Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
It took her just one moment to decide. Florence stared at him, stared at the man who she could fall in love with easily, all he had to do was love her, and she wanted him, she wanted him to.
She swallowed. It was now or never. She would never get this chance again, without consequences, without anyone knowing. Time to give in to temptation.
“Perhaps,” Florence said softly, a wicked smile tantalisingly creasing her lips, “you could warm me up, Lord George Northmere.”
It was enough, and he was lost. He leaned forward, brought her hands to his neck and abandoning them there, moved his own to her face as he brought her lips to his.
The warmth of his lips made Florence cry out, but the cry was consumed by his kiss and she welcomed the strength she found there.
This was madness, this was ridiculous, and yet it was so devastatingly right that there was nothing she could do but tangle her fingers in his dark hair, and let him take full possession of her lips.
“Florence,” came his word jerkily as he wrenched himself from her, “Florence, you have to be sure, I do not want you to feel as though I am – I – tell me if you do not – ”
She had no response for him; no response in words. She tugged her arms to bring his handsome face back to hers, and the delicious pressure on her lips returned as he caressed her mouth with his own.
The warm stirrings that had threatened to appear all night, from the moment her eyes had beheld him, now rose like a wave inside her.
There seemed to be little point in resisting it, and she had no wish to.
This man made her feel something no one had ever discovered in her before – something he did not even know was there.
His hand cupped her cheek as he tilted her head, deepening the kiss. Florence welcomed it, welcomed him. Why should she not? This was something natural, something right, and good, and it made her entire body tingle with an energy she did not understand.
As his tongue gently explored the limits of her lips, she parted them, allowing him entrance, and a spark of pleasure jolted through her body as his other hand clasped her waist.
She sighed, and it seemed to provoke a strong reaction in George who rose to his feet, pulling her upwards with him. Now his chest was pressed against hers, and the hand that had been at her waist was clutching her to him, as though she were a life raft in the middle of a stormy ocean.
“Oh, Florence,” he murmured as his hands lowered to rest just above her bottom. “Oh my – ”
She tried to speak, she tried to respond, but the heat searing from his hands was building in a place she had never explored before, somewhere deep inside her, somewhere between her legs starting to create an ache that she did not know how to satisfy.
His tongue caressed her own, and Florence found her fingers struggling against the buttons of his waistcoat. She did not know what was taking over her, but she wanted to let it – and it wanted this waistcoat off.
A button pinged off the material as she tore at it, impatience driving her wild as his strong hands clasped her buttocks towards him, and she felt something strong, and hard.
“Wait.”
The connection was broken. She looked up, frantic eyes searching his to understand why the roar of passion that had been built between them had been paused.
“George,” she whispered, her hands at the waistcoat that was half on, half off. She moved slightly, and the feeling of his hands still on her made her squirm, and he groaned aloud.
“Florence, wait,” he managed, eyes full of fire as he looked down at her. “I – very much want to – ”
“I know.” Florence smiled shyly at him. “And so do I.”
For a moment, a short second that seemed to prevent breath from being taken, they stared at each other.
“B-but you said before – you said you would not want to lose . . . to give away something,” George was murmuring to her, seeking out some understanding in her face. “I do not understand.”
She took a deep breath. Was she really going to say this?
“I like you, George. More than anyone I have ever – there is something between us, I can feel it,” she said in a rush.
“And I do not understand quite what is happening here, but this I do know.” Her eyes found his, and there was warmth and desire and longing and trust in them, all mingled with a fear of what she may say next.
“I . . . I want you to make love to me.”
There. She had spoken the words she never thought she would ever say, but with him: oh, it was no sin, no shame if she gave herself to this man.
“It is like we were made for each other,” George breathed, a smile broadening his lips.
Florence did not speak, but pulled gently at the material. The waistcoat moved across the linen shirt, and George, slightly regretfully it seemed, removed his hands from her to allow the waistcoat’s release.
The kiss that followed was fervent and deeper than any that preceded it, and Florence moaned at the sensuality it poured into her. Her hips found his, and she could not help but gasp at the hardness she now knew was his physical desire for her, and she revelled in the power she had over him.
His scrabbling fingers found the laced ribbon at the back of her gown as his lips hungrily poured down onto hers. She laughed in the kiss as she tried, eyes closed and almost entirely lost in his passion, to unbutton his shirt.
Before she knew what had happened, his shirt was off and the heat of his skin was upon her, and she glorified in the closeness.
And then the ribbon was unlaced, and her gown fell to the floor.
“Oh, Florence,” came the jagged murmur from George as he held her. At first she felt the heat of embarrassment as he gazed upon her, naked save for the chemise that barely covered her rounded breasts.
And then she was clasped against him once more, his hands underneath her buttocks, cupping them to his own loins, and her breasts grazed his chest and she cried out at the lurch of pleasure that ricocheted through her, and George was trying to kiss her while her feverish fingers were unbuttoning his breeches, and something was pulling at her chemise, and –
There they were. There they stood. Completely naked.
Florence could not help it; her eyes widened as she saw the masculinity he had been hiding. Of course, she was Italian; the basics were not unknown to her, how could they be with Rome decorated as it was?
But Lord George Northmere was something else: a true man, a strong man, a man who seemed chiselled out of a higher quality of marble than any of the Parthenon of Italy.
His eyes had not moved from her, and Florence fought the temptation to cover herself with her hands. This was who she was: there was no point in attempting to hide the slight curve of her hips, or the soft breasts that rose and fell heavily with her breathing.
“You – you are so beautiful,” George breathed. He seemed unable to say any more, but for Florence, it was enough.
She was not sure how they managed it, their movements tangled in hazy memories of lust and something that could have been love but she did not have time to examine it too quickly.
All she knew was that they had been standing, adoring the sight of each other, and now they were lying entangled together on the small bed, limbs heating limbs, hands caressing bodies, and lips kissing any part of each other they could reach.
“Oh George, yes,” she moaned as his hand enclosed her breast and grazed her nipple, building the ache in her loins that seemed damp and warm, and desperate for him.
He did not speak, merely groaned like an animal as she twisted, pulling him over her and nestling him between her legs.
Florence stared up at him, this man who had made her lose all her inhibitions and say yes to the greatest pleasure she had ever known, and she had thought to speak, to say this to him, to try and explain how happy she was, and then he pierced her and she arched her back in feverish ecstasy as the rhythm he started to build matched the aching waves of pleasure inside her, and then it overwhelmed her and she cried out in frenzied joy and he was shouting with her, and their climax echoed between them in shudders of mingled love.
All she could hear was their breathing, and their hearts beating in time.
George’s head was buried by her neck, and after a minute of just resting, exhilarating in the feeling of each other, he lifted his eyes to look into hers.
“That . . . that was incredible.”
Florence beamed at him, her eyelashes lazily fluttering. “I-I never thought it could be that way. That instinctive. That . . .”
Her words trailed away, but they did not seem to need words anymore. Lying there, twisted around each other and revelling in the heat of their bodies, they remained quiet for another ten minutes.
“You may not believe this,” said George quietly, tilting his body so he lay beside her. Florence turned to look back at him. “But I had never actually met with Teresa before.”
Her eyebrows creased. “That is . . . interesting.”
He smiled and shook his head slightly. “No, you do not understand me. I mean I had never met with her. Or anyone like her. This . . . this was my first time, and I am so pleased I have shared it with you.”
Her heart leapt as she stared at him, open mouthed. “You cannot be serious. I had thought – why, you seemed to know exactly what you were doing!”
George chuckled slightly. “Then I have done a far better job than I had thought!”
Florence laughed with him, and he reached out a hand to grasp her own. “George, I am so overjoyed that . . . mia parola, it is strange to say I feel honoured?”
“‘Tis a very English approach, to be sure,” grinned George, his jawline creasing the dark stubble across his cheeks. “Though unpractised as I am in this situation, I am not entirely sure what the recommended conversation afterwards is meant to be.”
She stared at him in wonder. She was his first, and he hers.
It was as though the stars had aligned perfectly for them, and now her fears about comparison, natural given what he had hinted about another woman, this Honoria – and a twist of something that tasted like jealousy seemed to overcome her tongue.
He was watching her, and he seemed to guess her thoughts as he said, “No, Florence, my darling. This is it. You are the first.”
Her treacherous heart hoped he would continue with the words: and the last. But they didn’t, and she felt embarrassed to ask whether she would be the one and only one.
“You know,” she whispered, conscious of the way her breasts moved as she spoke, leaning on her side. “This is the most perfect moment I have ever known.”
Now her heart was beating faster, faster as it was when they had made love, but there was no ache growing between her legs, but hope growing in her heart.
“I could never have known how this would draw us together,” he was saying. “I feel closer to you than I do with anyone in England.”
Florence giggled, and nudged his nose with hers. “My Lord George, you are closer to me than anyone in England!”
He smiled, and smiling, kissed her full on the mouth. She closed her eyes briefly, losing herself once more in his intoxicating kiss. This was love, what else could it be? Every inch of her longed for him, but not just his body but his mind, his laughter, his company.
She had fallen head over heels for the Lord she was lost with.
“I hope,” he said quietly, breaking the kiss, “you are not too sore.”
She shifted slightly, and felt nothing but a warm, stretched feeling. “No,” she replied quietly. “Nothing but joyful tiredness.”
George chuckled. “I can completely agree on that score; I think I forget, sometimes, that it is the middle of the night!”
They relapsed into silence, and Florence took the opportunity to rake over his features: those dark eyes, that strong jaw, the broad shoulders that had moved above her, ready to take possession of her – there was no one like him, no one like her lost Lord.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.” He had spoken softly, breathing the words rather than speaking them, and his eyelashes fluttered with heavy tiredness – so he did not see the jolt of love and contentment flash across her face.
Florence took a deep breath. Once this was said, there was no going back.
There was no returning from this declaration, and his reaction would completely undo her or confirm a lifetime of happiness.
Her eyes dropped to his chin, unable to look into his eyes as she said, “I think the only thing that could prevent me from returning to Italy would be meeting someone I simply could not leave.”
For ten whole seconds she held her breath, waiting for a response.
None came.
“George?” She murmured his name as she lifted her gaze to his eyes – and found them closed. “George?”
The frenzied breathing that they had both shared had settled now into a regular rhythm in her, but had descended into sleep in her companion.
Florence smiled indulgently. There would by more than enough time for that conversation in the morning.