Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MONTY
I never knew being someone’s best man involved so much work. It isn’t even six in the morning when Thorne sends over a list, delivered straight to my door by a bellhop, of chores I need to accomplish by noon. Floral arrangements to count by hand to ensure there are exactly one hundred and twelve, Thorne’s suit to pick up from the hotel’s tailor, breakfast to deliver to the bride and groom in their separate rooms. I’m convinced the bulk of these chores are merely for the fun of it, petty revenge for all my years of being an annoying best friend. And I can’t say I mind it.
Still, I’m glad to be done when noon rolls around, and I head straight for Daphne’s room. We have a lesson plan to discuss. I’d intended to do so last night, but after the exhausting evening I had entertaining an inebriated Thorne and his other friends attending his stag party, all I wanted was to let loose a little with Daph.
I hesitate as I stop outside her door, the memory of our dance sending a ripple of shy awareness through me. Blazing hell, she was so cute last night. The way she smiled, the way she laughed unrestrained as we skipped across the tables. I loved seeing her like that, in her most playful element, dancing in a pink day dress covered in graphite smudges. Toward the end, during our last waltz, I was struck with the most intense yearning to kiss her.
Then I remembered myself.
Remembered my case study.
Our lessons.
Her need for a husband.
My inability to marry.
The secrets I can never tell her.
It’s not even a choice. I physically can’t tell her my family secret, just like I physically can’t marry.
I’m bound not to.
That sobers me from my boyish glee, and I force my posture into something casual, ruffle my hair, and loosen my already loosened cravat. Then I knock.
At first, there’s no answer, so I knock again.
Finally, just as I’m about to knock for a third time, the door slowly swings open. Daphne is dressed in loose trousers and an untucked blouse, the collar open to reveal the dips of her collarbones. She doesn’t even look at me, her eyes affixed to the piece of paper in her hands. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted. Her breaths are short and sharp, yet I don’t see any signs of distress. Only…
Good God, is she aroused?
She finally deigns to look up at me, a dreamy look on her face. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Who were you expecting?” I wince at the accusing tone in my voice but try to make up for it with a teasing grin.
“I wasn’t paying much attention at all,” she says as she abruptly hides the paper behind her back. “I was just…”
“Just…reading, perhaps? Pray tell, what is your reading material of choice? Did Edwina send you her newest manuscript?”
“Hmm? Reading? Manuscript?”
Now I must know. I step through her doorway and she steps back, careful to keep the paper behind her. I close the door behind us and lunge to the side, reaching for the paper. She whirls away with a half yelp, half laugh, and I pursue her, reaching for the paper again and again as she continues to keep it just out of my reach. The next time she spins away, her eyes go wide as she finds her back against the wall beside the door. I close in on her, caging her with my hands on the wall beside her head. Holding her gaze, I lean my face close to hers. “What filth were you reading, dear? Come on, don’t be greedy. You’re not the only one in this room who likes smut.”
Her chest pulses with the tempo of her breaths, her hands still behind her. Then, with a sheepish grin, she pulls the paper from behind her back and slowly lifts it between us, obscuring the bottom of her face while she makes innocent little doe eyes at me.
I release her gaze to read the page.
My breath catches.
It isn’t one of Edwina’s manuscripts but mine. Just like she promised last night, she’s reading my book. But not just any part of my book. It’s the chapter titled How to Have Better Sex .
My eyes fly back to hers. “Chapter Eight? I told you not to read it.”
Her gaze wanders over my head, to the side, to the paper, anywhere but at me. “I was curious and found it…rather informative.”
“Informative.” My mind goes wild at that word. At the certainty that I’ve aroused her with my written instruction on having better sex. Then a spike of irritation pierces my chest. I clear my throat and push off the wall, increasing the space between us. “You won’t need to worry about Chapter Eight this weekend if you interact with honorable specimens. Which I will ensure you do.”
She steps away from the wall and lifts her chin. “I wasn’t reading that chapter with this weekend in mind. It was for future reference. You should be ashamed of yourself for trying to hide this kind of intel from me.” With that, she marches toward the sitting area.
I follow her with my gaze, taking a few steadying breaths to gather my composure. Daphne’s hotel room is a mirror to my own, an open space with a sitting area, a marble hearth, and a bed. The windows are tall, inviting in streams of glittering sunlight through the partially drawn curtains. The walls are papered in ivory-and-gold damask, the floor covered in plush floral-patterned rugs. It’s a modest yet beautiful space, much larger than my cramped apartment back home and ten times as fine.
Daphne lowers herself into one of the wingback chairs beside the unlit hearth, and I belatedly follow to claim the chair beside her, on the other side of a small tea table between us. Upon the table rests a stack of papers that I recognize as the rest of my manuscript. She sets the single page on top of it and then sprawls in the chair, her legs tucked up on the seat cushion.
“So,” I say, propping my chin on my hand and my elbow on the armrest. I give her a taunting smirk. “Did you only read Chapter Eight, or did you peruse the rest of my book?”
“I perused it. Some of it. Then I went back and read Chapter Eight all over again.”
I snort a laugh. “You really wanted to disobey me, didn’t you?”
Her cheeks flush deeper. “I told you, I found it informative. It…it’s really good. Your book. What I read of it, I mean.”
My pulse quickens, my heart fluttering. I had no idea how much her feedback meant to me until now. How desperate I was for her to approve of my writing. “I’m glad to hear that.”
She worries her bottom lip, meeting my eyes for only a beat before looking away again. When she speaks, her tone is hesitant. “Can I really do what you wrote about?”
My elbow nearly slips off the armrest. “Pardon?”
“The part where you mention asking for what I want in bed. Can I really do that?”
Fucking hell, why did she have to ask me that? I swallow hard and force my voice to remain level. “You have as much of a right to pleasure as your partner. Of course you can ask for what you want.” Does she hear it? The tremor in my voice?
“It’s just…my partners have never seemed amenable to suggestions, but perhaps I just don’t know the polite way to ask.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, relishing the pain as I force my brain to assess her question from a grounded perspective. From Gladys’ perspective. “Any decent partner would be eager to know what you want. Some will ask and be happy for your honest answer. Others will need direct guidance.”
“What kind of guidance?”
Fuck. I’m going to lose my mind. “Well, for starters, say your partner is touching you. Maybe you’ll…move his hand. Adjust the placement of his fingers to where it feels best for you. Or you can state your requests, asking him to slow down or go faster—” My words dissolve in a cough.
Her eyes are glued to me now, and she nods along eagerly as if memorizing my every word.
My gaze falls to her lips to give me some anchor to focus on, something to steady me while I describe the next part. “Other lovers will be more intuitive. They’ll read your wants in the motion of your body, the sounds you emit, the quickening of your breaths. They’ll adjust their speed, their touch, based on the way you respond to them.”
“I want that,” she says in a rush. “How do I find one of those?”
I shift in my seat, aware of the way my cock hardens in my lap. “It’s not something you can know by looking at someone. You’ll have to experience it together, and any couple can learn to be more intuitive about each other. An awkward first time doesn’t have to be telling of the entirety of the relationship.”
Daphne deflates a little. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh of a judge.”
My fingers curl into fists. Why are we still talking about this? And why can’t I stop myself from asking what’s on the tip of my?—
“Have you never had good sex, Daffy Dear?”
“Not with a partner. On my own it’s great.”
On her own it’s great , she says. Is she trying to fucking kill me? “Has a partner never made you come?”
She shakes her head. “The only time I was close, I bit down on my partner’s shoulder just as I was about to climax. He was repulsed that I’d bitten him and ended things right there.”
The word climax echoes through my head. Or perhaps that’s just the blood rushing through my ears and toward my cock. I focus on what else she said. “Repulsed? What for?” Doesn’t he know how lucky he was to have been bitten by Daphne? How pleasurable pain can be?
She winces. “I did draw a little blood.”
Blood. She drew blood while in the throes of pleasure. That’s so goddamn hot, my head feels light.
She speaks again. “Then my last partner didn’t even get me close. He barely kissed me more than a few times before he went for insertion.”
That clears my head somewhat, and I focus on my ire. “No foreplay? Nothing to warm you up? Get you—” Another cough. “Get you…ready?”
“Nothing. I thought he’d at least touch my breasts.” She absently squeezes her upper chest as she says the last part.
My fingers curl even harder, my nails digging into my palms. What kind of monster wastes his chance with a gorgeous spitfire like Daphne and doesn’t grope a single tit? Doesn’t work her sex with adequate foreplay before settling inside her? Maniacal rage ripples through me, and I’m glad I don’t know of whom she speaks, because I’d have to murder the asshole. Whether for touching her or not touching her enough, I know not. No, I hate him for touching her. I hate everyone who’s ever touched her before me.
Before me?
What am I thinking?
It’s not like I’ve touched her in that way either. Or ever will.
I can’t…
We can’t…
I run a hand over my face and blurt out, “Let’s move on to our lesson plan.”