The Duchess War
Page 64
Those minor imperfections riveted him. This was no painter’s imagination, no unreal fantasy displayed in his mind. This was Minnie, and she was here, real and breathing.
Red ribbon bows held the gown together at her shoulders. The one over her right arm was loose, and it seemed to taunt him, that half-made knot, not quite pulled firmly together, threatening to loose itself and let the sheer fabric slide down her skin.
“Do you remember that fundamental physiological flaw?” he muttered.
“Remember it? I’d hoped to exploit it.”
“Oh.” He reached for her. “Good. Then assume I said something brilliant.”
He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her in for a kiss. It wasn’t just a kiss, lips on lips. It wasn’t even just his body, pressing against hers. He could feel her breaths speed up, unbound by a corset. His hands slid up her body. Her br**sts were round and firm; her ni**les hardened as his fingers brushed them. This was the beginning of everything.
“Assume I said something bloody brilliant,” he muttered.
From her breast, it was only a short way to that loose ribbon, only a twist of his fingers to undo it and draw the silk down. He found her breast again, this time uncovered. The texture of female skin—so warm and vibrant, soft to the touch and yet firm when caressed—enthralled him.
But she was even less shy than he. She slid her hands under his coat, around his waist. She kissed him long and slow.
“Are you afraid?” he whispered, drawing her closer to the bed.
“I know I’m supposed to be…but no. No.” He’d always found her voice sensual, but now it was downright erotic.
She sat on the bed and crooked her finger. “I’m not feeling particularly clever myself. I want you.”
Any hope he’d had of restraining himself evaporated at that. He shed his coat while she undid the buttons of his waistcoat. They pulled off his shirt together, both of them laughing when his hand got stuck in one cuff and she had to turn it inside out on his wrist to pull it off. Her fingers explored his chest, setting him to shivering while he undid his trousers.
When he’d shed trousers and smallclothes in a great mass on the floor, she pulled him back on the bed and kissed him again. This kiss was even better—skin against skin, her hands brushing his thighs, then gently exploring his organ. He fumbled the other ribbon tie off her shoulder as their tongues met. They were chest to chest, then, as he clumsily extricated her from her gown, bare legs to bare legs. He took hold of her hands in his and pressed them together full-length.
Her mouth was hot against his. His c**k was hard against her hip. They kissed, his pelvis grinding into hers, and all his dreams, all his most sordid imaginings, paled before reality. He was going to have her. He was finally, really, truly going to have her. He spread her legs and got on his knees between them.
When faced with the pretty pink folds of her sex, it was impossible not to touch her. She let out a little gasp when he touched her there—not of shock, but encouragement. She strained against his fingers. Fingers weren’t enough. He came on top of her, careful, so careful with his weight. She moaned when he rubbed the head of his erection against the opening of her passage.
“Oh, God,” she said, in that so-arousing voice. “Robert…”
“God. I want you so badly.”
He pushed an inch inside of her.
She inhaled and set her hand against his chest—not a caress, but a slight pressure pushing him away, and he stopped. His biceps ached subtly, frozen as he was above her.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“No…” She smiled weakly and then said, in direct contradiction, “Only a little.”
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to pop the bubble of unthinking lust that had taken him so thoroughly. He was making a hash of things. He was forcing himself on her with scarcely a kiss and a fumble to ready her.
“Don’t stop,” she said, but when he thrust deeper inside, her entire body tensed. The pleasure he felt only magnified his unease. She closed around him—soft and warm, tight, so tight. She felt good. But he could feel her muscles, tense and unyielding beneath his body. Her fingers clenched in the bed sheets. Her jaw was set, as if she managed to grit her teeth only through strength of effort.
“I’m sorry.” He tried to kiss her. “I’m sorry.”
She lifted one hand and touched his cheek. “Stop worrying, Robert. I’ll tell you if it becomes unbearable.”
Bearable. This was bearable for her, when it was good for him.
Only good.
Somehow, he had had some notion that sexual intercourse with her would be different. That the complexity of what he felt for Minnie, their rapport… He had imagined that all of that would make this moment different in some way. That somehow, he would slide into her and his world would catch fire.
Knowing that it was just bearable for her robbed the act of anything but physical pleasure. This was his wedding night. It was supposed to be magical, as stupid and naïve as that sounded.
When he thrust inside her, it was supposed to feel different. He yearned for something magic to come out of her flesh—some secret thing that would transport them. Something that would make this more than good for him, more than bearable for her. As it was—he tried to suppress the terrible thought with her body so wary under his, but couldn’t quite—he’d have preferred his left fist to this.
No matter how he took her, whether slow or swift, no matter whether he curled his hands in her hair or set them next to her shoulders, there was no magic in the act. When one made love to a woman one really cared for, it was supposed to feel different.
If you’re any good in bed, I might fall in love with you.
She’d said it with a smile, but he hadn’t realized how much he wanted her to love him. He yearned for it, and he felt the possibility drift away with every thrust that was merely bearable.
He shut his eyes and thought of England, concentrated on the smaller pleasures of the act—the pleasant hum of his body as he slid inside her, the slow burn of his pleasure, gathering at the base of his spine.
“God, Minnie,” he said, and drove harder into her. It was good. Good was enough. She was enough—her body, tightening around his, her hips, her br**sts brushing against his chest with every last thrust. And then it was very good, in those final ragged moments. He came hard inside her, his release catching him up in a moment that was almost as sweet as what he’d wished for.
Red ribbon bows held the gown together at her shoulders. The one over her right arm was loose, and it seemed to taunt him, that half-made knot, not quite pulled firmly together, threatening to loose itself and let the sheer fabric slide down her skin.
“Do you remember that fundamental physiological flaw?” he muttered.
“Remember it? I’d hoped to exploit it.”
“Oh.” He reached for her. “Good. Then assume I said something brilliant.”
He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her in for a kiss. It wasn’t just a kiss, lips on lips. It wasn’t even just his body, pressing against hers. He could feel her breaths speed up, unbound by a corset. His hands slid up her body. Her br**sts were round and firm; her ni**les hardened as his fingers brushed them. This was the beginning of everything.
“Assume I said something bloody brilliant,” he muttered.
From her breast, it was only a short way to that loose ribbon, only a twist of his fingers to undo it and draw the silk down. He found her breast again, this time uncovered. The texture of female skin—so warm and vibrant, soft to the touch and yet firm when caressed—enthralled him.
But she was even less shy than he. She slid her hands under his coat, around his waist. She kissed him long and slow.
“Are you afraid?” he whispered, drawing her closer to the bed.
“I know I’m supposed to be…but no. No.” He’d always found her voice sensual, but now it was downright erotic.
She sat on the bed and crooked her finger. “I’m not feeling particularly clever myself. I want you.”
Any hope he’d had of restraining himself evaporated at that. He shed his coat while she undid the buttons of his waistcoat. They pulled off his shirt together, both of them laughing when his hand got stuck in one cuff and she had to turn it inside out on his wrist to pull it off. Her fingers explored his chest, setting him to shivering while he undid his trousers.
When he’d shed trousers and smallclothes in a great mass on the floor, she pulled him back on the bed and kissed him again. This kiss was even better—skin against skin, her hands brushing his thighs, then gently exploring his organ. He fumbled the other ribbon tie off her shoulder as their tongues met. They were chest to chest, then, as he clumsily extricated her from her gown, bare legs to bare legs. He took hold of her hands in his and pressed them together full-length.
Her mouth was hot against his. His c**k was hard against her hip. They kissed, his pelvis grinding into hers, and all his dreams, all his most sordid imaginings, paled before reality. He was going to have her. He was finally, really, truly going to have her. He spread her legs and got on his knees between them.
When faced with the pretty pink folds of her sex, it was impossible not to touch her. She let out a little gasp when he touched her there—not of shock, but encouragement. She strained against his fingers. Fingers weren’t enough. He came on top of her, careful, so careful with his weight. She moaned when he rubbed the head of his erection against the opening of her passage.
“Oh, God,” she said, in that so-arousing voice. “Robert…”
“God. I want you so badly.”
He pushed an inch inside of her.
She inhaled and set her hand against his chest—not a caress, but a slight pressure pushing him away, and he stopped. His biceps ached subtly, frozen as he was above her.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“No…” She smiled weakly and then said, in direct contradiction, “Only a little.”
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to pop the bubble of unthinking lust that had taken him so thoroughly. He was making a hash of things. He was forcing himself on her with scarcely a kiss and a fumble to ready her.
“Don’t stop,” she said, but when he thrust deeper inside, her entire body tensed. The pleasure he felt only magnified his unease. She closed around him—soft and warm, tight, so tight. She felt good. But he could feel her muscles, tense and unyielding beneath his body. Her fingers clenched in the bed sheets. Her jaw was set, as if she managed to grit her teeth only through strength of effort.
“I’m sorry.” He tried to kiss her. “I’m sorry.”
She lifted one hand and touched his cheek. “Stop worrying, Robert. I’ll tell you if it becomes unbearable.”
Bearable. This was bearable for her, when it was good for him.
Only good.
Somehow, he had had some notion that sexual intercourse with her would be different. That the complexity of what he felt for Minnie, their rapport… He had imagined that all of that would make this moment different in some way. That somehow, he would slide into her and his world would catch fire.
Knowing that it was just bearable for her robbed the act of anything but physical pleasure. This was his wedding night. It was supposed to be magical, as stupid and naïve as that sounded.
When he thrust inside her, it was supposed to feel different. He yearned for something magic to come out of her flesh—some secret thing that would transport them. Something that would make this more than good for him, more than bearable for her. As it was—he tried to suppress the terrible thought with her body so wary under his, but couldn’t quite—he’d have preferred his left fist to this.
No matter how he took her, whether slow or swift, no matter whether he curled his hands in her hair or set them next to her shoulders, there was no magic in the act. When one made love to a woman one really cared for, it was supposed to feel different.
If you’re any good in bed, I might fall in love with you.
She’d said it with a smile, but he hadn’t realized how much he wanted her to love him. He yearned for it, and he felt the possibility drift away with every thrust that was merely bearable.
He shut his eyes and thought of England, concentrated on the smaller pleasures of the act—the pleasant hum of his body as he slid inside her, the slow burn of his pleasure, gathering at the base of his spine.
“God, Minnie,” he said, and drove harder into her. It was good. Good was enough. She was enough—her body, tightening around his, her hips, her br**sts brushing against his chest with every last thrust. And then it was very good, in those final ragged moments. He came hard inside her, his release catching him up in a moment that was almost as sweet as what he’d wished for.
