by Julia Quinn
She made a vee with the fore and middle fingers of her right hand and peered through the space. “Maybe just a little?”
“Just a little bit good?” he teased. “That’s not much of a compliment.”
“Do you see how embarrassed I am?”
He nodded solemnly.
“And you have no remorse.”
Again with the solemn nod. “None.”
She snapped her fingers back together.
“Georgie,” he murmured, gently prying her hands from her face. “If I’m any good at this, as you say, it is only because I’m with the right person.”
“But how do you know what to do?” she asked suspiciously. Because if he didn’t . . . well, they were going to be in trouble. She’d been counting on him being the one to move things along.
“All I’ve done thus far is kiss you,” he said, “and I must confess, I have done that before.”
Her eyes narrowed. “With whom?”
His lips parted with surprise, and then he let out a bark of laughter. “Do you really want to know?”
“Wouldn’t you want to know if it were me?”
He didn’t answer right away. “I’m not sure,” he said.
“Well, I am. Who was it?”
He rolled his eyes. “The first time was—”
“It was more than once?”
He poked her lightly in the shoulder. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want the answers, Georgiana Bridgerton.”
“Rokesby,” she reminded him.
“Rokesby.” His eyes softened. “So you are.”
She touched his shoulder, letting her fingers trail seductively over his nightshirt to the warm skin of his neck. “Although . . .”
His voice hitched. “Although?”
Her eyes met his. A strange womanly thrill zipped along her skin. “Some would say,” she said slowly, “that I’m not truly a Rokesby yet.”
He kissed her, once, and lightly, whispering his words against her lips. “Then I suppose we will have to do something about that.”
Chapter 19
Nicholas had never planned to remain a virgin so long. He had certainly never explicitly thought to himself—I shall not lie with a woman unless we are wed.
He had no moral objection to sexual congress before marriage, no religious one, either. Perhaps a medical objection—he knew far too much about syphilis to find attraction in indiscriminate intercourse.
But he’d never made a conscious decision to hold onto his virginity until he lay with his wife. It was more that the opportunity never seemed to present itself. Or at least not the right opportunity, and the thought of doing the deed simply to have it done had never sat well with him.
If he made love to a woman it should mean something. It didn’t have to mean they were married. It didn’t even have to mean he was in love. But it ought to mean more than the ticking of a box.
Maybe things would have been different if he’d done it when he was young, when all his friends were foolish and immodest and eager for pleasure. It might have happened—hell, it probably would have happened—his first year at Cambridge had it not been for an ill-timed head cold. A group of his friends had gone out carousing, and they’d ended up at a high-end brothel. Nicholas had meant to be with them, but he’d taken ill the day before, and thought of adding a hangover to his congestion was more than he could bear.
So he’d stayed in his rooms, and his friends were taught the so-called ways of manhood. He’d listened to their boasts because—well, because he was nineteen years old. Did anyone think he wouldn’t listen?
But he’d also thought he might learn something. Then he realized that none of his friends had a clue what they were talking about, and if he wanted to really learn something he ought to ask a woman.
He never did, though. Who would he ask?
But he kept listening, and over the years men talked and boasted, usually when they were slightly—or extremely—intoxicated. Most of it was utter shite, but every now and then he’d hear something that made him think—That makes some sense. And he’d file it away in his brain.
Because he’d want that information eventually. When he did finally make love to a woman, he wanted to do a good job of it.
That time had finally come, and now, as he kissed his wife, he realized that he was nervous. Not because this would be new for him, but because it would be new for her. He knew he was going to enjoy it. Hell, he was damn near certain he was about to have the best morning of his life.
But he wasn’t sure he could make this the best morning of her life. He wasn’t even sure he could make it pleasant, or fun, or without pain.
Although come to think of it, if this wasn’t good for Georgie, it wasn’t going to end up being the best morning of Nicholas’s life after all.
If ever there was a time to excel at one’s studies, this was it.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He had been staring at her for so long, he realized. He’d made her uneasy.
“I want to know you,” he said, his voice soft with desire. “I want to know every inch of you.”
She blushed at that, the faint pink of emotion shimmering across her face and neck.
He kissed her brow, then her temple, then the tiny indentation near her ear. “You’re perfect,” he whispered.
“Nobody’s perfect,” she said. But her voice was shaky, as if the reply was automatic, an ingrained attempt to bring levity to a moment that was disquieting in its intensity.
“Perfect for me,” he murmured.
“You don’t know that.”
He smiled down at her. “Why do you keep saying such silly things?”
Her eyes widened.
“You”—he kissed her nose—“are”—and now her mouth—“perfect”—her mouth again, but this time with a growl—“for me.”
He gazed down at her again, pleased with his handiwork. She blinked several times in rapid succession, and he could not help but feel delight that he’d managed to so thoroughly discombobulate her. It was hard to tell if her expression was one of surprise or desire—maybe a combination of the two or maybe something else altogether—but her lips were parted and her eyes were wide, and he wanted to drown in them both.
How could he have lived his entire life knowing her and not knowing he needed this?
Never had he seen anything as beautiful as Georgie’s skin, pale and luminous in the early morning sunlight.
Her nightgown had not been designed to entice; it was a basic, utilitarian thing, much like his own, but as he slid the hem up her slender legs, inch by tantalizing inch, he was grateful for it. At some point in the rushed wedding plans, he’d heard her mother bemoan the lack of a proper trousseau. He wanted to see Georgie in French silk and Belgian lace, but not yet. He didn’t think he could take it.
“You have to tell me what you like,” he said.
She nodded, her eyes shy.
He touched her thigh, his large hand skimming over the front before he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
His thumb slid from position, stroking the soft skin of her inner thigh, ever careful not to stray too high.
She wasn’t ready for that yet. And maybe he wasn’t, either. If he touched her there, felt the heat of her, he might explode.
He had to make this last. He was as hard as he’d ever been in his life, and despite this being new, he felt the primal instinct of man rising within, hard and fast. He wanted to claim her.
He wanted to mark her as his.
The need was so fierce and intense he barely recognized himself.
When he spoke again his voice was shaky. “What else do you like?”
She looked at him as if she couldn’t believe he was even asking. “Everything,” she whispered. “I’ve liked everything you’ve done.”
“Everything?” he said in a low growl. It was almost embarrassing how much he liked hearing that.
She nodded shyly. “I re
ally like it when—”
“What?” he asked urgently. He had to know.
“When you kissed me,” she whispered, bringing her fingers to skin just below her collarbone. “Here.”
He sucked in his breath. Here was where the swell of her breast began. Here was a short journey to the pink tip he was aching to discover.
Here was an excellent place to begin a journey.
He replaced her fingers with his mouth, his tongue drawing lazy, sensual circles on her skin. She arched toward him, moaning with pleasure, and the sound stoked the fire that was already raging inside him.
“You’re so soft,” he murmured. Had her skin ever been touched by the sun? He wanted to explore her, every inch of her. He wanted a map of her body, and he wanted it drawn on his own.
Dear God, where were these thoughts coming from? He was a scientist, not a poet. And yet when he kissed her—her lips, her cheek, her neck—he could swear the world broke out into song.
Her nightgown tied at the neck with a simple bow, and he gave it a little tug, watching as the loop of the bow grew smaller and smaller until it eventually popped free. He didn’t think the gown was meant to be lowered over her body, but the loosened neckline gave him access to a wider expanse of her skin. He kissed one of those newly revealed spots, and then another.
And then another, because he couldn’t seem to resist a single inch of her.
Her nightgown couldn’t be lowered any further, so he moved his lips over the muslin, skimming along her plump breast until he found the peak.
She gasped.
He took it in his mouth, and she gasped again, but this time it was louder, colored by a moan of pleasure.
“Do you like that?” he asked, thinking he might very well die if she said no.
“Yes.”
He took her other breast in his hand, playing with her nipple through the fabric of her nightgown. She writhed beneath him, breathless in her desire.
He felt like a god.
“I didn’t know they were so sensitive,” Georgie said.
This surprised him. “You’ve never touched them?”
She shook her head.
“You should.” Nicholas nearly came right then, just thinking about her touching herself.
“Is it the same way for you?” she asked.
It took him a moment to realize what she was asking, but once he caught her meaning, he sat up and whipped his nightshirt off so quickly he was stunned it did not tear.
“Touch me,” he said.
Or he might have begged it.
She reached up and touched her fingertips to his chest, starting at the center before trailing lightly to his nipple. He shuddered, and she snatched her hand away.
“No,” he said, barely recognizing his voice. “I liked it.”
Her eyes met his.
“I want it,” he said.
She reached up again, and this time her touch was more sure. It wasn’t that she suddenly knew what she was doing—he had a feeling neither of them did—but she was secure in the knowledge—bold, even—that she was bringing him pleasure.
It was a mighty aphrodisiac, that. He knew it, too. Every time she moaned with delight, his own body burned in response.
“Can I kiss you?” she asked.
“Please.”
She sat up, her head tilting as she regarded him. The curiosity in her eyes was mesmerizing; she seemed to be studying every line and plane of his chest. It was odd to be the object of such intense scrutiny, but he could not fault her for it; he wanted to do the same. And if it made her more comfortable in their marriage bed, he would stay there for hours.
She could explore him at will.
Honestly, he could not imagine a lovelier torture.
He held his breath as she leaned forward and touched her lips to him. His muscles jumped beneath his skin, but he held still. His heart was pounding, and it felt as if his soul was straining against his body. He wanted to grab her, push her down against the mattress. He wanted to lay his body atop hers, make her feel the heat of him, the weight.
He wanted her to understand what she did to him, to know that in this moment he was hers to command.
And at the same time he wanted to dominate her.
He drew a shaky breath, the sound of it rushing past his lips like a gasp, and she looked up.
“Am I doing it right?” she asked.
He nodded. “Too right.”
“Is that possible?”
“You’re killing me, Georgie.”
“But in a good way?” she murmured. It was barely a question; she was clearly growing confident in her feminine prowess.
He nodded again, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “I want to see you,” he said.
She didn’t say anything, but her eyes flared, and a pale blush washed across her cheeks.
“Will you let me?” he whispered.
She nodded, but she didn’t move. She needed him to remove the nightgown for her, he realized. She was not yet so bold.
He bunched some of the thin cotton in his fingers, never taking his eyes off hers as he slowly lifted the gown over her head. Her lower body was still concealed by the bedsheets, but the rest of her was bared to him.
Gloriously.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said.
She blushed. Everywhere. But she didn’t try to cover herself.
He wanted to touch her breasts, to cup them in his hands, but even more he wanted to feel them pressed against his bare skin, so he gathered her in his arms and kissed her again.
And again.
And again, holding her tight as he lowered her to the bed. He pressed his pelvis against her, his blood jumping in his veins as he asked, “Do you feel what you do to me?”
She nodded, but she looked unsure, so he said, “It changes when aroused. Gets bigger. Harder.”
She nodded again, but again, her eyes held questions, so he touched her cheek and said, “Do you know what happens between a man and a woman?”
“Yes,” she said. “My mother told me, and then Billie did.”
For some reason this made him smile. “And how did their accounts compare?”
“My sister was far more frank.”
“And encouraging, I hope.”
Georgie’s mouth curved into a tiny smirk. “Very much so. Although she said—” She cut herself off with a little shake of her head.
“Tell me.”
“No.” She shook her head, but she was smiling as she did so. “I can’t.”
“What did she say?”
“I can’t. I just can’t.”
Nicholas brought his mouth to her ear. “I can get it out of you, you know. I have my ways.”
And while she was twisting to get a look at his face again, he brought his fingers to her ribs and gave a little tickle.
She shrieked.
“I thought I remembered that you were ticklish,” he said.
“Stop. Oh, please stop.”
“Tell me what Billie said.”
“Oh my—Nicholas, stop.”
“Tell me . . .”
“All right, all right.”
He stopped tickling, but he didn’t move his hand.
She looked pointedly down.
“Not removing the threat just yet,” he murmured.
“You are the worst.”
He shrugged, wondering what spectacular god was granting them this much laughter in their first marriage bed.
Georgie pressed her lips together in a peevish expression before saying, “She told me that I will be certain that it won’t work, but that I would be wrong, and it would.”
He considered that. “Why is that embarrassing?”
“Because she said I would be certain it would not fit,” she ground out.
“Why is that embarrassing?”
“It just is.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “It’ll fit.”
“How would you know?” she retorted.
And
then he started to laugh. He laughed so hard he could no longer hold himself up and he fell against her, his full weight pressing her down. He laughed so hard he eventually had to roll off of her and onto his back.
He laughed so hard he didn’t even realize he was crying until she wiped away his tears.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she said.
“That’s what made it funny.”
She scowled. Or rather she tried to. He saw through it.
“It’ll fit,” he said again.
“You know this because you’re a doctor?”
He slid his hand to the juncture of her thighs. Even without venturing into her folds, he could tell she was hot. And growing wet.
“I know this,” he said, “because you were made for me.”
She gasped a little, arching her back when he touched her more intimately. “And were you made for me?” she asked, her voice barely a breath.
He stroked her, every manly part of him puffing with pride and delight as she grew slick. “Let’s think about that,” he murmured. “You’re the first woman I’ve lain with. So yes, I think I was.”
Her eyes flared, and he took advantage of her delight by slipping one finger inside her. She was tight—tight enough that he understood why she might think his cock might not fit, but he was a patient man. His body might be screaming for release, but he was more than happy to continue with his current ministrations, stroking and caressing until she was ready for his invasion.
“Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice husky with desire. “Do you feel how wet you are?”
She nodded.
“That’s to make sure I fit. Your body changes too.”
Her face lit with an expression of wonder. It was almost intellectual. Maybe it was intellectual, or maybe it would have been, had she not been in the grips of her own desire. He realized that his words did just as much to arouse her as his touch, and so he brought his lips to her ear and said, “When I touch you like this, you grow softer. And wetter. It means you’re getting ready for me.”
She nodded shakily.
“Do you feel empty?” he asked.
Her brow creased with confusion.
“Like you want more,” he whispered. “More here.”
He slid another finger inside her.
“Yes!” she gasped.
“Yes, you feel empty?”