Invisible fingers stroked her spine. She trembled.
Morgan drew her down the wide path to where the attic turned a corner. The other end of the attic sat over the service rooms on the east side of the house and, beneath them, the ballroom and Morgan’s office. No one would be on either level at this time of night.
Morgan released her hand briefly and opened the four windows on this section of the attic. Emma examined the dark shapes between the pillars and under the low sections of the roof.
At the far end of the attic, there was no sloping roof. Instead, a blank wall rose vertically to the roof. The new northern wing of public rooms with the library, drawing room and other public rooms, all laid on the other side.
Against the flat, plain brick wall, up here in the attic, was pushed a collection of cast-off beds, sofas and chairs. The two sofas were sorry looking things with bowed middles and cushions with rents spilling their stuffing.
Emma’s gaze moved back to the lighter, delicate cast-iron frame of one of the beds. Children had played here at least once, for old blankets had been inexpertly spread cross the mattress, and a single thin cushion tossed into the corner by the wall. She thought she could see the head of a rag doll peeping beneath the overhanging blanket.
Morgan put his hands around her waist, as if he was measuring its size for himself. He drew her toward him. “Are you sure, Emma?” He didn’t whisper. His voice was deeper than usual, though. The sound of it stroked her insides, making them ripple.
“I cannot be sure when I do not entirely know what I have asked for. I only know I would rather be here before you in this moment, than anywhere else in the world.”
His hands tightened. “Truth and damn the world,” he breathed and kissed her. This time his kiss was different. He pulled her against him, as if he wanted to devour her. The shred of caution which had held him back in the drawing room was gone now. Morgan would be not halted. Not now.
She shuddered with both delight and fear as she recognized that fact.
It also gave her a freedom she swiftly grasped. If nothing would halt Morgan, then she could do as she wished with impunity.
She forced herself away from him just far enough to slide her hands between them, up against his chest, beneath the formal tuxedo jacket. Satin and silk touched her fingers and under those layers was heated flesh.
She recalled with a sense of delight the image of Morgan in the informal wrestling square, outlined by lanterns. His bare chest and the thick shoulders.
They laid beneath her fingers now. Her fingertips tingled. She slid her hand up to his shoulders, beneath the jacket, which made the jacket lift and fall back behind his shoulders.
With an impatient movement, Morgan shrugged out of the jacket and tossed it onto the abandoned sofa. He returned to her and Emma rested her hands on his shoulders, shielded only by the cotton of his shirt and the thin waistcoat. Her fingers trembled as she dropped them to the buttons on the waistcoat and slid the tiny pearl buttons free. She struggled to release his watch chain. With a soft sound of amusement, he slid his hand beneath hers, released it and dropped the chain into the fob pocket behind his watch.
He slid the remainder of the buttons undone and let the waistcoat hang open.
“Don’t stop,” Emma breathed.
He let out a billowing breath.
“Is that…wrong?” Emma asked, worry touching her.
Morgan shook his head. In the light of the stars and the crescent moon, his hair gleamed and his blue eyes glittered. “It is honest,” he said quietly. “And it is delightful.” He tugged his tie undone. Tie and waistcoat landed upon his jacket. Then the braces. The collar and his cuffs. He tucked the pins into the fob pocket, too. Then, the shirt itself.
Emma grew still as his bare shoulders and arms came into view. The only thing that moved was her heart, which seemed to be trying to throw itself through her chest.
She studied Morgan’s torso. The rounded muscles, and sleek dips and divots around them, even on his flat belly. The dusting of dark hair, which led her gaze down to his trousers.
He rid himself of his shoes and stockings, then paused.
Emma thought her heart might burst. “More…” she begged.
Morgan shook his head. “You would gulp when sipping is better.”
“Is it? I wouldn’t know.”
“You will,” he promised, his voice rumbling. He moved around her and reached for the hooks on the back of her dress and unfastened them, one slow hook at a time.
Emma thought she might faint, or scream, or tumble to the floor. She shook with fear and excitement. She was in uncharted waters, with little to guide her but vague gossip and intimations from friends. Hints found in books. Plus, the fears of every mother who warned their daughters not to linger alone with a man lest she lose everything precious to her, including her reputation.
That was where Emma sailed now. She did not care at all, because it was Morgan who lowered her dress around her shoulders and lifted her arms from the sleeves. He took the dress off her and draped it over the sofa arm.
Emma thought she should be embarrassed to stand before him in her petticoats and corset, yet she did not. Everything she still wore was an impediment, especially when she let her gaze linger on Morgan’s bare flesh. She wanted to run her fingers over it.
Instead, she tugged the petticoats loose, dropped the bustle with them and unbuckled her shoes and tossed them to one side, too.
Morgan caught her hand. “No more,” he breathed. “Not yet.” He drew her to him once more and kissed her.
Now there were far fewer layers between them. Emma shivered at the touch of his hot flesh against her. The thin cotton of her pantalets did nothing to shield her from the solid touch of him against her legs and hips.
Morgan’s lips moved against her mouth, then slid down her chin and onto her throat, while his hair brushed her jaw and made her skin sizzle with the light touch. Emma tried to stay still while he touched her so, only his lips were making her tremble. When he kissed her flesh above the top of her camisole, she shuddered, and gave a soft moan.
He tugged the ribbon undone and hooked his finger over the top of the camisole and drew it loose. His fingertips stroked the slope of her breast which was revealed.
Emma clutched at him. Heated flesh came under her fingers. The movement of muscles and tendons. She was caught by the sensation and spread her hand, savoring it. She slid her hand up his arm, to his shoulder, then down his chest to the flattened mound and the flat disk.
Morgan’s mouth paused, as she ran her finger over the disk. He shuddered.
Emma was delighted to know she was causing in him the same sensations rippling through her. She let her fingers stroke lower, over his belly, which flexed at her touch.
Morgan growled and scooped her up in his arms, making her gasp and clutch at him in surprise. He turned and lowered her onto the roughly made bed and bent over her.
Emma held her breath. All he did was unhook her corset and remove it, leaving her in stockings, pantalets and camisole.
The tips of her breasts were on fire. Every brush of her camisole was a coarse scraping, making her shudder and her hips to lift in little movements. The junction of her thighs was heated, throbbing.
Morgan untied the ribbon of her pantalets and drew them down her hips and off. Then her camisole.
Emma couldn’t lie still on the bed. It was as if an invisible power had control of her body, making her squirm and shift on the blanket.
Morgan dropped his hand to the band of his trousers and she grew still. Even her breath stilled. He unbuttoned them, his gaze upon her, then bent and removed them and the underdrawers, and dropped them to one side and straightened once more.
Emma’s gaze dropped to his thighs and the proud flesh which jutted there. Just the sight of it made the flesh between her thighs ache. She swallowed.
Morgan settled on the bed beside her. His hand rested upon her middle. His fingers moved restlessly against her
flesh.
Emma raised her hand, wanting to touch him, yet unsure whether she should. “May I?”
“Do as you please,” he breathed. “I intend to.” He bent his head. His lips closed over the tight, hard tip of her breast. Emma forgot about touching him, or anything but the silvery, sharply sweet sensations his lips were creating. She rolled her head, her eyes closing and her knees falling apart, as the delight speared through her in deep waves, making her breath come in sharp little pants.
“More…” she begged, her voice not her own.
Morgan groaned and shifted his attention to her other breast. His hand on her belly stroked and teased, drawing closer to her mound. His touch brought a different sort of delight, one which gripped her throat and made her heart work even harder.
Emma realized she was squeezing and pulling the blanket by her hip. She was helpless to stop. She had only the vaguest idea how such matters were concluded yet ached to reach that moment. Her body seemed empty. Especially between her legs.
Morgan slid his fingers between her lower lips and she cried out at the spark of joy it gave her. She clutched at his head, trying to catch her breath. The pleasure didn’t stop. It increased in intensity, instead.
Morgan’s fingers slipped inside her, deep into her channel. The sound that tore from her throat was unrecognizable. She ached for more.
His thumb shifted between her flesh and stroked the nub.
Emma’s cry locked in her throat as raw sensations, overwhelming pleasure, coursed through her in crashing waves that seemed to tear at her nerves, shredding them. Her hips lifted and held, her breasts thrust up hard. Her head rolled back and for a long, endless moment, she rocked upon a sea of pure pleasure, blind and deaf to anything but the sensations.
When she took notice once more of her surroundings, she blinked up at Morgan, as he rested over her. Even in the dim starlight, she could see he was smiling.
“That was…” Her voice trembled.
“Yes,” he said in agreement and lifted her knee. He shifted to lie between her thighs and her instincts recognized that the moment had come. Morgan propped himself over her. He lifted her knee so it was up by his flank with one hand, while the muscles in his other arm flexed and bunched into hard mounds.
Emma couldn’t resist resting her hand against his chest, to touch him once more.
His shaft pressed against her, separating the flesh.
Understanding dawned in her. Emma let herself open up to him, as Morgan inched himself inside. The pressure was enormous, then abruptly, it slackened. He pushed even deeper, with a hoarse, broken exhalation. He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers in a hard, short kiss. “Exquisite,” he breathed.
Then he shifted his hips. His shaft slid from her, then pushed deeper once more.
“Oh…” she whispered, as the movement stirred sensations in her belly and her still tingling nerves.
Morgan repeated the thrust.
Her breath hitched a little harder.
He worked over her, thrusting in movements which grew harder and deeper. She recognized he was caught up in the pleasure-spell, too. His body gathered up the excitement, increasing it, building it toward the same overwhelming pinnacle she had enjoyed, which seemed to be building in her again.
Morgan gave a shuddering groan and grew stiff and taut, trembling. Inside her, his shaft throbbed.
The delightful moment was over.
Only, Morgan pushed his arm beneath her and twisted himself over, lifting her up as he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him. He was still inside her. He shifted her knees so they were on either side of his hips.
“Oh…!” she whispered, shocked. And…pleasured, too. He was even deeper inside her now.
“Come here,” Morgan breathed and drew her to him. He kissed her, then let out a gusty sigh and brushed a long curl which had come loose back over her shoulder. “Now I can think,” he said, his tone grave.
“You think too much,” she whispered.
“You will like this type of thinking,” he assured her. His fingers drifted over her shoulder and stroked down the slope of her breast, to linger near the still tight, hard tip.
She caught her breath as her middle rippled. The flesh between her thighs gave a throb. “Then…we are not yet done?”
“I’ve only just begun,” Morgan assured her and drew her head down to him to kiss.
Chapter Fifteen
It seemed to Emma that she must have slept at some time during that long night, although she could not recall closing her eyes—not to sleep, at least.
She passed the hours in a delirium of desire, while Morgan poured upon her carnal pleasures she had not suspected existed. She had asked him to show her what she did not know. He expanded her understanding far beyond that basic learning.
He made her tremble, he made her writhe and cry out. He worked his body against hers and in hers, while coaxing from her responses which shocked her. Emma learned she was an earthy, sensual woman. Morgan seemed to have known it long before she learned, for nothing she did to him or with him, or wanted to try seemed to surprise him.
He would give her a small smile, his eyes smoldering and comply with her request. Sometimes he remained motionless so she could explore with her hands and mouth, until he could stay still no longer. Then he would groan and gather her to him and finish what she had begun, his body hard against hers.
And sometimes he held her still so he might comply with her wishes, bringing her to the peak of pleasure.
In between, they laid together. Emma rested her head on Morgan’s shoulder and trailed her fingertips over his chest and torso, marveling at his scent and heat and the power of his body.
The sky was growing lighter when Emma at last stirred and moved to the side of the bed and reached for her camisole.
Morgan sat up, his back against the wall, and watched her dress. She did not bother with shoes and stockings, or any of the underthings other than her camisole. The camisole which would hide her nakedness beneath the dress, should she come across anyone in the corridor when she returned to her room.
He didn’t speak as she dressed.
Emma turned her back to him and sat on the edge of the bed. “Would you mind hooking my dress closed? I can’t reach all of them.”
Morgan moved across the bed. She pulled her hair aside and felt him bring the edges of the dress together. It was a novel sensation to bend at the middle while wearing clothes.
“This doesn’t end here,” Morgan murmured. Before he brought the gown together at the neck, he kissed the back of her shoulder. “You know that, do you not?”
“I am the disruption in your orderly life. Surely you would not want me to linger where I will bring further upset?”
His hands grew still. He dropped them. “If that is what you believe, then why did you allow this to happen?”
Emma reached up behind her neck and hooked the last two hooks closed. Then she bent and swept all her other garments up inside her petticoats and rolled them into a tight bundle.
“Emma?”
She faced him. Morgan was gloriously naked. Without the garments of a gentleman to hide beneath, he was an intimidating man to gaze upon. There was no weakness anywhere in his body, including his face. It was as if, without the clothes, his true nature was revealed. His true strength.
“Any other man would think he made this night happen,” she pointed out.
“I am not such a fool that I must cling to sops to my manhood,” Morgan said. “I wanted this, yes. I would not have taken it, though. I have not. Not for months.” The tiny furrow appeared between his brows.
“Is that why you have stopped sleeping, once more?” Emma asked.
“You know it is.”
“I know now,” she admitted.
“And now I ask that you give me time, Emma. I will not leave things as they are. I am not that callous.”
Emma made herself meet his gaze. “You would marry me now, to preserve my reputation?”
His gaze did not shift. “There may well be reason for it, after this.”
Emma clenched her hands into fists beneath the bundle of clothes. “So the only reason you would consider marrying me is one of expediency…and you need time to bring yourself to it.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “That was not my meaning.”
Emma hugged the bundle of petticoats against her middle. She felt cold. “Your moral conscience may rest easy, Morgan Davies. I do not want to marry you.”
Morgan seemed to leap from the bed with no apparent effort. He padded toward her, his anger simmering. “You are deliberately misunderstanding me,” he growled.
“Am I? Look me in the eyes, Morgan, and tell me you do not have a single reservation about me because of who my father may be.”
“I do not!” he ground out. It did not seem to bother him that he was unclothed. It did not make him seem vulnerable at all. “I have never cared about that.”
“Then why did you investigate Blackawton?” she demanded.
“For you!” he shot back, his voice rising. “There are…events in force, which stay my hand. All I ask is for a little time, Emma.”
“How much time is a little?” she asked. It felt as though a cold hand was squeezing her middle. “Hours? Days? Weeks?”
Morgan pushed his hand through his hair. Emma had done that herself more than once during the night, letting the softness tickle the sides of her fingers. It did not move her now, though. She waited for his answer.
“I do not know for certain,” he said, his voice quieter. He reached for his trousers and thrust them on. Did he feel vulnerable, now?
Emma tried to consider what he asked for fairly. In the back of her mind, weighting her consideration, was all the knowledge she had amassed about female subjugation and the insidious ways men and society fought to keep women from controlling their own lives.
She had forced the matter this night. It had been her choice. Because of her decision, Morgan now spoke of marrying her—a lifetime commitment for a single night of pleasure—for no other reason than it was the right thing to do.
Year of Folly Page 16