by Maya Rodale
“Don’t be nervous. Please. I couldn’t bear it if I scared you.”
He looked so earnest. She believed him. She had so much faith in him that she exhaled and was even able to breathe normally. But then she glanced up at him and noticed he was biting back words.
“What is it?” she asked.
They crossed over the threshold to their room—a spartan affair with whitewashed walls, rough-hewn wood floors, a bed, a chair, and little else. He set down the bags and turned to face her.
“I will wait for you, Prudence,” he said solemnly. “As long as it takes.”
“But . . .” The protest was a rush of breath over her lips. It could be forever. She might never be ready. She suddenly remembered the morning she’d spent kneading dough with Annie. She’d worked and worked and exhausted herself and nothing had changed. Until it had.
But she wasn’t a ball of dough. She was a girl who had been hurt, who had the worst luck, and who might never be able to accept what Castleton was hinting at.
A wave of sadness enveloped her at the prospect. What a bleak life was ahead of her if she was forever tormented by the memory of Dudley’s violent possession of her body.
What if she could take her body back? Her heart started to pound. What if she could reclaim it for her own? It was a question she could not answer. And she couldn’t even think about it because what Castleton said next took her breath away and stunned her.
“But I want to touch you,” Castleton said. “I want to touch you, gently, with love.”
“Oh,” she gasped. Gentle. Love. Castleton. Touch. Even though she was damaged. Even though she wasn’t pure and innocent. Even though she wasn’t any of those things, he was still falling in love with her and wanted to touch her.
Never, ever, ever had Prudence thought she’d find a man like him. If she had believed he was out there, she never would have run off with Cecil.
But she had. And he was here. Was she going to let him go? Was she going to be content with fear and shame forever? Castleton might be her chance to try again, be reborn.
“But I don’t want to hurt you,” he continued. “Or scare you.”
His gentle demeanor soothed her. His relentless kindness made her feel safer than she’d felt in years. His blue eyes were smoldering. There was no denying it: he wanted her. He knew what had happened to her and he still desired her.
Would she ever find another man like him? No.
Would she ever have another chance to try to reclaim herself? Perhaps, if she didn’t allow fear to hold her back. But why not start now? Why not seize this moment? Prudence thought of excuses but dismissed them. This was her chance.
So, mustering all of her courage, she asked, “How do you want to touch me?” She didn’t know, and she wanted to.
“I would start by pushing aside that strand of hair that’s been falling in your eyes all day,” he said softly. “And I’d let my fingertips graze your cheek as I did.”
That was gentle. That was safe.
“Like this?” Prudence asked as she enacted the movement he described. Her hair was soft. How many times had she pushed her hair away from her face? Countless. And how many times had she noticed that the skin of her cheek was soft and sensitive and responsive to a light and gentle touch? Once. Now. The slight caress of her fingertips against it sent a little shiver down her spine.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Like that.”
“What else?”
Castleton closed the door to their room. She was alone with a man behind a closed door. Prudence couldn’t believe a few seconds had passed without her bolting. But her curiosity, desire, and determination were beginning to be stronger than her fear.
He took a seat in the upholstered chair on the far side of the room. Outside, the sun was setting, and the warm light filtering through the window made his skin seem warmer. His blue eyes were fixed on her.
Tentatively, Prudence sat on the bed.
Their gazes locked. His face was becoming familiar to her now: the blue eyes and dark lashes, the strong line of his jaw and the dramatic slant of his cheekbones, his firm mouth that often curved into a smile that made her feel warm inside. In this moment, she felt connected to him, even though they were on opposite sides of the room. Strange, that.
“Your neck is lovely,” he began in a low voice. “I would want to kiss it, starting just below your earlobe.” Since she couldn’t kiss her own earlobe, Prudence pressed one fingertip there, lightly. She shivered, slightly.
“How would you kiss it?”
“Just a little press of my lips. I might taste you, too.” Prudence sat very still, imagining the feeling of his lips pressing this sensitive spot. She felt a spark of something as she imagined his lips parting as he tasted her skin.
Then, feeling overwhelmed and faintly ridiculous, she dropped her hand into her lap. Who kissed people on the neck, anyway?
Apparently Castleton did. And judging by the darkening of his eyes and the heat in his gaze, he liked it. His voice was low as he continued with his seduction from the far side of the room: “Then I’d make my way down, with my mouth, to where your neck curves into your shoulder.”
“I cannot kiss my own neck,” she whispered.
“Use your fingers,” he urged, wickedly. “Use your imagination.”
Prudence was faltering. But she could do this if she just concentrated on his voice and her own touch.
“Fine,” she agreed.
“Actually fine, or ‘not fine but don’t want to talk about it’?” Castleton asked with a lift of his brow.
The man knew women. She had to give him that. She also had to give him an honest answer. And after a moment of thinking about it, she said, “Actually fine.”
His mouth turned up slightly. Her heart beat hard, but she wanted to do this. Whatever this was.
“Next I’d want to kiss you all along the curve of your shoulder.”
She had never touched the curve of her shoulder before. Keeping the touch of her fingertips light, she dragged them back and forth. Then she freed the button of her spencer and shrugged it off. The short-sleeved gown underneath allowed her to touch her own bare skin.
Her skin, it had to be noted, was warm and soft. She had touched herself to bathe, with soap and with haste. She hadn’t ever indulged in the pleasure of herself.
“What does it feel like on your inner arms, Prue?”
Within a moment, she knew.
“It tingles,” she said, closing her eyes and really feeling it. “It’s so sensitive. I had no idea.”
“I’d touch you there,” he said, voice rough. “Lightly. Just my fingertips.”
With her eyes closed, she imagined he was the one slowly tracing his fingers up and down and around the delicate skin of her inner arms.
“I can feel it,” she whispered. It was nice. It wasn’t scary. It made her feel curious about touching more of herself.
“Tell me to stop.” Prue opened her eyes and looked at him. Castleton was still in the chair, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the arms. That he was feeling this and was still planted in that chair on the far side of the room made her feel safe enough to do this. That he had given her a chance to stop made her feel comfortable continuing.
“It’s fine,” she said softly.
“Actually fine or ‘not fine but don’t want to talk about it’?”
“Actually fine.” And it was actually fine. Prudence smiled. She heard his breath hitch.
“I would kiss you across your chest,” he said, growing bolder now. “Just the skin exposed just above the bodice.” Her fingertips took a leisurely trip to the previously unexplored territory of her skin, just above her bodice. This was the bit on display in ball gowns. The bit that occasionally men looked at until she turned away. This was the part of her the world had seen. Now she was going to take it back.
Fingertips along the bodice edge, right where the muslin gave way to bare skin, she played with the edge of the fabric, weaving from on
e side to the other, ultimately seeking out the uncovered.
“Your skin looks so soft, Prue. Is it?” There was a slight anguish in his voice. She knew that it was because he wanted to feel with his own hands what she was feeling with hers. She was sorry, a little, if he suffered unduly. But this rediscovery of herself was magical, and for once she wanted to put herself first.
“It’s soft,” she told him.
“God, I want to feel you . . . ,” he groaned. Her eyes flew open and she exhaled with relief to see that he was still in the chair. He pushed his fingers roughly through his hair.
“I won’t,” he said in a rush of breath. “Not until you ask me to.”
“Why?” The word, the question came from somewhere beyond her brain.
“Because I’m falling in love with you,” he said, his voice low, his words starting that heat inside again. “Because I respect you. Because you should be cherished. Because, because, because, because . . . Do you want to stop?”
Prudence paused to consider. No, she did not want to stop. The pleasure of each touch propelled her forward.
“What do I do next?” she asked.
“Keep your dress on,” he said.
“I was planning on it,” she remarked, the spell breaking slightly. Then what he said next swept her away, right back to this space lacking a sense of time or place. There was nothing but him, and her, and desire.
“If everything was just right,” he said, “and if you wanted it, I would touch your breasts.”
Prudence stilled. This was going far now. It was one thing to touch her shoulder in front of him. It was another to touch her breasts. Even Dudley hadn’t touched her breasts. His hands had been full pinning hers against the wall and shoving up her skirts.
“How?” Prudence asked in a whisper. Honestly, she didn’t know.
“Lightly,” he said, his voice firm and slightly tortured. “Just your fingertips. Find the center.” Even with her eyes closed, Prue knew that his were open and watching her intently. She felt nervous and . . . innocent.
She hadn’t done this before. No one had ever touched her thusly. She was the first.
God, what a feeling of satisfaction that was.
“Yes,” he hissed as her fingertips traced along the swell of her breast to find the pink peak in the center. Even with her bodice firmly covering herself, she knew it was right, because she felt a spark of electricity rocket through her. He gave her more instructions: “Circle slowly. Yes. Like that.”
Her fingertips made slow circles of ever-increasing pressure around the center of her breasts until her nipples were stiff peaks and suddenly more sensitive. She inhaled sharply.
“Do you like that?” Castleton asked, still safely seated across the room.
“I wouldn’t keep doing it if I didn’t like it,” Prue replied.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured. She smiled a lazy, happy smile. Her fingers did not stop.
“Tell me what you feel,” he said. She didn’t even know the words to describe what she was feeling, because it was nearly impossible to put into words things that young ladies like her didn’t do.
“I feel the chains breaking free,” she whispered. “I feel stiff buds in the center of my . . . breasts.” She shyly stumbled over those words. Maybe she still retained some modesty after all. “I feel tingles all over from my breasts and . . . lower . . . and through all of my limbs.” Her voice had taken on a breathy quality that was foreign to her ears. “It feels nice.”
“Just nice?” His own voice didn’t sound nice. It sounded ravaged by desire.
“It’s been a long time since I have felt nice,” Prudence told him with open eyes.
His own eyes were nearly black now, and completely fixed on her. She lowered her gaze slightly and saw that he was aroused. Oh, she’d heard it in his voice. But her eyes told her there was no denying that he was feeling this, too.
The door was closed. Everyone at the inn thought they were married and thus wouldn’t step in to interfere if she screamed out. No one knew where she was or who she was with. If he wanted to take her now, he could. It would take force, but he could overpower her. The only thing keeping him in that chair and her fragile happiness intact was his self-restraint.
“Your stomach, Prue. I’d touch you there. All sorts of kisses.”
She imagined his head, with its dark, unruly hair, bent over her belly as he pressed his mouth there. He’d be so close to her breasts (his mouth there, oh God!). He’d be close to that sensitive place between her legs. She was starting to feel things there. Nice things. A warmth. A yearning.
Funny how her body responded to her thoughts. But then again, it wasn’t funny at all; it had been happening for years. Only now she was replacing thoughts of dirt and shame and disgust with thoughts of pleasure.
She commanded her fingers to touch her belly. It was rounder and softer than was fashionable. That didn’t stop her from experiencing a lovely feeling as she explored this part of her body that she’d previously avoided.
“And then what?” she asked, her own voice sounding rough now.
“Your ankles have been awfully neglected,” he remarked, an undercurrent of rough desire under his charming delivery. “Did you know they’re very sensitive?”
“No,” she said, reaching over to touch her ankles. “How do you know?”
“A man learns some things.” She wondered what else he knew. What wasn’t he telling her, and whom had he learned it from? Was that . . . jealousy?
“They are sensitive. But not as sensitive,” she said, thinking longing thoughts of touching her breasts again.
“Higher, Prue,” he urged.
“Here?” She paused to touch her knee. That was not nearly as sensitive as her ankle, which was not nearly as sensitive as her breasts or the little spot below her earlobe. But wasn’t it marvelous that she knew these things now?
“Higher still,” he said.
Her fingers inched up along the silk of her stockings, swiftly approaching her garters and . . .
“I don’t know if I can,” she said, her voice and will faltering. Prue had opened her eyes. The sun was setting, but the room was still fairly light. Her skirts were already hitched up past her knees, giving him a peek at what no one else had ever seen.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said. And that was why she could. Because if she thought about it, she did, instinctively, want to follow this trail of desire he was blazing across her body. “But Prue, I want you to know pleasure. I want you to know that you are not that one time something bad happened.”
Prudence knew she could ask him to leave the room and he would. He’d go downstairs and nurse a pint and leave her to finish this exploration on her own. Because of that, she felt comfortable staying as they were.
Besides, she might need direction, and there was this pressure building inside her. It was making itself aware in her belly and in that space that had once been violated. This was the first time she’d felt something good there. She desperately needed his instruction on how to relieve the pressure and how to keep feeling good.
She still had her dress on, he was still across the room, and she felt more beautiful and powerful than she’d ever felt in her entire life. Given how ugly and powerless she’d felt, that wasn’t much. And yet, it was everything.
“Very well then,” she sighed. “But close your eyes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You can’t ‘yes, ma’am’ me at a time like this,” she squeaked, eyes opening to see him still in that chair and still aroused but grinning faintly.
“Yes, Miss Merryweather.”
“That’s more like it,” she murmured, surprised at how she might have just murmured something coyly to an obviously aroused man.
“Where are your fingers, Prue?” His voice was lower now, rougher now. He sounded positively tortured. But she was in a state of bliss.
“I can’t say,” she said. But, having mustered more courage than she
ever thought she possessed, Prue touched herself all around where she’d been violated. One spot, just above the opening, felt particularly pleasurable, so she stroked it and teased it, experimenting with different ways of touching. All of them made her feel hot and electric.
“Slow circles,” he murmured. “Use a light touch. Feather light. So light you can hardly feel it.”
“I’ve never done this before,” she whispered. “Not even at night, not even in the bath, not even alone.”
He groaned. “How does it feel? Please, tell me how it feels.”
That was desire in his voice. She cracked her eyes open, glancing at him in a heavy-lidded haze of pleasure and self-discovery. Everything about him was dark and hard and tense. He desired her, and this—her own pleasure—was arousing to him.
Prue understood now the difference between domination and true pleasure. Right now, in this moment, with feelings of warmth and loveliness and something, she just couldn’t be bothered with anything else.
“Tempting,” she said. “And wet. I feel wet.”
He groaned and said, “Keep going. Please.” As if he had to ask! Before, she had felt stickiness between her legs, and it had been a bad thing. But this time, this wetness was accompanied by her desire, and it was her own. She didn’t want to feel bad about something that was her own. And Castleton hadn’t given her any indication that feeling was wrong or bad.
She kept going with the light circles around this magical place of insane feeling, not because he asked but because instinct compelled her to continue.
Then Castleton had a question for her that caught her off guard. His voice was gruff and pleading.
“Prue, can I touch myself? Please? I’ll stay here. Away from you.”
He was begging her! Never, ever, ever had she felt as powerful as she did in this moment.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“You can look if you want,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
It took her a moment to decide that she wanted to look. The room was darker now, as the sun sank down low. She saw that he had unbuttoned his breeches. Her breath caught in her throat. Part panic, part shock. He took himself in his hand. She saw, in the dim light, that it was big and firm. His hand closed around it and slowly moved up and down in the same leisurely movement with which she touched herself.