by Shana Galen
She moaned quietly and tilted her head away from him. That left her neck open, and he had the urge to kiss it, too. He could almost see where her blood beat beneath the white skin. There was so much he wanted to feel and to taste, and he hardly knew where to start.
Unable to resist, he touched his lips to her neck, letting his tongue trace her skin until he was right below her ear. She was trembling now and holding onto him, and he knew he was having as much an effect on her as she on him. And still he wanted more. What would her reaction be if he kissed her ear?
He did so, and she jolted then seemed to melt into him.
Now he slid a hand over her shoulder until it reached the smooth material of her dress. He wanted to touch what was beneath that—and he was not afraid to break The Rules this time.
“You never told me,” he whispered in her ear, an action that had the effect of making her flesh rise like small pebbles. “What is this part called?”
His hand lowered and slid over the soft flesh of her chest. It was rounder and firmer than he had expected, and now he could hear her breath coming fast. And yet when he looked into her face, he saw she was red and obviously embarrassed. “Breast,” she said, her voice choked.
“I like how they feel,” he said, cupping both and testing the weight in his hands.
“Yes, well…” She tried to step away, but he pulled her close again.
“Do you want me to stop?” He did not know if he could stop, but he knew he must if that was what she wanted. He would never hurt another person or do something against their will. He had been the victim of the unwanted too many times.
“You should stop,” she said in a tone he had heard many times before.
“The Rules,” he said, knowing what she would say next.
“Yes, we are breaking them. Again.” Then to his surprise, she stepped closer, put her hand on his chest. “But I don’t care. I don’t want you to stop.”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and while he enjoyed the feel of her lips on his, she must have loosened his neck cloth, because he could suddenly breathe again. He had forgotten how good it felt to be free, and immediately he pulled off the shoes, tossing them into the garden beyond. She laughed and he tried to strip off the coat. It took him a moment, because it was tightly fitted, but when she tugged with him, he removed it, as well.
Next were the upper buttons on his shirt, and then he decided he might as well do away with the shirt all together. He tore it over his head until he stood before her, in the cool night air, in only his breeches.
“Oh, my,” she said, and her eyes were wide and round. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man without his shirt before. It’s…”
She didn’t finish, and he did not care. She said too many words as it was. He preferred her actions, and now she reached out and traced a path from his throat to the center of his chest with one long white finger. His skin heated wherever she touched. He looked down, expecting to see she had burned the flesh, but it was unharmed. She moved closer, flattening her palms against him.
“You’re so hard. Like steel,” she murmured. Now her hand cupped his upper arm. “And you’re strong.” Her touch tickled him, aroused him, made him want more.
Made him want to touch her in the same way. He opened his mouth to tell her what he wanted and then discarded the words. Words were his enemy with her. Words made her think too much about Rules. Actions were better.
He wanted the dress she wore off, so he could touch—what had she called them?—ah, yes, so he could touch her breasts, see them in the shadowed moonlight. He did not know how to remove the dress, so he tugged gently on it until the swell of the bare flesh he sought appeared.
The material was too tight to slide down any farther, so he touched that swell with his fingers then bent to touch it with his lips. “I want to kiss you.” He touched the fullest part of her. “Here.”
“Oh, I—”
He felt something hard in the midst of the softness, something small peak under his touch, and he rubbed it with two fingers. It was the right thing to do, because she moaned and pressed closer to him. Then she reached back, awkwardly, and a moment later, the material was loose enough to slide to her waist.
Armand reached out to touch her flesh and then frowned. She wore more clothing underneath the dress—and how he would ever remove it, he did not know. He glanced up into her face and saw she was smiling. “They are called stays.” She turned her back to him, and glanced over her shoulder. “They lace in the back.”
He could see now how the stays had been tied on. The laces were small and tight, and he would have preferred to rip them off, but he settled for fumbling to loosen them. To his surprise, they loosened easily and fell away.
She turned back to him, and there was still more clothing between him and those breasts. But it was less than before, and this layer was almost sheer. He could see the roundness of her breasts. They were as pale as her shoulders except for a dark circle in the middle.
“This is called a shift—chemise in French.”
It was flimsy and loose, and he could see it would not be difficult to remove. He put one hand at the top and tugged it down, slowly. As he watched, the center of her breasts peaked and grew hard under the material. He reached out, touched that hard little pebble. “What is this?”
Even her neck was red now, but she answered him. “Nipple. I-I’m cold.”
He looked up at her. “I will warm you.” But not before he tore that material away. He needed to see her flesh, to see what he had been dreaming about. He gave the chemise a last tug, baring her to the waist.
She was more beautiful than he could have ever dreamed. Her waist was small and slim and her breasts round and heavy. He could not resist cupping them again, running his thumb over that hard pebble. The nipple. She moaned when he did so and arched her back slightly. That was something he had not expected, and it shot heat through him, making him even harder.
But as much as he wanted to do something with that hardness, he was not through exploring. He wanted to taste her, and he leaned forward, putting his mouth at the swell of her breast. Her reaction was violent—her hands clutched at him, and she began to tremble. He darted a tongue out, tracing that cool flesh, noting how it seemed to warm as he touched it. Finally his tongue reached her nipple. He took it in his mouth, and she bucked against him as he teased it with his tongue. His hand rose up to touch the other, flicking it lightly with his fingers.
On a gasp, she said his name. Her fingers dug into the skin of his back, and though her nails raked into him, he liked the feeling. He liked that he was the one causing this reaction. Reluctantly, he lifted his mouth from her breast and moved below, to her stomach. The material was in the way again, but he tugged it to her hips, so he could explore further with his tongue.
Her skin tasted unlike anything he had ever known. It was sweet and slightly salty, and it tasted as he would have imagined she would taste—beautiful.
She was almost bare, and he needed to see all of her now. With one quick movement, he pushed the dress and chemise to the ground, revealing her body to him. Her hips were round and pale, and between her legs was a vee covered with the same yellow hair as that on her head. He wanted to explore that vee, but she was trembling, and he pulled her close to warm her.
He kissed her mouth again, feeling her bare flesh against his own. What would it be like to take off his breeches and stand naked beside her? But that would have to wait. She was still trembling, and he could see now it was not from cold. She was afraid.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, kissing her cheeks and her eyelids, allowing his hands to roam over those wonderful breasts and then down to her hips. How could she be so soft? So full? So warm?
“I know. It’s only…” She swallowed. “I have never done this before. I’ve never been naked in front of a man before.”
He
had never considered that she had, but the idea of her sharing this with anyone else, revealing herself to anyone else, made him angry. He liked knowing he alone had seen her this way. That must be the marriage idea again.
“I have never done this before either,” he said. “Would you be less scared if I was naked too?”
“No!” Her voice held a note of panic. “I mean, I understand the logic behind you saying that, but I think I feel more comfortable with you dressed—half-dressed—for the moment.”
“Come here.” He wanted her beneath him, and he led her to one of the benches around the edges of the gazebo. There were pillows scattered over them, making them soft and perfect for reclining. He had slept here often, enjoying the freedom of the open space and the open sky above him. He felt at ease here, comfortable. He wanted her to feel the same.
He eased her down onto the pillows on the bench and lowered himself over her. The skin on his chest brushed against her bare skin, causing a sensation he had never encountered before. It was not pain, but it was pleasure so acute that it was like pain.
He sank into her and the feel of her beneath him, her scent—the small noises she made when he began to kiss her and touch her—made the rest of the world, the rest of his life, fade away. When he was with her, his memories of prison faded away. The small man and his giant son retreated to the back of his mind. There was nothing before her. There was nothing but now, and he preferred it that way.
He kissed her lips, opening her so he could delve inside and taste her. She met him, her passion rising even as his did. Her hands slid along his back, pulling him closer, her nails urging him to kiss more deeply, press fully against her.
He moved to her neck, tasting it, tracing a path to her breasts, her belly, that vee he had been so interested in. As he drew close, she moaned, and when his hands brushed the yellow curls, she jumped and sat forward.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was raspy and breathless, almost as his had been when he had first begun to speak again.
“Exploring.” He ran his fingers against her again, and she jumped even higher. “What is this part called?”
“My lord, I don’t think we should…”
“Lie back down,” he said, easing her back. Maybe this was one part he did not need named. “Let me touch you.”
“My lord—”
“Armand.” He rubbed his fingers over her again, and she jumped. But her reaction was less violent this time, and when he repeated the action, she rose to meet him slightly. “Am I breaking another Rule?”
“I—mmm—I don’t know. I, oh dear.”
He parted her legs, saw the flower between them.
“I don’t know the rules for this,” she whispered.
Armand smiled. No Rules. Perfect.
He ran his hands over her again, and this time she arched her back, her hips rising to meet his touch. His finger eased inside her, and he was astonished by how warm and wet she was. Yes, this was where he wanted to be. He could feel himself throbbing, needing to be inside that warm place.
His instinct was to strip off his breeches and plunge himself into her, but he knew that would scare her. Instead, he continued to rub her as he bent over her again and kissed her lips. He had no sense of time with her. Every moment ran together into what seemed an eternity, and then she was clutching at him, arching into him, and moaning his name.
He slid a hand down to unfasten his breeches, feeling relief when their tightness was gone. He stripped them off, aware she was watching, but her gaze was more curious than afraid now. And then before she could think too much, before she could begin to say more words, he was above her again, kissing her again, sliding his fingers into her.
And then he was inside her. He moved gently and slowly, but it was not easy. Every primitive need in him cried out for release. It would come, he knew, if he plunged into her. But he could feel how tight she was, how she stiffened when he moved too quickly. And so he moved slowly. It was painful how slowly he moved, but he was rewarded by her response. Gradually, she opened for him, her body taking his inside until he was fully encased.
The sensation was overwhelming. He had never felt anything like it, and he knew this was only the beginning. Her hips were rising to meet his in a primitive dance both of their bodies knew, even if their minds did not. He moved with her, paying close attention to when her pleasure seemed the greatest. He wanted her to feel the pleasure he felt.
“Armand!” she cried out, and her hips seemed to race against his.
“Slow,” he groaned. If she continued to move so quickly, he would not be able to hold himself back. But she ignored him, moving faster, her body bringing his to the edge of pleasure, the height of sensation.
And then she bit off a scream, and he felt her tighten around him. That was his undoing. He fell into her, fell into the sensations, allowed himself to tumble into that darkness.
For once, he did not care if he ever saw the light again.
Fifteen
Felicity could not believe what had just happened. She did not know her body could feel this way, that she could abandon all sense of propriety, all sense of herself, and give herself so freely. She did not know how else to describe what had happened. She had forgotten—perhaps discarded—all the rules of behavior and allowed herself just to act, to feel. The comte—Armand—had that effect on her.
And now he was lying on top of her, his weight heavy and satisfying, and she never wanted him to move away. She should have been worried. They were outside, naked, and the duc and duchesse were liable to be looking for them. How much time had passed? The Valères were going to be furious. If she looked as debauched as she felt, they would know exactly what had transpired out here tonight.
Armand nuzzled her neck, which sent tiny shivers through her. How could she still feel such pleasure? Surely he had drained every last ounce she had to give. Oh, she knew she should be worried about the Valères and about all the rules she had broken. About the consequences—and there could, would be, devastating consequences. But she could not worry about consequences. All she could do was arch her neck, giving Armand better access.
He rose up, hovered over her, his eyes searching hers. He spoke without words, letting her know the experience had been as profound for him as it had been for her.
Felicity smiled, ran her fingers over his cheek, touched his lips. He kissed her fingers, one by one, and then their mouths met again.
They could spend the entire night like this, she knew. And as much as she would have enjoyed that, she knew it was not possible. They would be discovered sooner or later if they lingered.
“Armand—”
He kissed her again, cutting her off.
“No words. Too many words.”
Gently, she leaned back, broke the kiss. “I know, but words are necessary now. We can’t stay like this.”
“I like you better without words,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her again.
“Yes, I like that, too, but your brother and the duchesse will have many words for us if they find us like this. We must get dressed and go inside.”
He pushed back, ran a hand through his disordered hair. “Rules again.”
Hoping he would not fight this next “rule,” she sat and cleared her throat. “Perhaps it might be best if we did not mention what happened here tonight. We shouldn’t tell anyone.”
He frowned at her. “But we are married now.”
Oh, dear. Was that what he thought? “Not exactly. There’s actually a ceremony, a ritual, before marriage. We should be married before… doing what we just did, but without the ceremony, we’re not.”
“Then we will marry. Now.” He leaned close, smiled mischievously. “I want to do this again.”
She did, too, but she did not think it best to say so at the moment. Instead, she sifted through their discarded garments and began dressing
. It was not an easy feat to accomplish on her own, and she asked Armand for help at several turns. When she was finally dressed again, she looked down and sighed. Her gown was wrinkled, her hair hung down about her shoulders, and she could not find one slipper. Armand had donned his breeches and shirt and that was all. He’d left the shoes, stockings, and tailcoat in a heap on the gazebo floor. She supposed that was about all he thought they were good for.
Now that she was dressed again, the hazy pleasure of the moment had worn off, and she had a flash of Charles’s face in her mind. She knew now that no matter what the penalty, she could never go through with a marriage to him. She would find a way to get him the twenty-five pounds. But if she could not…
She did not like to think what that decision entailed for her future. If she were dismissed from this position, where would she go? If the duchesse blamed her for Armand’s actions at the musicale, or if the family suspected what had occurred in the garden tonight, they would not give her a letter of recommendation. It was possible she would be dismissed from this position within the day. And then what? She could give Charles her parting wages, but how would she live? Where would she go?
And if her parting wages were not enough, Charles could cause trouble. Some employers might overlook the gossip resulting from Armand carrying her off tonight. She knew there were many on the fringes of Society who might view the incident and her employment with the wealthy, powerful Valère family as giving her a certain level of cachet. But if Charles made their betrothal known, it would ruin even her chances with the fringes of Society. A governess swept off her feet by a comte was one thing. A woman betrothed to a military hero, which was how Charles would make himself appear, who betrayed the poor man with a comte, was something else entirely. She would be left without options, and how long would she survive on the streets before she was raped or murdered?