by Lisa Kleypas
“I already own one, actually. In Whitchurch.” He bent to kiss the pale curve of her shoulder, the brush of his mouth as warm and weightless as sunlight. “I’ll take you there someday, if you like. A grand sight, it is: a row of huge machines throwing raw silk into threads even finer than strands of your hair.”
“I would like to see that,” she exclaimed, and he smiled at her interest.
“Then you shall.” His fingers sifted through the loose blonde locks. “I’ll keep you well supplied in ribbons and stockings, cariad.” Easing her down to the bed, he began to reach beneath the chemise for the waist of her drawers.
Helen tensed, her hands catching at his. “I’m very shy,” she whispered.
His lips wandered gently up to her ear. “How do shy women prefer their drawers to be removed? Fast, or slow?”
“Fast . . . I think.”
Between one breath and the next, her drawers were tugged down and efficiently whisked away. Gooseflesh rose on her naked thighs.
Rhys stood and began to unknot his tie. Comprehending that he intended to undress right in front of her, she slid beneath the sheets and the eiderdown quilt, and yanked them up to her collarbone. The bed was soft and clean, scented with the dry tang of washing soda, a comforting smell because it reminded her of Eversby Priory. She stared fixedly at the fireplace, aware of Rhys’s movements at the periphery of her vision. He worked on his collar and cuffs, and soon discarded his waistcoat and shirt.
“Have a look if you like,” she heard him say casually. “Unlike you, I’m not shy.”
Clutching the sheets higher against her neck, Helen risked a timid glance at him . . . and then she couldn’t look away.
Rhys was a magnificent sight, dressed only in trousers with braces hanging loosely along his lean hips. The flesh of his torso looked remarkably solid, as if it had been stitched to his bones with steel thread. Seeming comfortable in his half-naked state, he sat on the edge of the bed and began to remove his shoes. His back was layered with muscle upon muscle, the contours so defined that his sun-colored skin gleamed as if polished. As he stood and turned to face her, Helen blinked with surprise at the discovery that there was no hair at all on the broad expanse of his chest.
Often when her brother Theo had nonchalantly walked about Eversby Priory in his dressing-robe, a scruff of coarse curls had been visible on the upper portion of his chest. And when Devon’s younger brother West had been put to bed after suffering an extreme chill, Helen had noticed that he was hairy as well. She had assumed all men were made that way.
“You’re . . . smooth,” she said, her face heating.
He smiled slightly. “A Winterborne trait. My father and uncles were the same.” He began to unfasten his trousers, and Helen looked away hastily. “It was a curse in my teen years,” he continued ruefully, “having a chest as bare as a young lad’s, while the others my age were all growing a fair carpet. My friends baited and teased me near to death, of course. For a while they took to calling me ‘badger.’”
“Badger?” Helen echoed, puzzled.
“Ever hear the expression ‘bald as a badger’s arse’? No? The long bristles on a shaving brush come from the area around the badger’s tail. There’s a joke that most of the badgers in England have had their backsides plucked bare.”
“That was very unkind of them,” Helen said indignantly.
Rhys chuckled. “It’s the way of boys. Believe me, I behaved no better. After I grew big enough to thrash the lot of them, they didn’t dare say a word.”
The mattress sank beneath his weight as he climbed into bed with her. Oh, God. It was happening now. Helen wrapped her arms tightly around her midriff. Her toes curled like lambs’ wool. She had never been so at the mercy of another human being.
“Easy,” came his soothing voice. “Don’t be afraid. Here, let me hold you.” The tense bundle of her body was turned and gathered close against a wealth of muscle and hot skin. Her icy feet brushed against the wiry hair on his legs. His hand came to her back, nestling her closer, while firelight danced over them both. Steeping in the warmth of his body, she began to relax by degrees.
She felt his hand settle over the chemise, cupping her breast until the tip rose into the heat of his palm. His breathing changed, roughening, and he took her mouth in a gently biting kiss, playing with her, rubbing and nudging with his lips. She responded uncertainly, trying to catch the half-open kisses with her own mouth, the tender strokes and tugs exciting her. He reached for the drawstring that tied the gathered neck of her chemise, pulling decisively, and the garment fell loose and open.
“Oh,” Helen said in dismay. She reached for the drooping fabric, and he trapped her hand in his firm, warm grip. “Oh please . . .”
But he wouldn’t let go, only nuzzled across the freshly revealed skin, the white curve, the shell-pink aureole. A ragged sigh escaped him. He let the tip of his tongue trail across the roseate peak, painting it with heat before taking it into his mouth and flicking until it ached and tensed even more, and then he moved to her other breast. Dazed by the wicked pleasure, lost in him and what he was doing, Helen inched closer, needing more closeness, more . . . something . . . but then through the thin layer of her chemise, she felt an unexpected protrusion, a kind of swollen ridge. Startled, she wrenched backward.
Rhys lifted his head. Embered light from the hearth played across the damp surface of his lower lip. “No, don’t pull away,” he said huskily. His hand slid over her bottom and gently eased her back to him. “This is”—he took an uneven breath as her hips settled tentatively against his—“what happens to me when I want you. There, where it’s hard . . . that’s the part that goes inside you.” As if to demonstrate, he nudged against the cradle of her pelvis. “Understand?”
Helen froze.
Dear Lord.
No wonder the sexual act was such a secret. If women knew, they would never consent to it.
Although she tried not to look as aghast as she felt, some of it must have shown in her expression, because he gave her a glance of mingled chagrin and amusement.
“It’s better than it sounds,” he offered apologetically.
Although Helen dreaded the answer, she worked up the courage to ask timidly, “Inside where?”
For answer, he moved over her, spreading her beneath him. His hand coasted over her shrinking body, caressing the insides of her thighs and stroking them apart. She could scarcely breathe as he reached beneath the hem of the chemise. There was a light touch between her legs, his fingertips delving into the patch of intimate curls.
She went rigid at the peculiar feeling, the circling pressure that found a hollow place and began to push inward. And then, unbelievably, her body gave way to the silky-wet wriggle and glide of his finger as he . . . No, it was impossible.
“Inside here,” he said quietly, watching her from beneath a sweep of ink-black lashes.
Moaning in confusion, she twisted to escape the invasion, but he held her firmly.
“When I enter you”—his finger sank to the last joint, retreated an inch, slipped in again—“you’ll feel pain at first.” He was stroking places she had never known existed, his touch clever and gentle. “But it won’t hurt after the first time, ever again.”
Helen closed her eyes, distracted by the curious sensation that had awakened inside her. Ephemeral, elusive, like a hint of perfume lingering in a quiet room.
“I’ll move like this”—the subtle caresses acquired a rhythm, his finger nudging in, and in, her inner flesh becoming silkier and more slippery with each sinuous penetration—“until I spend inside you.”
“Spend?” she asked through dry lips.
“A release . . . a moment when your heart begins to pound, and you struggle in every limb for something you can’t quite reach. It’s torture, but you’d rather die than stop.” His mouth lowered to her scarlet ear, while he continued to tease her relentlessly. “You follow the rhythm and hold on tight,” he whispered, “because you know the world is a
bout to end. And then it does.”
“That doesn’t sound very comfortable,” she managed to say, brimming with a strange, squirmy, guilty heat.
A dark tendril of laughter curled inside her ear. “Comfortable, no. But an unholy pleasure, it is.”
His finger withdrew, and she felt him stroke along the delicately closed seam of her sex. Parting the soft crevice, he began to toy with the pink folds and frills, grazing a place so exquisitely tender that her entire body jerked.
“Does this hurt, cariad?”
“No, but . . .” There seemed no way to make him understand an upbringing in which certain areas of the body were too shameful to be acknowledged, let alone touched, except for purposes of washing. One of many rules instilled by a stout nanny who had been fond of smacking naughty children’s palms with a ruler until they were red and sore. Such lessons could never be entirely unlearned. “That’s . . . a shameful place,” she finally said breathlessly.
His reply was immediate. “No, it isn’t.”
“It is.” When he shook his head, she insisted, “I was taught that it most definitely is.”
Rhys looked sardonic. “By the same person who told you that babies are found under gooseberry bushes?”
Forced to concede the point, Helen fell into a dignified silence. Or at least as dignified as she could manage in the circumstances.
“Many people are ashamed of their own desires,” he said. “I’m not one of them. Nor do I want you to be.” Lightly resting his palm on the center of her chest, he drew it slowly down her body. “You were made for pleasure, cariad. No part of you is shameful.” He seemed not to notice the way she stiffened as his hand drifted down between her thighs. “Especially not this sweet place . . . ah, you’re so pretty here. Like one of your orchids.”
“What?” she asked faintly, wondering if he were mocking her. “No.”
“You’re shaped like petals.” One of his fingertips traced her outer folds. Resisting her desperate tugs at his wrist, he spread her open. Gently he took a rosy inner flange between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed with the softest possible pressure. “And these. Sepals . . . aye?”
It was then that Helen understood what he meant, the accuracy of the comparison. She went crimson all over. If it were possible to faint from embarrassment, she would have.
A smile flickered across his lips. “How can you not have noticed?”
“I’ve never looked down there before!”
Absorbed in every minute variation of her expression, he swirled his fingertip up to the crest of her sex. Gently his thumb pressed the hood back, while he tickled around the little bud. “Tell me the word for this. The tip inside the blossom.”
Writhing in his hold, she gasped, “Anther.” Something was happening to her. Fire was creeping up the backs of her legs and gathering in her stomach, every sensation feeding into a pool of heat.
His finger slipped inside her again, where it had become deep and liquid. What was it? What—her body closed on the invasion, pulling at him in a way she couldn’t control. He brushed silken kisses over her mouth, catching at her lips as if he were sipping from a fragile cup. The tip of his thumb found the sensitive peak. Electric tension spread through her in widening ripples, an alarming wave of feeling approaching . . . too strong . . . almost like pain. Sliding out from beneath him with a low cry, she rolled to her stomach, suffocating on her own heartbeat.
Instantly she felt Rhys at her back, his soothing hands running over her trembling limbs.
His voice was at her ear, velvety with amused chiding. “Cariad, you’re not supposed to pull away. It won’t hurt. I promise. Turn over.”
Helen didn’t move, stunned by the anguished rush of pleasure that had begun to overwhelm her. It had nearly stopped her heart.
Pushing aside the tangled disorder of her hair, Rhys kissed the nape of her neck. “Is this the kind of wife you’ll be? It’s too soon for you to begin disobeying me.”
Her lips felt swollen as she managed to reply. “We’re not married yet.”
“No, and we won’t be until I manage to compromise you properly.” His hand went to her bare bottom, kneading gently. “Turn over, Helen.”
An approving sound, very nearly a purr, left his throat as she obeyed. He looked down at her with eyes as bright as the reflection of stars in a midnight ocean. So brutally handsome, like one of the volatile gods of mythology, wreaking havoc on hapless mortal maidens at a whim.
And he was hers.
“I want to know what you feel like,” she surprised herself by whispering.
His breath caught, his lashes lowering as she reached down the sleek muscled terrain of his body. Her trembling hand curved around the thick, erect length of him. The skin beneath her fingers was thin and astonishingly satiny, slipping easily over the hard shaft. She gripped him lightly, discovering fever-hot flesh, dense in texture, full of mysterious pulses. Daring to caress him lower down, she trundled the loose, cool weights in the cup of her palm, and he responded with an inarticulate sound. He wasn’t breathing well. For once he seemed as overwhelmed by her as she had always been by him.
In the next moment, she found herself dominated by a large expanse of amorous naked male. He covered her chest and shoulders with voracious kisses, his hands cupping her breasts high while he fastened his mouth over the tips. With a quiet grunt, he grasped a handful of her chemise and tugged until the hem was around her waist. He settled over her, and she felt the stunning texture of naked flesh, hardness pressing against soft, furry, shivery heat.
He kissed her, ravishing her mouth, moving to her breasts, then lower. The tangled chemise was in his way, and he gripped it in both hands, rending it in half as if it were made of paper lace. With a savage flick of his arm, the ruined chemise sailed through the air in a ghostlike arc. He slid downward and she felt him lick across her navel. The slithery tickle drew a protracted groan from her. Indecent kisses wandered to the edge of damp curls and into the hollows of her inner thighs.
His arms slid beneath her legs, pushing upward until her knees hooked over his shoulders. The tip of his tongue separated the furled petals and traced an erotic pattern around the tender bud, and she whimpered in confusion. Turning ruthless, he sucked the full center of her into his mouth and licked at every throb and pulse, teasing and teasing until she felt a low, hot pressure inside. A loss of control was approaching, something powerful and frightening. The more she tried to contain it, hold it back, the stronger it grew, until finally she was wracked with violent spasms of pleasure. She stiffened, every muscle tightening and releasing, quivers running out to her fingers and toes. Eventually the sensations quieted until she was limp with exhaustion. Her sex had become so sensitive that even the gentlest stroke was painful.
With an incoherent protest, Helen pushed at his head, his shoulders, but he was rock-solid, impossible to budge. His tongue trailed lower, searching wetly until it pushed into the trembling entrance of her body. Opening her eyes, she stared at the dark shape of his head silhouetted against dancing firelight.
“Please,” she faltered, although she wasn’t quite certain what she was asking for.
Both of his hands went to her sex, spreading it softly, his thumbs caressing over the little bud with alternating flicks. To her shame and astonishment, her body squeezed intimately at every inward surge of his tongue, as if to capture and hold it there.
Before she had even realized it, another tide of release rolled up to her. She dug her heels into the mattress, her hips lifting high and tight as wave after wave of heat went through her. He drew out the feeling, shaping it with delicate whisks and cat licks, feeding on her pleasure.
Panting and disoriented, Helen collapsed back onto the bed. She made no move to resist as Rhys rose over her. Something smooth and stiff nudged into the wetness between her thighs. He reached down, circling the head of his sex against her, pushing harder. It began to burn, and she recoiled instinctively, but the pressure was steady and insistent. A weak moan e
scaped her as her flesh stretched and pulsed around him in jabs of fire. More of him, impossibly more, until finally his hips met hers, and she was utterly filled. There was too much of him inside her, and no way to escape the piercing ache.
Taking her head in his hands, Rhys stared down at her, his gaze not quite focused. “I’m sorry to cause you pain, little dove.” His voice was uneven. “Try to open to me.”
She lay still, willing herself to relax. As Rhys continued to hold her, his lips pressing to her shoulder, then drifting to her throat, she felt the stabbing discomfort ease a little.
“Aye,” he whispered. “That’s the way.”
A flash of embarrassment assailed her as she realized he had felt the slight loosening of those small, private muscles. She lifted her arms, her hands coming to rest on the powerful surface of his back. To her surprise, his muscles turned to steel. Intrigued by his reaction to the light touch, she trailed her fingers gently from his shoulders down to his waist, letting the oval tips of her nails scratch delicately at the small of his back.
He groaned and lost control, quaking violently just as she had, and she realized that he was experiencing his own release. Feeling curiously protective of him, she tightened her arms across his back. After a long moment, Rhys withdrew with a groan and eased to his side to keep from crushing her.
As the invasion slid away, there was a hot, disconcerting trickle between her thighs. Her flesh was sore and smarting, closing oddly on emptiness. But she felt sated, her body agreeably tumbled and lazy, and it was exquisite to feel the roughness and strength and smoothness of him all around her. With the last of her strength, she turned to her side and nestled into the crook of his shoulder.
Her thoughts were dissolving before she could fully grasp them. It was daytime, even though it felt like deepest night. Soon she would have to dress herself, and go out into the bright, cold light, when all she wanted was to stay in this safe warm darkness and sleep, and sleep.
Rhys sought to arrange the covers, pausing to tug at something caught half-beneath her. A remnant of her chemise. Helen knew she ought to feel concerned—how could she return home without a chemise?—but in her exhaustion, it didn’t seem to matter nearly as much as it should have.