Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hugh sank into the copper tub with a sigh of relief.
It had taken a long time to get him to a place where the hot water didn’t irritate his skin, but now he could bear the heat without excessive discomfort, and the warmth loosened his muscles.
He rested his arms against the sides of the tub and tilted his head back. Steam engulfed him.
Originally, he’d had some idea of taking Christiana back to her rooms and then perhaps kissing her again.
No, not perhaps. He had been desperate to kiss her ever since she had defended him to Lady Ponsonby, but the second they’d arrived home, he’d taken one look at her face and known what she really needed was rest.
Over the course of the day, he’d been able to see that the carnival had taken a toll on her.
He had not minded the noise and the chaos, so long as none of it pertained to him, but she had disliked it.
Even so, she had gone there with him and had been determined to stay until the very end.
He had been the one to finally insist on going home.
With the bar of soap, he washed himself, taking special care around his burns. Although they no longer caused him the same degree of pain they once had, the skin was still overly sensitive, and he had to be careful not to irritate it.
He had just finished washing himself down and was about to call for his valet when there came a knock at the door.
Presuming Rogers had anticipated his needs, he called, “Come in” and stepped out of the tub.
Water gushed around him, and it took him a few moments to realize that his valet was not the person standing to one side of the screen.
No. It was Christiana. Dressed not in the gown she had been wearing earlier, but in a frothed white concoction, hanging loosely past her breasts and hips and neatly touching her ankles.
A nightgown, but not the same affair as the one he had last seen her in.
This, he knew well, was the sort of item a woman wore when she was very much hoping that someone would unwrap her from it. Slowly. Perhaps with his teeth.
As he stared at her, his mind blank, his body utterly still, she raised her chin and dropped her gaze to his chest. The skin there.
Ugly, ruined skin he had vowed never to let anyone but his most trusted servants and his physician see.
Yet here she was, looking at him with eyes that were wide behind her glasses, taking everything in.
He waited for the horror. The disgust. The skin on his leg looked as though it had melted—and indeed it had. There were twisted scars across his chest where a burning beam had fallen on him. A nail in the beam had left a jagged gash across his right pectoral.
The last lady who had seen him in all his glory had been paid for her services, and even she had been unable to keep the horror from her face.
She had not wanted to lie with his ruined body over her, and he could hardly blame her.
He had let her go without demur and without any of the things he had paid for; he could not bear her disgust.
“Well?” He tried to keep the anger from his voice. That was a lesson learned long ago—anger felt like a relief, as though it would be easier than pain, but it solved nothing in the end. “What do you think?”
Her gaze flicked back to his face, then down again. She took a step forward, her hands clasped at her front. Despite everything, at the subtle press of her breasts against the sheer fabric, he felt a stab of lust.
“What do I think?” she repeated. “Am I to pass judgment now?”
He snatched a robe from over the back of the screen and shrugged it on, not bothering to dry himself. His skin itched; he felt a wave of impotent anger that had no outlet. It was not her with whom he was angry, but himself. For wanting her, for not being whole enough to want in return.
But as he went to pass her, she reached out a hand, resting it against his arm. He could easily have pulled away, but he halted. With a single touch, she’d mastered him, and he yielded utterly.
“I think you are a man,” she whispered, looking up into his face. “And I am not afraid of you.”
“I will never be—whole.”
“You do not need to be.” Slowly, she brought her other hand to his chest, resting against the join between whole flesh and mangled.
Underneath, he felt his heart pounding at her touch.
“You look at me as though you expect me to run from you. But I am tired of waiting for you to realize that I am here, Hugh.” She tilted her head to him, and a mischievous smile danced in her eyes.
“And you, I think, may be more whole than I imagined.”
What had she been imagining if his body was more whole than she’d thought? But then her gaze dropped very deliberately to his cock, which was already half hard at her proximity, and that damn nightgown. She had—
She had assumed the fire had taken that too?
He almost choked at the realization. Just like that, she had rendered him unmanned. Her conclusion made sense, given his assurances about intimacy—but he had never assumed she would think him incapable, merely undesirable.
What a damned mess.
“When we kissed, you told me that I should let you know when I want you to kiss me.” She gave a decisive nod, as though coming to a decision. “I was afraid, but I’m not any longer. So will you, Hugh? Kiss me?”
They were in his bedchambers. If they kissed now, he would not have the willpower to leave it there, not with him naked and her perfectly packaged to make his mouth water.
He caught her wrist, removing her hand from his chest and kissing her fingers. “Chris,” he told her. “If I kiss you now, I will not want to stop. Do you know what that means?”
The smile died in her eyes, replaced by utter seriousness as she said, “I have been educated in many things, but this is not one. Until now, I’ve had no interest in learning. But with you, I would very much like to know what happens.”
“You want this?”
“I do.”
There was nothing more for him to do except pull her close and crush her mouth to his.
Christiana gave him everything she had with her kiss.
He caught her face with his hands, bringing her to rest against his damp body, and she tilted her face to his and let him kiss her deeply.
With every brush of his lips, every slide of his tongue, she felt herself sink further and further into him.
Her nipples felt sensitive, and there was that nervous, shaking, anticipatory feeling in her stomach.
A spark that only ever came from touching him.
But this was not curiosity alone. Yes, she wanted to know what it would be like to lie with him, but she wanted so much more than a mere scientific experiment.
She wanted pleasure.
His robe fell open at the front, exposing his chest, and she ran her fingers along his bare skin, finding first the softness on his left side, then moving to his right, keeping her touch gentle, lest she hurt him.
The texture here felt different, unexpected ridges and roughness where his unblemished skin had been smooth.
No hair grew here, but she didn’t mind. Instead, as he drew a hand through her hair, tugging on it just lightly enough to make her stomach clench and that nothingness hollow feeling inside her grow, she continued to explore.
There was a scar on his right side. She found it with her questing fingers and traced the length of it. He shuddered against her, hissing into her mouth.
“Does that hurt?” Her voice didn’t sound like hers—it was breathy, soft.
“No.”
“Then may I continue?”
He placed a finger against her jaw, tipping her head back so he could look at her, his eyes liquid brown. “Do you wish to?”
“More than anything.”
He hissed another breath but made no objection as she traced his burned skin, learning where it began and ended. His entire right side was affected, but although it looked painful, the only horror she felt from looking at it was sorrow that he had gone through such a thing.
With her eyes on the progress of her hands, she gently pushed at his robe, sliding it back over his shoulders. It caught against his damp skin, and she separated the fabric, moving it away so she could get a better look at him.
All of him.
As he held very still, she traced her palm down his stomach. The fire had licked across to his left-hand side here, the skin marred, but underneath both sides were the same muscles. They flexed, turning into ridges at the progress of her hand.
And below, where two lines of muscle pointed in a diagonal, in an arrow, was his phallus.
She had seen medical diagrams in books. She had also read a few very interesting books her father had not known she had discovered.
Her education in that regard was reasonably thorough; she knew that blood pumped into the phallus, making it hard to the touch.
That from stimulation, it would produce seed—and that seed, when inserted into a woman, was what created children.
All this, she knew, and she recited the facts in her head when she finally reached the engorged member.
The head appeared almost purple, a pearly bead of moisture on its tip.
After regarding it for a moment, unwilling to admit the depth of her fascination, and equally unwilling to look away, she extended a finger and brushed the liquid away.
Curious, she brought the finger to her mouth.
Hugh groaned, and his shaft bobbed. A new bead replaced the old as a salty, undeniably male flavor exploded on her tongue.
How very interesting.
“Chris,” he said through gritted teeth. “What are you doing?”
“I have never seen one in the flesh before.” She touched his right thigh, which was wrinkled and discolored with yet more scars. Fortunately, his phallus was unaffected. She wondered if he had given thanks for that in the early days—if he had praised God for offering him this relief.
Or, conversely, if he had been angry with God for allowing him to be burned at all.
She returned her attention to his erection. For all she wanted to reassure him that she loved every inch of his body, no matter its appearance, there was an ache between her legs, and she had an urge to hear him groan again.
Yes, she wanted that very much.
If she could cause him pleasure, that would give her pleasure.
Bodies were fascinating in that regard: with only the stimuli that came from arousing another, one’s body could become heated and needy.
With sight and touch and smell and hearing alone, without his hands on her, she felt as though she were being pleasured.
How had she never considered her body’s function in this regard? Pleasure could, she knew now, most definitely be a function.
“Are all men the same as you?” She wrapped a hand around him, and his hips bucked before he caught himself, visibly locking his muscles to remain still.
“In what manner?”
She slid a hand up and down, and his breath hitched. “As regards this.”
“Size varies, but I believe all men are relatively similar.” He clenched his jaw as she moved her hand again. “I haven’t precisely investigated.”
Size varies? That made sense; the size of women’s breasts varied, too. Still, he looked large, and she wondered about the mechanics of what would follow. In the name of exploration, she had inserted a finger inside herself, and it had been both underwhelming and tight.
Her hands were, notably, far smaller than his, never mind his phallus.
“I am not afraid,” she said, her hand still wrapped around him, unsure what to do now, “but I am somewhat curious.”
He closed his eyes as though praying for strength. “About what?”
“How you will fit.” She gave him a slight squeeze, and to her delight, he throbbed in return.
He did not feel as she had imagined, though she couldn’t put her finger precisely on what she had imagined.
All she knew was that his skin was hot and velvety under her palm, and underneath, he was so very hard—like steel. Harder even than muscle.
Fascinating. And… arousing.
She raised her gaze to find him watching her, an unaccountably fond expression on his face.
“I will fit,” he said, so tenderly, her chest felt oddly constricted, “because I will make it so, even if it takes a great deal of patience. But, Chris, I must warn you…” He debated with his choice of words for a moment.
“I have never bedded a virgin before, but I have heard that there may be pain.”
“Oh, yes,” Christiana said, matter-of-factly. “When the hymen breaks.”
“I—” He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“The pain should be short-lived. But there may be some blood. Or there may not.” She shrugged. “Laura told me that she did not bleed when she first lay with a man.”
“The less I know about her amorous activities, the better.”
Christiana laughed, feeling her heart swell with affection. “I’m sure she would say the same, Your Grace.”
With a growl, he took hold of the material of her nightgown, fisting it in one hand.
He looked at her, a silent question, his eyes hot and heavy.
But though his knuckles whitened, he made no other move.
“Chris,” he said, sounding as though the words cost him.
She still had a hand wrapped around his member, and she felt this new throb as he spoke the words, “May I see you?”
“Naked?”
He did his best not to smile. “Yes.”
Finally, Christiana dropped her hand from him and held her arms awkwardly by her sides, doing her best not to let her trepidation show. This was an exercise in bravery for them both. And if he could allow her to explore him when he evidently felt himself to be hideous, then she could do the same.
She took a deep breath. “Undress me.”