Chapter Twelve

H arry knocked on his bedroom door. It seemed the right thing to do. Decorum was called for. After the evening Ruthie had had, politeness was needed.

He waited until a little voice invited him in, and even then, he took it slow. The room was cast in shadows, with only one thin candle lit on the table near the bed. The atmosphere was similar to the carriage ride they'd shared on the day he first asked Ruthie to marry him. Harry's footsteps felt aggressively loud as he walked across the room. His bride was in his bed—her bed now. Her hands were folded primly in front of her as she leaned against the headboard.

Had she been waiting for him?

Of course she has, you fool.

Harry would have to thank Holly in the morning. She'd been busy. Before scurrying away after the ceremony, Harry had ordered her to see to everything Ruthie would need that night to be comfortable. He wasn't sure where Holly had come up with it, but Ruthie was wearing a modest white nightgown that fastened under her neck with capped sleeves that gave Harry a bountiful display of long porcelain arms. He itched to move closer, yearned to see if freckles dappled those charming arms as much as her face.

Ruthie's hair was plaited in a long braid that ran down her right side, sloping over the small mound of her breasts. The asymmetry failed to nag at him. The picture was too beautiful. In the scant light, the coil appeared as silver as moonshine, and, again, Harry desired to be next to her, to cradle that rope of hair in his hand and see if it felt as smooth as it looked.

Ruthie's soft words interrupted Harry from his romantic musings. "I wondered if you would come."

Harry's guilt tugged at him. That was one thing a bride should never wonder on her wedding night. Thoughts, apologies… condolences …swarmed through his head, all fighting to be blurted out first. He shifted his stance, feeling like a lonely actor on stage about to give his triumphant soliloquy.

Eloquence, tact, was needed.

"It…ah…it smells better in here."

Harry slapped a hand over his face. Eloquence and tact were not to be had.

From outside the cavern of his palm, he heard a bubble of nervous laughter. "Yes," Ruthie returned lightly. "Holly saw to it. She wouldn't let me back inside until it was cleaned properly. I hope Father Brian is feeling better."

"Father Brian's lucky he can still walk."

Ruthie's forehead crinkled. "Is he that bad off?"

Harry waved a hand in the air. "Oh, he's fine. I just meant that he's lucky I didn't break his legs into a thousand pieces."

Ruthie's expression froze, almost as if she didn't know if she should believe him. She should.

She fiddled with the edge of the bedsheet, and Harry noticed her ring. His heart jumped in his chest. "One can't help being sick," she said. "It wasn't his fault."

Laughter choked out from Harry's throat. "Yes, but one can help drinking a bottle of gin before midnight."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh."

The laughter died quickly on his lips. A small fire whimpered halfheartedly from the hearth, though sweat broke out along Harry's temples.

Ugh, sweat .

He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and then neatly folded it and placed it back in his jacket pocket. "The heat is oppressive, don't you think?" he muttered.

Ruthie bolstered herself higher on the bed. "Not particularly."

Harry reached for his handkerchief again. Christ, he was sweating like a maniac. Surely Ruthie wouldn't want him to touch her now.

Touch her.

Fuck. How the hell was he going to tell her?

It didn't help that his little bride looked so sweet and beguiling in his monstrous bed, like a cherubic lamb waiting patiently to be slaughtered.

Ruthie's eyes were round and wide as she waited for him to do something—anything. She barely even blinked. The only things that continued to move were her fingers, and their fiddling betrayed her nervousness. Nervousness that Harry's bumbling behavior was certainly not helping.

Best to just get on with it, then.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. "I…ah…I'm sorry it took me so long…tonight—"

"It's fine."

"I'm very busy—"

"It's fine."

"I can't trust people to take care of the den for me—"

"It's fine."

"And I wanted to wish you goodnight because I won't be joining you tonight—"

"It's f—" Ruthie's word stalled on her lips.

Harry stifled a curse. He was hoping her amenable behavior would continue until he escaped out of the room. His entire body tensed as he waited for her to finish her sentence.

"What do you mean?" Ruthie asked slowly, a distinct edge in her tone. "Why?"

Harry locked his hands behind his back, taking a few steps closer to the bed. Five small steps. It was a bad decision. At this new angle, he realized his bride's nightgown wasn't as modest as he'd thought. The fabric was thin and flimsy, providing him with an advantageous view of the plummy flesh that lay beneath. His body had reacted to her the moment he'd entered the space; now, he was positively throbbing with expectation.

His voice came out high. Weak. "I thought you might prefer it."

Ruthie cocked her head, her expression curious. "You thought that I would prefer to sleep away from my husband on my wedding night?"

Did she have to say it like that? So…damning? He was being considerate, for fuck's sake.

"I thought after the day you've had…"

Ruthie didn't miss a beat. "That I might need the comfort of my husband?"

Harry's wide shoulders slumped on an exhale.

"I thought that men usually wanted"—Ruthie waved her hands around the bed—"this."

"They do."

She frowned. "My mother—"

"What about your mother?"

Ruthie's face pinched. "If we don't"—again with the hand waving—"do this, then she might try to have the wedding annulled. I don't want to risk it."

"We can just tell her we did." Harry regretted the words the second they came out of his mouth.

"Is it me?" Ruthie asked, the hurt in her voice making Harry feel lower than he'd ever felt. And then he saw it. He watched her close in on herself, becoming so small on the bed he thought he could lose her.

Harry was an ass. He was worse than an ass. He was a coward. "Christ, Ruthie. How can you think that? Of course it's not you. It's me. It's always fucking me."

She coughed out a laugh. "Sure," she whispered.

She wasn't going to make this easy for him. Again, Harry searched for eloquence and tact. He searched for a way to salvage this piss-poor night. He searched for a way to make her believe him when he said he wanted her more than he wanted anything, but he was too fucking defective to treat her properly.

Harry latched on to his wife's dejected face as he searched for the perfect, compelling explanation. Nothing came to him.

"I don't fuck like other men."

Again, eloquence and tact were not to be had this night.

Ruthie regarded him warily. Her fingers were no longer playing with the bedsheet. Her knuckles were white as she clutched the fabric for her dear life.

Harry's jaw clenched under her abject scrutiny. Well…she asked.

His bride blinked. And then blinked again, slower this time, as if she were also trying—and failing—to find the perfect words. Harry certainly hoped she had an easier time of it than he had.

She licked her lips. "Ah…sorry…just how different?"

Harry groaned. With both hands he rubbed vigorously at his face, disturbed by how wet his hands had become. Still fucking sweating.

"This is not what I'd hoped to talk about tonight."

"You brought it up," Ruthie pointed out.

"Yes, but…" Instantly, Harry surmised that hell must be dealing with awkward situations over and over again for all eternity. "I only tell you so we're on the same page. It's for your own good. You don't have to spend your night worrying—or any night after. I won't… I won't subject you to it."

"Again," Ruthie began, "how different? And why exactly wouldn't I want to be subjected to it?"

It was true that Harry didn't have experience dealing with highborn virgins, but he couldn't be the only person of his ilk who assumed an explanation wouldn't be necessary. Most would have just taken what he'd said and offered a thank you. Not his young bride. No, Ruthie Waitrose wasn't terrified or grateful. She was curious and—by the set of her pointy jaw—interested.

Which only made Harry's lower half burn even more.

With a ragged sigh, he threw himself down on the couch against the wall—his legs were shaky all of a sudden. Not to mention it was much easier to hide a cockstand that way.

"I didn't think you'd need all the details," he answered, feigning a bored, put-upon voice.

"You've intrigued me."

"That was the opposite of what I intended to do."

"You failed."

He had. Harry felt that tug again, that pull toward anguish and despair over how the night had gone. He'd married the girl—got what she'd wanted. But all he'd done since he put that blasted ring on her finger was disappoint her.

"What's wrong?" Ruthie asked.

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"The wedding. I swear to you, darling, for the rest of your life I'll give you anything you want just to make up for that fiasco—"

She flopped her hands against the bed. "I don't care about the blasted wedding, Harry. I care about why my own husband won't sleep with me!"

Startled, Harry laughed. It wasn't funny. None of this was. "I already told you—"

"Yes, I heard you the first time. You don't fuck like other men—" Ruthie slapped a hand over her mouth, though she was anything but disturbed over repeating the filthy word. Even from the couch, Harry could see her blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

Some men in his acquaintance didn't approve of women using such profanities. They considered it uncouth, a definite turnoff. Not Harry. He realized that he fucking loved it. But, then again, he found that there was very little he didn't love about his new wife.

He leaned back against the cushions, rubbing his sweaty palms against the tops of his legs. "What do you want me to say, Ruthie?" he asked tiredly.

If she saw a defeated man, it didn't sway her. "The truth. Tell me—" She bit her lower lip, and Harry wondered if she was going to use that word again. "Tell me what you mean. I won't let you leave until you tell me."

She was leaning over her lap now. The bedsheet was low and wrinkled along her hips. The swell of her breasts outlined the linen of her nightgown, and Harry's mouth watered at the forbidden fruit that he'd already sworn he wouldn't touch. As enticing as she was, Ruthie was equally frightening. And he believed her. If he left without telling her, she'd surely follow him—modesty be damned.

Harry started slowly, picking his words carefully. "You've mentioned my foibles before. You called them quirks." He waited until she nodded. "Well, there are many of them, more than you can ever imagine. I deal with them all day long, and it's always been my mission to keep them from others to the best of my ability. Men in my line of work don't succeed when others think they're"—Harry pursed his lips—"freaks."

"You're not a—"

Harry lifted his hand, cutting her off. "For some reason, it's harder for me to control them around you. Or maybe you're more observant than others. There's the tapping, the counting, the not stepping on cracks or lines…the need for order and symmetry."

"Many people need that."

"Not like me. And that's only the start. There's the issue with touching. I can handle it with gloves and clothes, but skin-on-skin contact makes me…uncomfortable."

"How uncomfortable?"

"Very."

Ruthie frowned, fixing her attention on the ceiling. "But you touch me," she said quietly.

"Yes."

She met his gaze. "You kissed me."

"Yes."

"Did you…did you…" She ducked her head. "Did you not like it?"

"It was the single most beautiful moment of my life." The words whipped out of him like a fierce wind. So startling. So true.

Ruthie's cheeks turned pink. "If that's the case, then why can't we…" She waved her hand between them.

How did one tell an innocent that there was a difference between theory and practice when it came to sex? Ruthie was proving her mettle by hanging in this difficult conversation, but Harry hadn't the slightest idea how she would take hearing him explain to her that he got off on watching. It was only after encouraging and coaxing a woman to touch herself and reach her own fulfillment that he would come inside her, losing himself for that one brief moment in a luscious body—all while remaining perfectly clothed. His always-running mind never allowed him anything more. The connection was always brief, perfunctory. Harry was a slave to his foibles and, over the years, this was the only method he'd used in the bedroom. It worked, and he'd never had cause for concern or a need to fix it.

Deep down, he was scared that he wouldn't ever be able to. And even more petrified to have to, one day, tell her that.

So, instead, Harry replied pathetically, "It's complicated."

"I see."

He shook his head. "You don't."

"You're right. I don't. But I want to. I want to."

Ruthie slipped out of the bed. Her nightgown covered her from head to toe, though Harry would be damned before he found anything else as revealing. He never believed he'd be so enamored by toes. Little white toes peeked out from underneath the flimsy material as her never-ending legs brought her to stand in front of him. And her arms—dear Lord, her arms were indeed covered in pale freckles, the kind that charted a course directly to his heart.

Harry sucked in a breath as she towered above him, all words lost and forgotten in the deep recesses of his dark soul. He didn't deserve this woman. He knew that as faithfully as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. But he'd taken her. Ruthie Waitrose was his. Why couldn't she be happy with just that? Just his name.

Ruthie had risked everything tonight. She'd taken a chance on him. Now, gambling was in her blood. Harry had lived among gamblers the majority of his miserable life, and he knew one thing to be certain—one win was never enough. They always craved more.

And Ruthie craved him. He could still feel the want in her kiss from earlier. He could see the ember of desire flickering in the blue flame of her eyes. The air sparked and nipped at their skin from the electricity flowing between them.

"You don't know what you're asking."

Ruthie's lips curved. "You told me that you would do anything for me. I'm calling in your marker. I want this. I want you."

Harry's willpower was on a thin leash. He couldn't figure it out: was his new wife desperate, or was she a seductress?

Ruthie pulled her nightgown up and over her body, tossing it to the floor, and Harry decided the answer didn't matter. His wife was naked in front of him. Tall and statuesque, rosy and tight, she wasn't so much thin as lithe. There was a strength that belied her small bones, an athleticism that suggested stamina and speed. Characteristics Harry valued—in life and in the bedroom.

Ruthie began to whistle. Her patience had effectively ended.

As had Harry's well-meaning resolve.

To his mind, he only had two choices. He could order her to get back into bed or he could ask her to lie down on it. The chasm of difference was known only to him. And, as usual, the devil on his shoulder won out.

Harry's lips were impossibly dry. What he said next was barely audible. But Ruthie clearly heard him, because she broke into a self-satisfied smile and turned toward the bed. Her luscious behind cried out to him for the shortest of moments before she turned back and sat on the edge of the mattress. Very briefly, she hesitated. Harry recognized the trepidation on her face—here one heartbeat, gone the next—as she gingerly reclined, lying on the bed.

He watched her chest pump up and down for a few breaths as she waited for his next order. He struggled to contain himself. Go slowly. But the anticipation was too great. The picture in front of him was too tantalizing. Ruthie was pure sex.

And not a good listener.

"I told you to hang your legs off the bed," Harry said, harder than he'd expected. Well, that couldn't be helped. Everything about Harry was harder than expected at the moment.

"Oh." Ruthie wiggled down until her knees bent along the edge. Harry's bed was higher than most, but the tips of her adorable toes still skirted the hardwood floor. "Like this?" Her voice was breathless. Nervous. Again, theory and application were two very different things.

"Now, open your legs," Harry said, ignoring her question.

Her breath came faster now. Another pause. Harry was just about to repeat his order when Ruthie's knees began to tremble. Then, inch by blessed inch, she widened her thighs, granting him a view he would forever be grateful for.

"Like this?" she asked.

But Harry couldn't answer her. His voice—his mind—was momentarily lost. He could only stare into the heat of her. The deep pink folds of her body that were made to welcome him, to hug him in their vicious clasp.

His response fell out of a thin exhale. "Yes…g-good," he stammered. Harry's skin felt too tight. The world felt too tight for the emotions banging inside of him. "Now, I'm going to tell you something, and I'm only going to say it once," he started. "I'm going to ask you to do things. Things to yourself. And I want you to do them. They'll only give you pleasure; I promise you. I don't want you to think. Just do."

Ruthie came up to her elbows to level him with a dark look. The tips of her breasts hung deliciously toward him. Harry had never put one in his mouth before—had never wanted to until now. What would Ruthie's breasts taste like? His mouth watered at the exotic possibilities.

"Will it give you pleasure?" she asked.

"You have no idea."

"You're right," Ruthie said, reclining once more. She studied the ceiling. "So, give me an idea."

Harry leaned forward in his seat. He rested his elbows on his knees as he took in this feast. He didn't have to tell Ruthie to do anything. He was already knocking on the door of his limit. He would spend the moment she whimpered, but that would be selfish. This night wasn't about him anyway. It was for his bride. And he wouldn't stop until she was as limp and satisfied as he was.

"I want you to touch yourself."

Ruthie giggled. "I am touching myself."

"No, not on your stomach." Harry gritted his teeth around his next words. "Touch yourself…between your legs."

Ever the good student, Ruthie acted right away. Harry watched as she caressed herself down the lines of her hips to her thighs. Time seemed to stop as her hand paused at that swath of land, as if she were deciding whether to move forward.

"Keep going," Harry urged.

He could hear her swallow. Eventually, she grabbed hold of her courage and sent her fingers further along the inside of her thighs. She played with the skin there for a few tantalizing seconds and then meandered to her center, sliding her fingertips through her curly patch of blonde hair. Her movements were smooth and focused as she dipped one tip along the seam of her body, caressing the sweet line with cautious care.

It was a small gesture, so tiny one could almost miss it, but Harry heard the uptick in her breathing, the hitched catch of her voice that escaped out of the back of her throat. True surprise. Flawless excitement.

Harry clutched his forearms while he continued to take in the erotic scene. Ruthie fumbled at first, yet that somehow was equally enticing. Because this wasn't an exhibition. She wasn't on display to him. With the bite of her lower lip, the frown upsetting her brow, the woman was exploring herself. For herself and him.

In all his forty-two years, it was the most courageous thing Harry had ever seen.

"Good girl," he purred, perched on the edge of his seat. "Use two fingers. Pet yourself. That's it. Doesn't that feel fucking good?"

Ruthie's voice shook along with her legs. "I…I-I don't know."

"Yes, you do," Harry said, almost feeling the wet friction of her caresses. His stomach clenched. His balls were impossibly tight inside his trousers. "Let yourself enjoy it. Have you found the spot yet?"

"Wh-what spot?"

"That means no." He chuckled lazily. "You'll know when you do. It's toward the top, hidden away along with all of life's pleasures. It is the cliff, both daunting and alluring. Frightening and persuading. Once you climb to the edge, you're powerless to stop. You simply have to jump. Nothing matters except the little death."

Ruthie's breathing quickened. "You're speaking in riddles," she rasped.

"I only speak the truth," Harry said. "You'll know soon enough."

It didn't take long, and Ruthie didn't have to tell Harry once she found it. Her toes curled along the wood as she unleashed a harsh mewl.

Harry's grin reached to each ear. "That's it," he said. "Press there, just a little. Then more. Rub yourself until you burst apart."

Just as Harry was. It was almost too much, watching Ruthie work herself. Her skin was heated and burnished against the hearth's light. For once, Harry concluded that sweat had a time and a place after all. His wife's limbs were slick and shiny as her hips bucked against the mattress, her fingers pumping faster and faster. Her back arched, sending her breasts bouncing toward the ceiling, her nipples taut and pointed.

Peaches flashed in his head. Yes, Ruthie's breasts would taste like peaches, all tart and ripe, swollen with nectar.

Her sounds were louder now, more aggressive and disjointed. "I can't," she sobbed, squeezing her thighs against her hand. "I don't know…"

"Don't stop," Harry ordered her, his tone urgent and hard. "You're almost there." Over his trousers, he cupped his shaft in his hand, squeezing, not allowing himself to tip over the precipice. You can do it. Keep going, darling.

Ruthie had lost control. Her entire body was moving restlessly on the bed. Her neck was arched, her eyes squeezed shut as she continued to reach. Harry could hear her slickness, hear the slide of her fingers.

And then she screamed.

Harry leapt out of his seat. With a couple of flicks, his trousers were unbuttoned and pushed down, releasing his engorged cock. He had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn't truly dreaming. The sight underneath him was too good to be true. Ruthie's arm finally lagged as little, tiny vibrations erupted inside her body. Her lips were plump and red, her mouth open in awe and astonishment.

But the time for admiration had passed. Harry shifted in between Ruthie's legs. He dug his hands into her thighs, grabbing and pulling her until her pelvis was flush with his. He reached for his shaft, placing the tip at the center of her opening. One thrust was all it took.

He slammed forward, sheathing himself in her impossibly wet and tight opening, all breath leaving his body for one cataclysmic second.

Ruthie screamed out again, this time in pain, and later, Harry would thank the heavens for that sound because it brought him back to some semblance of reality. Hidden in her depths, Harry stared down at his wife, waiting, waiting for…he didn't know what.

As her body clenched around his shaft, he searched her for disdain, repugnance, anything that would force him to stop. Force him to heed the angel on his shoulder, the small semblance of control.

But there was none of that. Ruthie showed no signs of distress or distaste, only a small wince of discomfort and the awkward moment of what to do with her hands. She moved to place them on his shoulders but stopped herself in midair.

"Hold your breasts," Harry grunted.

Instantly, Ruthie did as he said, a secret smile forming on her lips. And just seeing that, along with the nipple peeking out from between her fingers, was enough for Harry to fall into oblivion. He pulled out slowly and arched back inside, once more, losing his rhythm from the heady act. Finesse was forgotten. Skill and sophistication were thrown to the wayside as he pounded against her, taking, slaking his need.

Ruthie held him with her hips, guided his thrusts with her inner thighs until it was Harry's turn to scream.

It came hard and fast, guttural, pulled from his body like a stunned confession. He spilled himself inside her, almost pitching forward onto her chest in the effort. At the last second, he caught himself, punching his palms into the mattress on either side of Ruthie's body.

Their chests heaving, they could only stare at one another, each in wonder and astonishment over what had just happened. Harry would never be able to put words to it. Housed somewhere between this world and the next, it was both primal and ethereal, of the body and the spirit. Animal and God.

Animal and God.

Animal .

Ruthie noted his tension. Her eyes narrowed as he studied the connection of their bodies, the smudge of blood on the inside of her thigh, the growing red welts of skin where he'd held her. Ruthie raised her hand again. It was pure instinct. Harry jerked angrily as she tried to run her fingers along his forehead. His shaft fell out of her, and he stumbled away, dropping her legs so they flopped back to the side of the bed. He caught her grimace, the confusion on her face.

He recognized the disappointment. "I'm sorry," he said, quickly stuffing himself back in his trousers. He tucked his shirt in and buttoned everything to controlled perfection. Shame built up inside of him. Shame for who he was. Shame for who he could never be. Shame for what he could never give her.

Ruthie reached for him again, but he swiftly evaded her. "Don't leave," she said.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Harry repeated, head down. He clamped his mouth shut, stopping more of that nonsense.

He couldn't look at her, couldn't bear another one of those looks. So he did what he should have done the moment she'd taken off her nightgown.

Harry turned on his heel and left.

It was rude. It was blunt. It was unspeakably cold.

But it was the only thing he could do. Speaking wasn't an option. Chances were that if he opened his mouth in front of Ruthie, he would say something he didn't mean. Or worse, say something he did. And then keep on saying it until he forced himself to stop.

Gambling was for fools.