nipples. Rosy-hued and distended, they fairly begged a man to suck on them.
And it was taking every fiber of self-control that Ben possessed not to do just that.
Just what the hell is she trying to do me, anyway?
Clenching his teeth, Ben shuddered, his body seized with a yearning so potent, he damned near choked on it. What he wanted – unrestrained, enthusiastic lovemaking – Lydia was unwilling to give him. Not that she would kick, or scream, or even resist him, for that matter. Hell, just look at her, standing there like a sacrificial virgin.
Yes, she was his for the taking. But Ben didn’t want Lydia if she was going lie beneath him, cold and brittle, her eyes squeezed shut as she silently counted away the minutes while he plowed her body. He figured it’d be a lot like making love to a corpse.
“Please tell me what . . . what you want?” Lydia whispered, her eyes still clamped shut, her hands tightly balled at the side of her hips.
Maybe I just want you to dream about me – my face, my kisses, my body – instead of some dead man. Is that so much to ask?
Ben knew full-well that most men would be satisfied – hell, they’d be downright elated – to have a woman beneath them at night. And they wouldn’t much care what she was thinking or who she was dreaming about.
But he wasn’t most men. He was Lydia’s husband, for Christ’s sake.
It wasn’t as though he was asking her to love him. He might as well try to wrest the stars from the night sky than do that. All he was asking was that she cry his name in her sleep.
Shoving himself to his feet, Ben stepped toward his wife.
“All right, Mrs. Strong. I’ve seen enough,” he muttered, yanking her nightdress over her breasts.
Lydia’s eyes flew open, her hands awkwardly grabbing at the gaping fabric of her go wn. “Aren’t you going to. . . ?” She shyly glanced at the bed, too ladylike to say the words aloud.
“ Give you a good night poke?”
Ben derived no satisfaction from Lydia’s startled gasp. He knew that he shouldn’t have phrased it like that. But he was feeling mean and ornery. And having a painful hard-on shoving against the front of his britches didn’t improve his disposition any.
“No, I’m not going to give you a poke.” He reached for the lantern and, with a twist of his wrist, plunged the wagon into darkness. “Now, get into that bed, woman. I’ve had about all I can take for one night.”
“Need I remind you, Mister Strong, that I do have a name,” Lydia snipped as she sidled past him.
Bending at the waist, Ben tugged a boot off of his foot, carelessly dropping it onto the floor. “Yeah? Well, so do I. And it sure as hell ain’t Mister.”
After tossing aside his other boot, Ben unbuttoned his trousers and shoved them off his hips, not bothering to hang them up.
Garbed in his long underwear, he pulled back the quilt and slid into the bed
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