ROMANCE: Regency Romance: Fated to His Kiss (Historical Victorian Romance) (Historical Regency Romance Fantasy Short Stories) by Eva Madden

was beautiful, and the unexpected rush of possession that filled her was unexpected. He was hers, this man, he was! From the smattering of hair on his chest to his lean hips, to the legs that were roped heavy with muscles. He was hers, this possessor of a cock that stood straight up and was proudly ruddy-tipped, he was hers, this man who dropped down to his forearms to kiss her again, to unsnap the garters from her belt and to move her undergarments all the way down her legs. Henry Princely was hers—actually hers! --and he was kissing his way down her calves to the heated center of her above which he poised himself, eyes locked on hers as he nudged her with that part of his anatomy that God had intended for him to use. The quiet rumble of fear in her throat was dislodged by the look of love in his eyes, replaced instead by a mixture of trust and anticipation as carefully and slowly, Henry entered her, filling her up past the point where she thought she could be filled, breaking past the single moment of pain, and answering that deep unending ache inside of her that she had had from the first moment he had ever kissed her.
                  They were joined; neither could believe it. Anabelle was stretched comfortably tight, and as Henry moved inside of her, she gasped aloud. She clutched him inside of her, terrified he was going to leave, and he chuckled again and told her to relax. She did, and he parried, thrusting up inside of her smoothly as a knife cuts into butter, teasing the inner mouth of her so deliciously that it was not long before she was bucking against him, searching for something, seeking a kind of release she did not know about yet, only sensed with the whole of her being. Grasping her hipbones in his hands, Henry slowed her, drawing out of her until he had almost left and then thrusting back in, higher and higher, faster and faster, until both of them were shuddering, both of them wet and gasping and aching.
                  “Oh Henry,” she cried, her eyes huge, her brow damp with sweat. “Oh Henry, please.”
                  And he held back no longer, increasing the tempo between them until he felt her soar, felt her body shudder around him and under him, heard her cry pierce the air and experienced release himself, falling against her with his name on her breath as she said it, again and again, incomprehensibly and lost to the world.
    *              *              *
                  Marriage suited Anabelle happily. She could not make sense of it, since she had not seen a proper one growing up, but she supposed that running her own household for so many years had prepared her for this exact role.
                  It had been a delicious month being married to Henry Princely, most delicious of all the nights. She had expected a terse marriage of convenience growing up, then had resigned herself to no marriage at all, but it seemed that she had gotten far more than she had ever bargained for. There was nobody who she laughed with as much as Henry, and nobody who she could have imagined enjoying her days—and nights—with more.
                  He was tender. The way that he explored her body and encouraged her to explore his made her understand—he was in no rush because he truly expected to spend the rest of his life with her. The soaring heights he brought her to were beyond her wildest dreams, but it was also that he gave her the courage to explore his body. Anabelle was standing in the kitchen, preparing the menu for the week, when she was struck with the memories of the nights past, so hot and heavy that she almost doubled over at their force.
                  The way Henry's chest looked, dappled by the shadows of the fire in his study, where they made love on the fire. To protect her from rug burn, and also, he joked, because his skin was much tougher than hers, he had lain on the ground