Chapter Twelve
Pearce was endlessly impressed with the way in which Clara took to learning her role as woman of the house with such enthusiasm.
The meals since their first day had become well-coordinated, and the staff operated with an amiability that spoke of a pleasant household.
She was clearly adept at the task and was putting her years of training to good use.
Pearce supposed he should have expected it; she’d had some say in Kempton’s household for at least the past few years until he’d married, so she had some practical knowledge of the task. However, her good nature and exacting eye were the perfect combination for a lady of the household.
It was with a mixture of guilt and pride that he realized Clara would be the most remarkable life partner—she would host with grace and become a flame for the moths of the ton—and she truly would have made another man an astounding wife and mother to his children.
Part of him did not feel worthy of a wife as accomplished as she was, but there was still a selfish part of him that enjoyed the fact that she was all his.
As he sat at the head of the dining table with her to his right, the table laid with impeccable taste, a platter of herb-roasted chicken and root vegetables between them, this was quite possibly the most at peace he’d felt in a long, long while.
Unfortunately, it was becoming quite clear that Clara was not of a similar mind.
Ever since he’d retrieved her from her chamber, she’d been fidgety and quiet—not at all like the Clara he knew.
Her nerves had been worn ragged by the hours she’d had to consider her decision, and though it caused him no little amount of pain, he set aside his glass of wine and said, “I will not hold you to what you said earlier if you have changed your mind.”
She seemed so surprised by his words that Clara nearly tipped over her own drink when she accidentally set it on the blade of her knife.
“No!” she almost shouted, making the footman stationed in the corner flinch a little.
“That is…” she tried again and lowered her voice, “no, thank you. I have not changed my mind.”
“Very good,” he murmured, unable to completely tamp down a small smile.
*
While she’d appreciated Pearce’s offer to renege on her permission to allow him to come to her, Clara’s pride would not allow her to do so.
He’d finally begun to view her as a woman, and she refused to display a child’s indecision.
She’d made her bed and now she, quite literally, had to lie in it.
This was what had made her hold fast to her statement.
It was what allowed her to make it through their supper.
It helped propel her through the process of undressing, bathing, and preparing herself for bed.
It kept her spine straight, even though her heart threatened to choke her as her husband came to her.
Pearce entered her bedchamber silently just as Beth was taking her leave.
Having bathed and changed, he wore black breeches, a clean linen shirt open at the throat, and his blond hair curling at his temples.
Her lips parted in awe of his beauty, the ease with which he occupied the room as if he reigned supreme.
Clara was helpless to resist when he held his hand out to her; she placed her fingers in his palm and allowed him to help her rise.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, his voice low, gentle, and barely above a whisper.
She nibbled her lower lip, wondering if it was brave or childish to admit the truth; however, he saved her from having to respond by saying, “It is natural to feel that way. It is my responsibility to put you at ease, but I need for you to be honest with me and trust me. Can you do that, darling?”
Her knees felt about as substantial as custard when he spoke to her like that, the silver of his eyes darkening ever so slightly. It was intimate. It was thrilling.
Clara nodded, unable to resist agreeing. She did trust him not to hurt her. She trusted him to show her more pleasure. She thought she could also be honest with him.
“If I do something and you do not care for it, then you will tell me. There is no shame. Everyone finds pleasure in a different way. Together, we will discover it for you.”
Clara’s skin felt flushed and her breathing became shallow with anticipation. What could they learn together? How much pleasure could one person endure?
“Would you like for me to kiss you?” he asked, his eyes riveted to her lips.
Unconsciously, her tongue darted out to moisten them; she nodded again.
Her legs weakened as his mouth brushed over hers.
Light pecks gradually transformed into deepening caresses until he licked into her mouth.
Their tongues dueled with increasing fervor until she was arching up into him, her aching nipples pebbling against the hard wall of his chest, the linen of her nightshift and his shirt abrading them deliciously.
“Would you like me to touch your breasts?” Pearce panted as he lifted his mouth an inch form hers.
Clara nodded. “Would you like to touch my breasts?”
He hummed appreciatively. “I would very much like to touch your breasts.” His hand snaked up her side to cup one full orb just right, so his thumb could pass across the taut bud.
Back and forth, back and forth it went, each slow swipe sending another jolt of lightning between her thighs.
“I would like to admire them, lick them, taste them, stroke them, pinch them—”
“Pinch them?” Clara exclaimed, both shocked and a little aroused by the idea of being caught between his strong fingers.
“Oh yes,” he answered with a wicked grin. “Why don’t we give that a try?”
“I do not—oh! Oh my!” Clara’s weak protest died when he caught the aching bud between his thumb and forefinger.
The pinch wasn’t hard; rather, it was a pleasurable sting just the pleasant side of pain.
When he released it to sooth it with an open-mouthed kiss through her linen nightrail, her head fell back and she moaned.
“Again?”
Clara barely had a moment to process the question before he began rolling her nipple between his fingers once more, this time a little more forceful than before. Her toes curled and she gasped.
“Yes,” she hissed. “The other, too…” Her cheeks burned after she made the request, but any shame she might have felt was cast away by his next words.
“Of course—we must be fair, mustn’t we?” What followed was the most delicious combination of teasing and soothing, tweaking and licking, stroking and nibbling. It left Clara trembling, her inner thighs drenched with her blossoming need until she whimpered for him to touch her there as well.
“Gladly,” Pearce purred, rucking up her skirt until she was bare to the air, her cleft cool and exposed.
“Bloody hell.” His growl, when he began to stroke her there, nearly undid the last bit of strength she had in her limbs.
“You are so wet and ready for me, just from playing with your perfect tits. I must taste you. May I taste you?” His eyes were wild with need when they met hers.
“You wish to—what?” Clara’s heart was racing.
“I want to taste you,” he replied in a tone that was impossible to misinterpret.
“I want to lick every inch of you. I want to taste every fold of your beautiful sex. I want to drink you in. I want to hear you scream my name as I suckle your pearl. I want to fuck your cunny with my tongue until you’re weak and spent, then I want to fuck you with my cock until you cry from the pleasure.
Do you understand?” He brought his glistening fingers to his lips and sucked them deeply into his mouth, licking them clean.
She was held rapt by the decidedly naughty gesture.
“Because you are the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. ”
Clara’s nod was enthusiastic, and Pearce immediately swept her into his arms to deposit her onto the mattress.
He wasted no time in falling between her legs, spreading them wide enough to accommodate his frame, hooking her legs over his shoulders, and dipping his head to close his mouth over her sex like a starving man presented the most succulent feast.
The sensations he unleashed were at once the same and vastly different from when he’d used his hands on her.
The way he suckled her made her shiver with want.
The way his tongue flicked and laved made her spread herself wider for his touch.
When his tongue speared deeply into her tight channel, she cried out and gripped the back of his head so he could not move.
Wave after wave of pleasure was filling her, like water being poured too quickly into a vessel. Soon, she would overflow.
Clara sobbed her husband’s name. She begged him for more, she begged him to end her torture, she begged him for things she could not name.
When his tongue swirled that hidden bud of sensation at the crux of her sex just as he pressed his two longest fingers deep into her core, Clara’s world exploded into a riot of sparkling, fragmented colors.
She bucked and trembled; she pushed him away and pulled him closer in the same motion.
Her entire existence shrank to only the pinpoints of contact they shared as her pleasure crested and spilled over.
She hadn’t fully floated back into herself when Pearce crawled up her body, her ambrosia still glistening upon his grinning lips.
“Take me,” she moaned, almost nonsensical.
“I plan on it,” he said in a low voice smoky with promise.
She hadn’t realized he’d doffed his shirt and breeches until the hot press of his bare chest met her sensitized breasts.
Only a light dusting of hair spanned the width of his pectorals, leaving the rest of his torso smooth and golden until the thick thatch of hair surrounding his sex.
His organ jutted thick and heavy against her belly until he took himself in hand and ran the blunt head through her swollen folds, gathering her nectar and spreading it.