Chapter 23 #2
Slowly he drew up her skirts. “And if I make love to you, it will fit here.” He touched her again, sliding his finger as high inside her as it would go.
Joan shuddered, spreading her knees wider without conscious thought and flexing her spine to bear down on that invading finger.
Dear heaven—if it felt this good with just his finger inside her, how much better would it be when he thrust his prick inside her?
Every prurient story and poem she had ever read in the secrecy of her bed ran through her mind in a jumble.
Stories of satisfaction and pleasure so extreme, both man and woman barely survived it.
Stories of men driven joyfully mad from thrusting themselves inside their lovers.
Of women delighting in every penetration until they screamed and almost died away in bliss when their lovers gave them a climax, something so amazing there weren’t enough adjectives to adequately describe it.
And so far, everything seemed to indicate the stories were true.
She did feel a throbbing ache inside her.
She wanted him to make love to her, over and over again until she fell senseless with pleasure.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Show me.”
“God, darling, yes.” His finger withdrew, and then he pressed two fingers inside her, pushing harder.
Joan felt a tightness, a slight burning, and she squirmed, but the discomfort faded as he stroked her again, gently working his fingers in and out of her.
“I want to make it easier for you,” he whispered, dipping his head once more to her breasts.
She gave herself up to him, reveling in every touch of his mouth on her skin. She clutched his head to her breast, rocking her hips to meet every stroke of his fingers.
“Just like that,” he muttered. “Yes—wait—now—” He reared back, yanking her hips so that she slid down among the cushions until her hips were almost off the sofa.
Panting, he took himself once more in his hand before setting the blunt knob against her throbbing opening where his fingers had just been. “Push,” he rasped.
She arched her back a little, letting her weight slip toward him. At the same moment he pushed forward, and he slipped inside her, stretching her. He met her gaze as if seeking reassurance. “Again,” he said in the same dark, velvet tone.
Joan pressed down at the same moment he bore forward. The pressure between her legs grew keener, less pleasurable. “Tristan?” she said uncertainly.
“I know.” He laid his hand on her belly and thumbed aside the curls covering the place where his body met hers. “Let me help . . . just feel . . .” He spoke soothingly but there was a raw undercurrent to his voice.
She lay still a moment, concentrating on every swirl and stroke of his thumb.
The heat in her veins increased again, until she gave a sigh and pushed her hips, only to realize he had been slowly pressing deeper as she whirled away.
Tristan seemed mesmerized by it; his long hair had come loose and hung over his face as he stared at the junction of their bodies, but Joan could almost feel the heat of his gaze, so she looked, too.
It was shocking, and somehow arousing, to see his hand against the pale skin of her thighs, his fingers parting the curls between her legs, his flesh sliding one thick, hard inch at a time inside her . . .
“Almost . . .” His voice was strained and guttural. His touch grew a little rougher, making her jolt and gasp as new bolts of excitement shot through her. As she flung her head back and drew up her legs beside his hips, he surged forward, driving himself fully inside her.
Joan trembled. She felt so full, so stretched, it seemed she would split apart if either of them moved.
Tristan seemed to be under some similar perception; for a long moment he just gripped her hip with one hand, his other hand tense on her mound, and let his head hang down as he struggled to breathe.
Finally he lifted his glittering eyes to meet hers. “Now you’re mine,” he whispered. “My gorgeous, lovely Joan.”
Still holding her, he began to move, rocking back and forth, in and out, slowly and gently at first, but growing more urgent.
The sense that she would be torn asunder disappeared; now she didn’t want him to leave her, and hooked her legs around his hips to urge him back, ever harder and deeper.
He teased her with his fingers and nipped at her breast with his teeth until she writhed frantically beneath him.
“I want,” she gasped. “I want—I need—” Something was building inside her, something frightening and vital and so, so close . . .
“God!” He closed his mouth around her nipple and suckled hard.
His hips surged against her relentlessly, driving his hardness deeper, retreating, then filling her again.
His fingers encircled that aching kernel of sensation and pinched it so firmly she thought she would go blind from it, and then something inside her broke, finally releasing the tension in a crescendo of waves that seemed to pull every muscle in her body tight.
And as the taut urgency drained away, Tristan let his weight fall forward, gripping her to him with a harsh groan as he bore down on her and she felt him swell even larger inside her.
“That—that was a climax, wasn’t it?” she whispered a moment later, her arms locked around him.
He gave a huff. “Not just any climax. God in heaven, I thought I would fall unconscious.”
She stretched in instinctive female satisfaction, liking the way he caught his breath and pressed his hips against hers, as if he was as reluctant to part from her as she was from him. “So it’s not always that way when you make love to a woman?”
“It has never, in all my life, nor even in my imagination, been like that before.” He kissed her, long and slow, as if they had all the time in the world. “And it was only your first time.”
She blushed. “Will we do that again, then?”
“Repeatedly. Until I learn every last thing that makes you wild.” He grinned, the lazy, relaxed grin that burrowed straight into her heart. “But not tonight.”
“Oh. Oh!” Her mouth dropped open in alarm as she abruptly recalled where they were. “We could be discovered at any moment!”
He shrugged. “Unlikely. But we should return before anyone misses you.” With one last kiss he pushed himself away and got to his feet. Joan sighed as their bodies separated, but then giggled at the sight of Tristan with his trousers around his knees and his shirt hanging loose.
“Idle wench,” he said in amusement. “Here.” He pulled up his trousers and buttoned them, then pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and gently pressed it between her legs. “Does it hurt?”
She shook her head. His face eased, and he ran his palm once, just lightly, over her woman’s place—what 50 Ways to Sin called her quim—before he helped her up.
“It’s much more enjoyable to unfasten your dress,” he murmured as he redid her buttons after she tugged her corset and shift back into place.
“I suppose that must be one’s penance for being wicked during a ball.
” She smoothed her skirts, hoping they weren’t horribly wrinkled in back.
He laughed quietly, adjusting his own clothing, and she turned to the mirror over the fireplace to repair her hair.
Thank goodness Polly had put it in a simple knot tonight; she would have been betrayed at once if she’d had to contend with braids and ringlets.
“Were we wicked?” He put his arms around her as she fixed the last pin. “Are you racked with guilt?”
Joan blushed. “No. At least—well, probably not as much as I should be.”
He regarded her seriously in the mirror. “How much would that be?”
The blush crept down her throat. “I suppose that depends on what comes next.”
This was the moment. He had remained by her side for all to see, all evening long.
He had declared himself mad for her. He had called her gorgeous and bewitching and darling.
He had made love to her and said it had been incomparable.
Now was his opportunity to fall on his knees and swear his heart was hers, to beg for her hand in marriage, to begin a life of devoted happiness and contentment.
“Joan! Joan!” Evangeline’s frantic voice broke the pregnant pause. Before she or Tristan could speak, there was a furious rattling of the knob, and a moment later the door flew open and her aunt almost fell into the room, with Sir Richard close on her heels.
“Oh my,” cried Evangeline, clutching one hand to her heart as she spied them, still in each other’s arms. “Oh my God—Richard—!”
“What the devil are you doing?” that gentleman asked Tristan in an ominous tone.
Tristan looked down at her. Joan looked up at him. “What does it look like?” he asked.
He didn’t say anything else, though the whole room seemed to be waiting for something. Joan began to feel a prickle of unease. Had she misinterpreted . . . ? Or misheard . . . ? Surely if he loved her, he could still confess it . . .
“Joan—Joan, come with me right now.” Evangeline sounded on the brink of tears. “We have to go.”
Tristan released her at once. “Good night, darling.” He caught up her hand and brushed a lingering kiss on her knuckles. “I will see you later,” he added softly.
“Good night,” she replied with a tremulous smile. She wasn’t wrong about him. She didn’t—couldn’t—believe that. It would come out right. She was sure of it.
It had to. Didn’t it?
Evangeline seized her wrist and towed her down the hall, swiping at her eyes once or twice.
Joan glanced behind her, but didn’t see either Sir Richard or Tristan following.
In the hall her aunt sent a footman off to fetch the carriage, snapping at him to hurry.
Another servant rushed to bring their cloaks, and Evangeline almost shoved Joan out the door.
“I hope,” she said when they were alone in the carriage, “that my fears are unfounded. I hope my trust has not been abused. I hope—” Her voice broke. “I hope I shall have nothing dreadful to confess to your parents.”
Joan was grateful for the darkness that hid her face. “I’m sure you don’t.”
“When I suggested you let him kiss you, I never meant you should walk away from a ball, where dozens of people might notice your absence and his! I never meant you should be indiscreet—a kiss could be given in a moment of privacy, behind a garden hedge or around a corner. You should not have stolen away to the loneliest part of the house where everyone will draw the worst conclusions!” This time there was a definite sob in her aunt’s anguished cry.
She began to feel very guilty. As much as she longed to, there was no real defense available to her.
She couldn’t protest that nothing had happened, because it most certainly had.
She couldn’t wave aside the notice of gossips and busybodies, because she knew quite well it was almost guaranteed.
Not only were she and Tristan both taller than average, her gown had drawn attention.
She knew people had been remarking his presence at her side, although she’d never really regretted that fact the way she did right now.
It was inevitable that someone would whisper about it, and then it would be all over London.
The notorious Lord Burke seduced the daughter of the very proper Lady Bennet!
The first frisson of panic went up her spine as the realization crashed over her that her mother would hear of this.
“I’m very, very sorry,” she told her aunt. “I didn’t think . . . well, not clearly enough. He didn’t really tell me we were sneaking off, he just took my hand, and then . . .” She blinked, her own eyes growing wet. “But I wanted to go with him. He—he did kiss me, Evangeline—”
Her aunt made a sound like a strangled sob.
“And it was lovely,” Joan added longingly. “I love him. And I think he loves me.”
“Did he say so?” Evangeline leaned forward anxiously.
“If he declared himself, my dear, this will all end well. Your father will allow it, if your heart is engaged. Your mother will see the wisdom of the match; it’s a very good one for both parties.
Tell me he proposed marriage, or made any promise at all, and I shall stop haranguing you at once. ”
“Not—not precisely marriage, no,” she said in a small voice.
Evangeline sat back and put her hands over her face. “Then I needn’t waste time worrying over whether Richard will shoot him. If Richard doesn’t, I most assuredly will.”
“Oh, no!” she gasped. “Why would you?”
“Joan.” Her aunt’s voice sharpened. “You are not that naive.”
“But I want to marry him,” she protested.
“I should bloody well hope so! You may have no other choice.”
“I could say I felt unwell and went to the retiring room alone . . .” Joan offered, more for her aunt’s sake than her own.
“I looked for you there,” snapped her aunt. “Another young lady stepped on her flounce and tore it off; there were several people helping calm her and mend it. They will know you weren’t there.”
“Perhaps I found a quiet room to sit and recover from a headache . . .”
“More than one person remarked Lord Burke’s absence.
How will you explain that coincidence, after the attention he paid you?
It looked to everyone as though he was declaring his intentions, and then both of you disappeared.
And you, sly minx! Encouraging me to dance with Sir Richard so I would be distracted! ”
“No!” Joan protested at once. “That is not why. I’d no idea Tristan and I would . . . I only wanted you to dance and enjoy yourself.”
Evangeline sighed. “In the end, that matters naught. My dear, you are caught. Take it from one who has made the same mistake and searched in vain for a way out.”
Joan bit her lip as the carriage turned into South Audley Street. “What will you tell my parents?”
Her aunt said nothing. She had the front facing seat, and her gaze was fixed out the window. In the lamplight her face was pale, but she seemed suddenly turned to stone.
“Evangeline?” Joan leaned forward and touched her aunt’s arm. “Are you ill?”
“Not yet,” said the other woman in a strained voice. “Your parents are home.”