by Amelia Hart
His hand encircled her ankle, then slid swiftly from there up under her skirt, higher and higher, pushed past the constriction of his own weight, of her bunched clothing, and then his palm pressed down hard on her at the juncture of her thighs, a grinding pressure that was so exactly right she rose into it.
He muttered a curse, and there was a note of wonder in his voice.
Abruptly he rolled them both again, so he lay beneath her and she sprawled over him. She blinked down at him, bewildered, but he did not look at her face, only pushed her upright so she straddled him, then yanked viciously at the fabric of her dress, crumpled between them.
Her dress. He wanted it off.
She closed her eyes, shy but determined, took hold of the material of gown and petticoats and tugged them free and upwards, his hands joining hers to lift the swathes of fabric over her head. They were tossed into the darkness. Her stays followed, a tangle of ribbons and sturdy fabric, and she was left in only a filmy shift.
Her arms lifted, crossed her chest, and she gazed down at him solemnly.
He was breathing hard, his eyes hot on her body, but then they lifted to her face, and rested there.
There was a heavy silence, a suspension of movement. She could not read his expression. His jaw was set hard and there was wildness in him. She shivered with the chill of the room.
Instantly his palms cupped her shoulders, urging her down to him. She came without resistance, settled to lie there on his chest, legs straddling his waist, and he lifted the corner of the coverlet they lay on, and pulled it over her back. Concealed in its folds she released her breasts and her hands went immediately to his torso, hungry to feel him, even through his clothes. She found a button in his waistcoat, then another, flicked them free then quested beneath for his shirt. A third button gave her access to his skin, hidden from sight, and she laid her palm there on crisp hair and hot skin.
She took a sobbing breath.
"You want me unclothed?" His voice was husky.
She quivered as she imagined it. "Yes."
His hands went between them, and he began to unbutton those rows of mother-of-pearl buttons, infinitely slowly. As he did it the backs of his hands rubbed her breasts, her so-sensitive nipples, ruched impossibly hard. She rested her forehead on his shoulder, unable to support the weight of her head on her weak neck.
She became aware of pressure beneath her bottom, of hardness there. As she shifted in curiosity his fingers went still, then they resumed their task more slowly. Again she moved.
"Innocence or knowledge?" he asked her.
"Pardon?"
"Do you know what you do?"
"I . . . No."
"Do it again."
She hesitated. "This?" Tentatively she moved her hips.
"God, yes." He left the buttons and then his hands were under her bottom. A moment later she gasped as he stroked her intimately. He lifted his hands away but still she was prodded with blunt insistence. When she looked down into his face she saw his eyebrows were raised in cool challenge.
"What is-I don't know-" What did he expect from her? But he continued his leisurely unbuttoning, the gap in his shirt widening around her hand. "Is there something you want me to do?"
"Do just as you please."
So she moved cautious fingers across his chest, explored the firm bumps and grooves of him, so different from her body. She discovered the flat disk of his nipple, and stroked it experimentally, her eyes on his face.
His nostrils flared.
"Is that good?" she asked. "Do you like it when I do that? Does it feel the same for you?"
"The same as what?"
"The same as when you do it to me."
"How does it feel when I do that to you?"
"Oh-" she tried to find words for that sensation of pure pleasure. "Wonderful. So I don't want you to ever stop."
His hands went still again. "I should stop, though. I should not be doing this."
Panic arrowed through her, and she seized his hand by the wrist, and held it to her breast. "You can't stop. You are testing me."
"Am I?"
"To be certain I've told you the truth. You must be sure."
His fingers squeezed her giving flesh. "A guilty woman would never urge me on. She would not want to be discovered a liar."
"A clever guilty woman would. She'd know her conviction made your suspicions seem laughable."
"A dangerous game for a guilty woman. Easy to carry too far." His fingers tangled in her hair and he brought her mouth to his and kissed her languorously. His other hand cupped her bottom and urged her down on him, exposed and vulnerable. That tender, secret place of hers brushed against him, or what she thought was him. A part that was astonishingly hard, hot and smooth. It felt extraordinarily good there, where she was so sensitive. She undulated minutely, and caught her breath. So very good.
______
She was guilty as hell, or an instinctive sensualist. He would bet she was a sensualist.
From the first moment he met her, she had struck him as charmingly straightforward; bright and transparent. It was impossible that she should be so completely transformed as to betray him with a lover.
He had not thought so clearly when he first caught her in the corridor with that puppy. A red mist descended. He could cheerfully have strangled the boy who held her so possessively, as if he had some right to enjoy those luscious curves. He still felt the satisfaction of laying him out cold. That he had dared to touch her made Christopher shake with rage. Best not to think of it, if he was to be rational.
Not that he felt exactly rational, looking up at the young goddess who rode him. He wished for a blaze of light so he could see her better; see that pale skin flushed with rose, her tumbledown gold-brown hair and those eyes so very wide and filled with wonder.
An innocent, he would swear.
Once again his hand found the warm round weight of her breast, a lush bounty that drove him mad each time he touched one, or the other. They had swollen and the large pink nipples were folded into little crushed velvet tabs that invited his mouth. He already knew if he sucked on them she would sigh and squirm and shake. He wanted to do it again, do it forever, lost in that succulence.
Or put his nose into her neck where she smelled like toasted sugar, sweet and caramel. Was it her hair that carried the scent, or her skin? It made him yearn to lick her and see if she tasted as good. She was so smooth and soft everywhere, yielding to the touch, a confection of a woman.
He knew this was wrong. What of his vow to Sophia?
But it felt so utterly right. How could a man have heaven astride him and turn away from her?
So close. Her slick folds wrapped his erection in wet silk. If he only lifted her a little, took himself in hand and directed the matter more precisely, he would be inside her, in that warm, wet heat. He could smell the fresh musk of her, infinitely alluring.
No, he was far from rationality.
It was as much as he could do to just lie here and not take her, not complete this connection. All his willpower was engaged. He doubted it would be enough. The weeks he had resisted her were an eternity, and there was only more torture to come. He should accept the inevitable, embrace it, revel in it.
But he had promised Sophia. On her grave. Was he truly so inconstant?
Elizabeth wanted him. She quivered with it, pulled him close, rubbed her body on him and moaned, her hands urgent, her untutored passion unbearably arousing. Had he ever been so hard? He wanted to consume her in great gulps, teach her and learn her and sink into her and forget every bad and wrong thing in the world.
She had the power to stop thought, this gentle wife of his.
Without meaning to, his hand strayed down her flank and savored the lush curve of her hip then wandered inward. He would touch her, only touch her, in the center of her desire. There was so little he could give her, at least she could have pleasure from him. Just a touch. Only a touch.
So he bargained, feeling like a t
hief.
She was so wet, so aroused, and with the first glide of his fingertips over her she flinched and gasped, then went rigidly still. But there was no withdrawal. It was more as if every iota of her attention was on what he did there in the darkness between them. He closed his eyes, the better to savor her. His thumb found and circled the bud he searched for, and the way she trembled was a triumph to him.
He did not mean to slide a finger into her. But she was so tempting. She enfolded him, tight and pulsing and vital, and he imagined it was not his finger but his shaft inside her - gripped by her - and groaned, a tortured sound.
Torture, yes, to be so close. His blood beat a frantic beat inside his shaft as it twitched there next to his hand, massively engorged. So close, and she yearning for it, even if she did not know that was what her body wanted from him.
His thinking mind somewhere else, he positioned himself so he almost entered her, and paused on the threshold, tantalized almost beyond reason. He waited. For what? Some divine permission? Forgiveness? Leniency?
Just once, he thought, and did not believe it. Only if once lasted for the rest of eternity.
She moved.
A slow drift downward; a seismic shift that made him quake.
Somehow, impossibly, he stayed still, sweat breaking out on his brow, one arm hard on her back, holding her closer than breath. His other hand was on the curve of her bottom. Did it urge her closer, fatally close?
He could not tell. But she paused, engulfing him by an inch, no more.
Her breath hitched, an inch from his ear.
Suspended in that moment, wrapped in her scent, and so nearly in her body, her fragrant hair draped on his shoulder, he felt a surge of protective possessiveness. His. She was his, to hold. To cherish. Even if he had no true right to her, still he would keep her. Woefully selfish, but undeniable.
His.
She plunged down onto him, and took him to the hilt.
The world went away. There was only darkness and her. Only the thunder of his heartbeat and her. Giving and enfolding and drawing him in. He was thrusting into her, reckless and wild, caught up in primeval rhythm, the urge to possess and conquer. Somehow she was beneath him now, and he must have flipped them both but he did not remember it. He grasped her hips in both hands and drove into her, ecstasy in every motion, sense of self lost in a whirling maelstrom of pleasure.
His orgasm was a deep thing that drew on all his body, a titanic, crashing wave that swept over him, sucked him up and tossed him spent and sated on the shore of her quiet form.
It was long moments before he returned to his senses, waking from that little death. He felt strange to himself; half healed, half broken, and definitely askew.
He reared back on his elbows to look down at her, his young wife, feeling again that protectiveness, an affectionate warmth-Her head was turned away, her eyes closed. A tendon stood out on her neck and her cheeks were wet.
His stomach lurched, dropped.
"Elizabeth?" He stroked her cheek, regret tasting acid in his mouth.
She took a little huff of breath, and opened her eyes. A moment later she looked at him with a brave smile fixed to her face. It did not reach those eyes, bloodshot and red-rimmed.
Ah, he had destroyed it. He eased away from her, relieved her of his weight, and lay on his side on the mattress, no longer touching her. He did not have the right.
"I'm very sorry," he said gravely, knowing it was impossibly inadequate.
"I told you I was innocent," she said, and lifted her chin, her mouth trembling, in a heartbreaking attempt to be saucy and deny the pain he had caused.
"I beg your pardon?" He could not think. All he could see was her shadowed, tear-filled eyes.
"I was innocent. You said you'd be able to tell." Dread crumpled the skin under those eyes. "You were able to tell, weren't you?"
"I didn't think of it. Truthfully I didn't really doubt you. You have never seemed deceitful to me."
"Well." She took a shuddering breath. "Good. Because I am a very poor liar so I barely ever try."
"When I say I'm sorry it's because I hurt you. I-"
"Mama said it might hurt, so it wasn't entirely unexpected. I just hadn't realized it would be so excruciating."
"Excruciating," he repeated on a breath, and the weight of guilt bowed his neck.
"Will it need to be repeated often? I hope not. I can't say I'll look forward to it."
"Ah, Beth, I've failed you."
"What do you mean?"
"I swear it will never, ever be excruciating again. No matter what." He reached out to squeeze her shoulder in an attempt at reassurance. Her bones were so delicate in his hand. There was less to her than he had thought.
She eyed him dubiously. "Can you choose whether it is or not? Did you choose to hurt me just now?"
"No. The first time is almost always painful, though if I had been more . . . rational I could have eased you better. I was carried away."
"Were you?"
"Yes. Very much so."
"Oh." Now she looked pleased, peculiar creature that she was. "So it won't hurt next time?"
He sighed, and looked away. "It should not happen again. It shouldn't have happened this time, either."
She gazed at him, eyes wide and bright. "Was it because you were carried away? Is that why it happened?" she said, and her tone was intrigued.
Despite everything, his lips twitched. "Good heavens, you're a minx. Yes, it was."
"Is that what it means to be overcome with passion? I've heard the phrase, but it never meant much to me."
"Yes." But now the guilt returned, encroaching on this moment. "I made a vow I would not do this with you. I have broken my promise."
"Oh." Her face fell, and she pulled back, pushed up to a position not quite kneeling on the bed, with a brief grimace of pain. "That doesn't seem very fair to me."
He had fixated on the bright spot of blood on her chemise, and it took a long moment for her words to penetrate. When they did he met her gaze. There was a frown between her brows, and her lips had thinned.
"It isn't fair," he agreed. "I don't pretend otherwise. Yet it's all I have to give."
"That is simply not tolerable."
He rolled off the bed and looked around for his gloves and kicked-off shoes, the only items of clothing he had removed. "I imagine not."
"No, don't agree with me as if there's nothing to be done. You can at least make an effort-"
"I cannot compromise on this-"
"You just have," she cut him off in frustration, and gestured at the bed. There was no blood there, for a small blessing. Heaven only knew what the owner of the bedroom would have made of that. It seemed he wore that which had not soaked her chemise. He looked around for a ewer and washbasin, wet one of the folded cloths there and cleaned himself briskly, then rinsed and wrung it out and brought it back to her. Her cheeks flushed deep rose but she took the cloth.
He stood with her crushed dress in his hands, his back turned to her to give her privacy and - even more – to keep from returning to the bed and covering her body with his own again. The memory of that long slide into heaven was as vivid as the crumpled silk between his fingers. He would give almost anything to go to her again.
But if he did not have his sense of honor, what did he have left, of the man he had once known himself to be? This had been a battle lost against lust. Would it be total surrender? Plus he would only hurt her, right now. She needed a chance to heal.
He gritted his teeth as he realized he was measuring the span of hours or days before she would be ready to share her bed with him again. No! He had made a vow!
"Reconsider. Please," she said in a quieter voice when she was done.
"I can't," he said gruffly. He held out the dress to her without turning around.
"I need my stays first, and I can't lace them myself. I'll need your help."
He closed his eyes, and prayed for fortitude. Opened them. Found the mangled tangle of an
undergarment and brought it back to her. She stood by the bed, dignity drawn around her like a cloak, incongruous with her near-nudity. She had rinsed out the mark on her chemise so now the garment was damp and clung to her like a second skin. She might as well have worn nothing. There were those beautiful full breasts, skimmed by transparent material, the sweet curve of waist to full hips and rounded thighs-How could she rouse him again, so quickly? A naive temptress, fully woman yet still girlish. He turned away in frustration. It would be so much more difficult to resist her now he knew what he was missing.
He heard the rustle of cloth, and little huffs of her breath.
"Please. I can't do this alone."
She had turned her back so the ribbons of her stays were towards him, and though he careened forward, seized them and tightened them as efficiently as he could manage, still it was her bottom he stared at, the two dimples above it, the deep cleft, the firm, ripe shape pale and gleaming through the damp chemise. Why had she even put the garment on again? Did she do it deliberately to torment him?
He tied the knot with fumbling fingers, and stepped away. But when she lifted her dress over her head and became tangled in its folds he reached out and coaxed it straight, guided it over her, watching with unwilling fascination as it settled on to her body and her nakedness vanished.
How did she do this? How did she make him feel like an untried youth?
With gentle fingers he fastened the buttons, and once she realized what he was doing she stood perfectly still and waited, hair held up in one hand. Up to the nape of her neck he went, slower and slower, and when they were all done he slipped his fingers under the edge of her dress and pretended to pull it straight, only so he could feel the skin he had just concealed, her nakedness still there beneath it all, so close.
His wife, so close.
"We can't return to the ballroom," he said, his voice strange. "You'll never pass muster."
She looked into the mirror, examined her own dishevelment for a brief moment, then stared at the floor. "If you fetch my cloak, I'll fix my hair. Then we can leave together with no one the wiser."