He immediately realized the import of what he’d done: She’d been a virgin and he’d deflowered her. He halted, frozen in mid-thrust, and he glared down at her as if she’d tricked him.
“This was your first time,” he murmured, and his tone was scolding.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did tell you, over and over, but you’re a man so you never listen. I’m not loose, and I never have been.”
“Then why . . . ? Why me? Why?”
He looked perplexed, and she cradled his cheek in her palm.
“I wanted you to be the one,” she gently replied, as if clarifying a difficult concept for a child.
“But . . . why?” he repeated.
“I like you much more than I should. I predicted it would be marvelous with you, and I was right.”
“I can’t marry you,” he blurted out. “Is that what you’re hoping?”
Trust a man to say exactly the wrong thing! She should have hit him. “Don’t be an idiot. I was never hoping for that.”
“This is too precious of a gift. What am I to do with it?”
“You said you needed me to be yours. Now I am.”
He studied her for an eternity, then he nodded. “You are mine, and I’m not sharing you with anyone.”
“No, not with anyone. Not ever.”
“Swear it to me. Swear you’ll always be mine alone.”
“Always yours,” she vowed, and she meant it.
The joining of their bodies was much more intimate than she could ever have fathomed. She would never attempt it with a subsequent partner.
He kissed her tenderly, saying, “I can’t hold back.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“It should be more special for you.”
“It’s special enough,” she responded. “Don’t ever think it’s not.”
With a groan that sounded near to despair, he started flexing into her. He would push in all the way, then pull out to the tip, then push in again. She participated eagerly, following his lead, but then, he made it incredibly easy. She simply held on tight—as if she was on a raft on a rampaging river—and she struggled to keep track of every detail.
Much before she was ready, much before she’d gotten the hang of it, he shoved in, and with another intense groan, he spilled himself against her womb. She was aware that a man could withdraw at the end to prevent a babe from catching. Had he known that? If he had, he certainly hadn’t been concerned about it.
The copulation had spiraled so rapidly and concluded so rapidly that she hadn’t had a second to ponder the problem. Nor had she thought to discuss it with him. How did a passionate couple converse over that sort of topic?
She had no idea, but . . . ?
She wasn’t sorry. In the morning, she’d panic, but just then, she wasn’t worried about any possible ramifications.
He collapsed onto her, his weight pressing her down, but he didn’t feel heavy. He felt welcome, and she felt safe and cherished. They rested like that for a bit, then he rolled away and dropped onto his side. She rolled too so they were nose to nose.
“I’m completely flummoxed,” he said.
“Why?”
“I wasn’t worth it.”
She smiled. “Probably not, but I convinced myself to do it with you anyway.”
“You’re deranged, Libby Carstairs.”
“Perhaps.”
He sighed, and she sighed too, then tears flooded her eyes. On seeing them, he appeared stricken.
“Are you sad about this?” he asked.
“No. I’m simply overwhelmed. It was more . . . more . . . personal than I’d expected it would be.”
“You silly girl! You should have told me to slow down. I would have, but I didn’t know I needed to control myself.”
“I didn’t want you to slow down or control yourself.”
He snuggled her closer, hugging her as if she was very dear to him, which was precisely the reaction she was anxious to receive.
“What did you think of it?” he asked. “Tell me the truth.”
“It was different from how I assumed it would be. I had heard it was very physical, but I didn’t understand just how physical.”
“It gets better with practice.”
“I thought it was wonderful this time.”
He snorted at that and said, “I’m glad we did this. I’m glad we got it out of the way.”
“So am I.”
“Maybe now our lust won’t rage quite so hotly.”
“Maybe,” she agreed, but she wasn’t sincere. She’d never stop desiring him.
“No regrets. Promise?” he said.
“I promise.”
“It would kill me if you decided later on that we shouldn’t have proceeded.”
“I won’t ever decide that.”
“Good.”
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“We loaf for a while, then we try it again. If you’re not too sore . . . ?”
“I’m not sore. I’m . . . I’m . . .” She broke off and chuckled miserably. “I don’t know what I am, but I’m not sore.”
She hadn’t realized how draining the sexual event would be, and she was growing extremely lethargic. He was too. Would they fall asleep? Was it allowed? Would it be rude or inappropriate?
“You can’t drift off in here,” she said. “If we doze off, I’m afraid we won’t awaken until a housemaid wanders in to open the curtains in the morning.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
He shifted onto his back, and he drew her nearer so she was draped over him, their feet and legs tangled together, her ear directly over his heart so she could hear it beating.
“I’m happy,” he said. “You make me happy.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you could have told me.”
Those pesky tears bubbled up again, and if she didn’t watch out, she suspected she might cry like a baby.
There were always stories about a deflowering being very distressing, but she’d presumed she was made of sterner stuff than ordinary females. She’d figured she could march through the episode with nary a ripple in her composure. Where was her carefree deportment when she needed it?
“What will become of us?” she asked, working to keep her voice casual.
“I can’t imagine, so let’s just enjoy this moment. Tomorrow, we can talk about where we stand.”
He was so nonchalant, as if he ruined virgins every day.
