"With all your other lovers?"
"Ah, yes." He rested his forehead in the hollow of her shoulder. "There is so much you don't know about me, Johanna."
"No two people can hope to know one another completely."
"I'm still a drunkard, and I don't know what I'm capable of when… I lose control. If you give yourself to me, you do more than risk your reputation."
It was the plainest warning he could give. He wasn't aware of Fenris, and still he was afraid for her—but he didn't reckon on the greatest danger she faced.
Losing her heart. Facing life alone when he left her, as surely he must—as Rolf had left her, and her father.
That, too, was her decision: to take the risk, knowing full well that the future was an unknown quantity. She'd already turned her back on a woman's traditional fate.
She wouldn't force Quentin to bear the burden of unreasonable expectations. She went into this with her eyes wide open. What happened beyond tonight was in the lap of the gods. And if she got with child…
She would cope with that eventuality if and when it came, as she'd always done.
Words were insufficient to persuade Quentin of her sincerity. The time for hesitation was past.
Deliberately she pressed her weight against him, bearing back down among the pillows. She laced her hands behind his neck, amid the wavy strands of his auburn hair, and kissed him on the mouth.
At last, he believed her.
Chapter 18
Now Quentin was sure that there was more to sleep than nightmares.
Johanna had come to him. She was in his bed, practically begging to be loved. And he hadn't the strength to deny her, even when he knew he should.
Even when he knew how unworthy he was.
Why now? What had changed? She'd never really answered that question. If he'd thought it was pity that drove her, after seeing him in such a pathetic state, fallen from his high resolves, his memory a blank…
But it wasn't pity. He sensed that she'd withheld the full truth about what had happened while he was drunk in town, but she wouldn't come to him if he'd committed any acts of violence. She was far too sane to commit her body to a lunatic.
Not Johanna. If she gave herself, it was with full comprehension, and of her own desire. She was as bold as any lady of the evening—unashamed, yet endearingly innocent at the same time; self-assured, yet betraying just a trace of feminine insecurity. Those very contrasts were what made her unique in all his wide experience.
He had known, from their first conversation, that loving her would be the premier experience of his lifetime. She'd give everything she had, for she knew no other way. And she'd chosen him to be her teacher in the arts of love.
But she was inexperienced, naive for all her intelligence. She needed guidance and a gentle hand.
She needed a lover who would take her so far, and no further.
Oh, it would be so easy to surrender to his own baser instincts and relieve her of the virginity she had so little use for. She was convinced that she'd accepted the potential repercussions of her actions. But he knew better. And he wouldn't let her destroy her life and career for a night's pleasure.
Not his pleasure, at any rate. All he'd done was to cause her trouble. Tonight, he'd bring her joy. And she wouldn't have to sacrifice anything but an hour's governance of her body.
As for her heart…
Wasn't it what he'd wanted, to break down that shell of cool restraint? But he'd never really believed it would come to this. He'd been so careful to avoid closeness with other human beings for the last several years. Was it because he thought Johanna was safe from his wiles that he'd dared so much with her, risked such intimacies?
If so, his scheme had backfired. Now he felt the heavy weight of responsibility. He might be weak, a coward and a scoundrel, but he had enough honor to keep her away from the crumbling brink of complete disaster. To regard tonight as a one-time miracle, not the beginning of a future that could never be.
As for tomorrow… it would take care of itself, one way or another. He believed in Johanna's good sense. And in his own instinct for survival.
She bent to kiss him again, and this time he met her halfway. He spread his hands across her back and kissed her as he'd always wanted to, without reserve or second thoughts: deeply, thoroughly, teasing her lips apart with his tongue and seeking inward. Her panting breath swept into his mouth.
Already he could feel her nipples like firm little buttons pressing his chest. She smelled exquisitely of woman, perspiration, and the unmistakable scent of desire. Her thighs straddled his, round and firm. Instead of shying away from the thrust of his manhood, patently outlined through the sheets that barely covered him, she rubbed herself against it.
He groaned. "Johanna," he said, "unless you want this to end very quickly, you'd better stop."
"Am I doing something wrong?" She sat up, her gaze sweeping from his face to his loins. Her hand found him, unerringly, and stroked, tugging the sheet below his hipbones. "This is the source of pleasure, is it not?"
"Yes," he said through his teeth. "Bloody hell—excuse me, Johanna." He caught her hand and lifted it away from him. "You're just too good at it."
She smiled. "Am I? I have been a student of human nature for a long time. And I know my anatomy—"
"It isn't all anatomy." He grabbed the edge of the sheet and pulled it higher as he sat up, afraid that if he didn't keep himself covered he'd find his way inside her. Before she could see his movement as a rejection, he cupped her hands between his.
"Do you know where the center of your pleasure is, Johanna?"
The darkness wasn't enough to hide the flush in her cheeks from eyes like his. "I believe so."
"Have you ever touched it yourself?"
The blush cascaded down her neck to the collar of her nightgown. "I… have never been one of those who holds that such activity is a form of abuse that can lead to blindness and insanity. But I have not…" She swallowed. "Not purposely."
He tried not to imagine how she might have done so accidentally. "Then you'll have to allow me to show you."
"Right now?" Her voice squeaked several notes higher.
"In a few moments." He slid his hand up her arm to her shoulder. "Relax, Johanna. This is supposed to be enjoyable."
"I know." She made a visible effort to loosen her muscles. "What is next, then?"
"This is also not a textbook lesson," he said, working his hand under the open collar of her nightgown. "There are no rules."
"No. Of course not." She held very still while he undid a few buttons and brushed his fingers down from her collarbone to the deep cleft between her breasts.
He'd thought of this countless times, holding her naked breasts in his hands. She was bountiful, richly endowed, any man's dream of abundance. She had no idea how desirable she was.
Slowly he covered her breast with his hand. She gasped. Her firm nipple rubbed against his palm. He curved his fingers around it, squeezing with utmost gentleness. She closed her eyes.
"It feels—"
"Tell me how it feels, Johanna."
"I can't." She breathed in and out rapidly. "I hadn't realized that my… that they could be so—"
"Sensitive? You have no idea, my Valkyrie." He pulled her forward, ignoring the warmth of her rump on his groin, and lifted her breast through the vee of her neckline. Cradling it between his hands, he lowered his head.
Her amazed cry was all he could have wished for. He curled his tongue around her nipple, wetting it thoroughly, and then began to suckle. She arched up against him. When he'd had his way with one breast, he gave equal attention to the other. By then Johanna was hardly breathing at all.
"Oh," she whispered.
"This is what they were made for, Johanna," he said, pressing his face between her breasts. "To be pleasured and to give pleasure."
If she meant to protest his dismissal of their biological function, she hadn't enough presence of mind to do so.
&nb
sp; "You… enjoy—"
"Indubitably." To prove it, he caressed her again.
"Quentin?"
"Yes…"
"I have read about the experience of orgasm—" She kept her eyes firmly closed, as if to protect herself from embarrassment. "But I do not know what it's like. Can you explain it to me?"
He pulled back and muffled a laugh. "It's not something one can explain… especially from a man to a woman."
"Is it possible to achieve without actual intercourse?"
"Why?"
"Because I think… I think…" She opened her mouth and shuddered, rising up on her knees and falling back again. The impact on his erection was astonishing. Stars danced in front of his eyes.
"No," she said. "No, I… must have been mistaken. For a moment, I thought—"
Filled with an inexpressible tenderness, Quentin drew her close. "You'll know, Johanna," he said. He caught her face between his hands and kissed the tip of her nose. "And we aren't nearly finished yet."
Johanna was finally compelled to confess her ignorance. She hadn't had the slightest notion, for all her reading and observation, how wonderful sex could be. And Quentin had just begun.
It wasn't only the physical sensations, which of themselves were startling and indescribable. It was also the closeness—physical and emotional—that was so much more than the proximity of bodies.
She was eager to continue, but she contained herself. She was no wild wanton to lose every last vestige of common sense, forget where she was and why. She wanted to fully absorb every experience.
In case it never happened again.
"What is next?" she asked in a voice she hoped didn't betray her enthusiasm.
"I'll show you." He set his hands at her waist and lifted her easily, placing her on the bed beside him. He rolled over to cover her with his body.
Johanna tensed. His position reminded her too much of Fenris, and the feeling of helplessness she so despised. But Quentin made no move to constrain her. He leaned on one elbow and drew his fingers through her hair with his other hand, working the braids loose.
"Trust me, Johanna," he said.
"I do." She allowed him to separate the strands of her hair and spread it out across the pillow.
"Beautiful," he said.
"A very ordinary brown," she corrected.
"Let me be the judge of that." He kissed her, lightly at first, and then with greater passion. Her arms moved of their own accord to pull him down. He demonstrated the amazing variations possible in a simple kiss, from agile use of the tongue to subtle movements of strong, masculine lips.
And then he showed her all the other places on her body that could also be kissed.
He began with the other parts of her face: brow, cheeks, chin, jawline. He suckled the lobe of her ear, provoking waves of delicious shivers. She hadn't suspected how incredibly sensitive the flesh of her neck and its junction with her shoulder could be, especially when he grazed it with his teeth and salved it with his tongue afterward.
Inch by meticulous inch he worked his way down her body. She almost cried out in anticipation as he reached her breasts and repeated his previous caresses. His mouth closed over her nipple, sucking and tugging in a way that sent lances of sensation shooting directly into her womb.
She felt… beautiful. Her breasts were beautiful, the slight roundness of her stomach, the full breadth of her hips. Each part he worshipped in turn. He kissed the gentle projection of her ribs and ran his tongue in teasing circles around her navel. All the while she felt him drawing closer to the place that begged for his attentions. Her breath rang hoarse and loud in her own ears.
He paused, giving her brief deliverance from the high pitch of excitement. Yet she didn't want him to stop.
"Please," she murmured.
"You aren't afraid?" he asked again. His voice was just as unsteady as hers. "I can slow down, if you like."
"No," she answered, half in a daze. "No."
"It was a very foolish question." He took her hips between his hands and kissed his way down her body again.
The first touch of his tongue to her femininity was a considerable shock. She felt as if she'd been struck by lightning, every volt of it focused on this one part of her body. She thought she might die in the next few seconds.
She didn't die. Quentin was an expert. He pushed his tongue into the soft, moist flesh, stroking and exploring. She clutched handfuls of sheet in her fists, wondering how she could bear it. How any woman could. And to think that some male physicians actually believed that females could or should not know this… this ecstasy.
A moan escaped her. Quentin's caresses became more urgent, as if he were propelling her toward the climax he'd promised she would recognize. Surely she was already there. But the feeling of sheer pleasure became one of rising, rising toward some immeasurable height, a Valhalla that only the blessed could know.
Quentin led her there, drew her to the edge, and then let her go.
She exploded, tumbled, spun to the bottom in a rush of light and joy. Quentin was waiting for her. She felt herself pulse against his mouth while he reveled in her delight.
Every limb weighted with gratified exhaustion, Johanna rested her head on the pillow and let the overwhelming sensations fade. At last she knew what it was to reach the ultimate physical completion. The feelings Quentin had aroused in her when he'd touched her breasts were nothing compared to this. She couldn't help giggling a little at her own naïveté.
"I don't believe I've ever heard you giggle before," Quentin said, rolling onto his back beside her. "You found it acceptable?"
"Acceptable? You can ask that when—" She paused, noting the gleam of bedevilment in his eye. The hopeless rogue. She reached for his hand. "More than acceptable."
"I am glad." He propped himself up on his elbow to gaze at her. "You have a certain natural talent yourself."
"But I've done nothing. It has been quite—one-sided, has it not?"
Quentin licked his lips. "I found it very pleasant, I assure you."
"But you have not—we have not finished." Even as she spoke, she felt a renewed ache between her thighs—the ache of emptiness, of a powerful need to be filled in a way only Quentin could do.
"Not everything must be done at once," he said. "We aren't on a schedule, are we?"
He was putting her off, she was sure of it. In spite of his initial acquiescence, he hadn't let go of his qualms. He held back from the ultimate expression of the desire she knew he felt. The bold stance of his admirable, rather awesome male part had not diminished in the slightest.
She sat up and slid her hand down his belly. "Maybe not," she said. "But now it is my turn."
"You needn't—" He gulped back his words as she reached the base of his manhood and stroked up with one finger. He was so hard, so silky, and so very fascinating.
"I have seen this before, of course," she said in her best professional voice, "but never one so, so… superior."
"Thank you," he said. "I think."
"And never in this state, I must confess." She wrapped her hand around him and drew it up and down experimentally. His body jerked. "How long can you maintain it, I wonder?"
"Not… very much longer," he rasped. "Johanna—"
"I'm not being too rough?" She smiled serenely and reversed the direction of her caress.
He groaned in answer. After a few moments of experimentation she found just the right rhythm. He gave up any effort to speak and closed his eyes.
She loved the feeling of pleasuring him as he had done for her. Still it was not enough. Her innate, driving curiosity remained unassuaged.
One thing remained to be tried. She adjusted her position so that she could bend over him without losing her balance.
Quentin's eyes shot open. He muttered an oath, his whole body going rigid as she proceeded with her explorations. His fingers caught in her hair. His breathing grew more and more uneven. At what she perceived to be the last possible instant, he pushed her
away and swung his feet over the side of the bed, shuddering.
"I wasn't finished," she protested. "Come back here—"
"No." He turned about in one motion and bore her back onto the bed. "Not this time."
Her heart began to pound at half again its normal speed.
This was it, then. He lay over her, braced on his arms, the sleek and now-familiar shape of his manhood pressed into her belly. Her insides had become liquid with wanting him; her body couldn't be more eager to accept him.
He would enter, and thrust, and move within her. She knew what it would be like. She could imagine it so well that the excitement sparked all over again, threatening to burst out of control before he so much as breached her maidenhead.
"Quentin," she whispered. "I am ready. Now, mein Herz."
He repositioned himself, nudging her legs apart. He slid into place like a key ready to enter a well-oiled lock. Just the smallest movement, the merest thrust…
And he withdrew, clumsy with unfulfilled desire. Johanna bit her lips to keep from crying out in frustration.
"Not today, Johanna," he said, turning his head from her.
"Why?" Tears collected in her throat—rare, unwelcome visitors. "Why?"
"It isn't your fault, Johanna. Never think that." He looked at her, all humor fled from his face. "I can't, Johanna. It isn't for lack of wanting you." He tried, and failed, to smile. "I've never wanted a woman so much in my life. But the time isn't right. You know it as well as I do. Too much is at stake, too much uncertain."
"But I explained to you—"
"I know. I wanted to share what I could with you, Johanna. While I still had the chance. But if there's ever to be—more between us, things have to be different. Don't you see?"
She folded her arms across her breasts, bereft, somehow ashamed. Though her body wailed protest and her emotions seethed with anger and sorrow, her intellect understood him completely.
One night wouldn't be enough. Not for her. Once they joined, she'd want him for all time. But such promises could not be made, such castles built, while Fenris stood by and waited to usurp Quentin's place.
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