Chapter Eighteen #2
“Where do you want me, Emily?” he murmured against her mouth. “Tell me what you want.”
This time, she didn’t even have to consider it. “Stay still.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She reached up to his cravat, unfolding it and putting it on the bed. Next, she unbuttoned his waistcoat. He helped her shrug it off, but he made no attempt to assist her in taking off his shirt. His damaged arm lay underneath it, in a sling against his body, and she frowned at it.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“If you do, I’ll tell you.”
She sucked in a breath as she looked at him, taking him fully in, without shame, for the first time.
He was pale; so much of his body had clearly never been exposed to the sun.
Soft, light hair dusted lightly across his chest and down his navel to his breeches, and the bulge there, clearly outlined by the soft fabric.
Yes, she could be certain that he wanted this. Out of curiosity, she pressed a hand against that bulge, pleased by his slight intake of breath. She traced him, exploring. So different from Marlbury, both in length and width; she had not known there could be so much variation.
“You see,” he said, his voice a little more strained now. “You are not hurting me.”
She leaned up to kiss him again, still sliding her fingers up and down his erection. “Be quiet,” she whispered against his mouth. His answering smile pressed into her lips, but he did as she commanded, even as she painstakingly unbuttoned his falls and slid his breeches down his legs.
His erection bobbed eagerly in the air, as though seeking the warm pressure of her hand once again.
For a long moment, she just looked at it, amused with the way it hardened just from her gaze alone, veins bulging along the side and a tiny bead of moisture at the tip.
When she brought her hand to him again, he let out a harsh sound that made her feel as though she were flying.
Taking her time, she explored him by candlelight and touch, smoothing her fingers over the soft skin.
His sac, hanging underneath, the skin firming as she took him gently in her fingers and squeezed.
He released another ragged breath, but said absolutely nothing, remaining utterly still as she brought her fingers all over him, learning the touches he liked and the ones he didn’t.
When she brushed her other hand across his nipple, he twitched in her hand. An answering throb echoed between her legs. Already, she knew she was slick with desire.
“Get on the bed,” she told him, and he didn’t hesitate, crossing to the bed and lying on his back. Another thrill ran through her as he watched her with hawk-like focus, waiting for her next instruction.
This man, stronger than her by far, lay motionless, waiting.
He would do whatever she asked.
Anticipation buzzed through her like lightning.
His acquiescence was the reason she felt no compunction about fetching her shawl and folding it. “I’m going to place this over your eyes,” she explained as she brought it to his face. “Let me know if you can still see anything.”
There was a spark in his eyes before she covered them, and his hand twitched from where it lay on his stomach. “As you command,” he murmured. When she had secured it in place, he moved his head back and forth. “I can see nothing.”
“Good.” Stepping back, she reached for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head.
The cold air bit at her naked skin, and she ran a self-conscious hand over her ribs.
Too many years of not enough food had left their mark; she had never been voluptuous, but hunger had stolen all her lushness, and this week had not been enough to repair the damage.
Her breasts, always small, were practically nonexistent, and she could count the ridge of her ribs, pressed against the jut of her hipbone.
Men did not lust after her the way they had lusted after other young ladies—after Isabella, even.
Oliver wanted her even knowing that she didn’t possess curves, but she couldn’t bear the vulnerability that came from revealing everything to him. All the things Marlbury had praised about her body, hardship had stripped clean away.
She would not allow the past to take the present from her.
Oliver’s hand twitched slightly as she knelt on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight.
For once, she didn’t move quickly. With Marlbury, they had always been eager to take advantage of what little time they had—and so often, they had so little time.
Snatched moments together that had felt like glimpses of sunlight on a cloudy day.
She placed a hand against Oliver’s stomach, and his muscles contracted.
“Emily,” he said on a rasp. “May I touch you?”
She considered his words, and his hand clenched into a fist at the silence. But still she waited until she was sure of her answer. “Not yet.”
His frustrated groan came with the edge of a laugh. “Cruelty incarnate.”
“Am I?” Next she placed her palm against his thigh, and saw the way his muscles rippled all the way up his body. “Hand above your head.”
He made no objection, raising it until his fingers locked around the metal bars of the headboard. “Is this to your liking?” he asked, and she smiled, though he could not see—that smile was for her and her alone.
“Yes,” she said, and moved, straddling his thighs.
He released a long, sharp huff of air. Almost a sigh, but not quite.
A gasp, an exclamation of surprise and pleasure.
He twitched again, but despite the dampness between her own thighs, she moved slowly, sliding her hands up his legs to the sharp arrow of his hipbones.
The taut flatness of his stomach. His breaths came fast as she deliberately skirted where he wanted her the most.
But although she could sense his impatience, knew implicitly how very much he wanted this, he made no attempt to move his hand or free his eyes.
In yielding to her, he had given her his word, and she could see now he would not break it.
Relief burned in her heart at the realisation.
Part of her, even now, had been preparing for the inevitable moment he broke her trust. She had been guarding herself against the prospect of hurt, even as she bared herself to him.
In silent thanks, she bent and pressed her lips to his ribs. His every breath, deep and shuddering, lanced through her, a pleasure of its own though he hadn’t so much as laid a finger on her.
Slowly, she kissed down his torso until she was at his very tip. He made a muffled sound of what could only be described as despair.
She raised her head. “Do you want to stop?”
“No. Please, don’t stop.” His chin rose, and his lips parted as he took a breath. “Do whatever you choose with me.”
“You’re enjoying this?”
“The most exquisite of tortures.”
Another smile touched her lips. He compelled so many from her.
She slid her hand up and down his length, savouring the feel of the soft skin over the hardness.
The bead of moisture that emerged from her ministrations.
His back arched and he let loose a whispered curse that near singed the air.
He smelt of salt and musk and something undeniably Oliver that made her press her thighs together.
This was not new to her—Marlbury had guided her hand on him, that and more, but it had always been a dynamic of him dictating her motions to her.
Now, she could choose her own pace, whether to use one hand or two, and she experimented, listening for the changes in his breath.
“Emily,” he said. Close to a beg, half a groan.
She slid her hand along his length, letting it join her mouth, and his hips thrust. “Keep still,” she told him.
“Is that a command, my lady?”
A command. A shiver ran through her. “Yes.”
“Then I shall endeavour to obey.” This, it seemed, was delivered through gritted teeth. “Though you try my patience.”
“I have a suspicion you are enjoying your patience being tried.” Before he could answer, she brought him again into her mouth, and he gave up on words.
His hand was white-knuckled around the iron bars now, his body trembling as he attempted to do as she’d commanded.
The sight of him, prone before her and utterly under her control, sent another burst of need through her, and she climbed up his body, setting overtop him, her knees pressed against his side.
“Tell me if you are close,” she said, and wrapped her fingers around him.
But instead of sinking down on him as he had no doubt expected—and wanted—she slid him through her folds.
Again and again, back and forth, right where she needed him.
She had never done anything like this before, but she liked the power of it, the sensation of him pleasuring her through her own hand.
The little of his skin she could see through his blindfold was flushed, and his breath came hot and fast. Heat flooded her body at the sight of his undoing, the tiny sounds he did his best to withhold. Faster than she ever thought possible, she too found herself at the brink.
“Emily,” he groaned. “Let me—”
“Wait.”
Once more, he did as she commanded, and she leaned down, one hand on the pillow by his head, the other between her legs, and pressed her mouth against his.
He met her eagerly, hungrily, kissing her as though he had no other desire in his body.
When she let out a mewling cry, her climax drawing near, he swallowed the sounds.
Still, he did not remove his hand from the iron of the bed. Her nipples scraped against his chest, just above where his injured arm lay, the friction sending sensation zinging through her, and at the spike of pleasure, she knew what she wanted.
“Touch me,” she said with the last of her air, a woman drowning.
He moved, reaching blindly for her, finding her face first and cupping it, to her surprise, with tender gentleness. Then he slid his hand down her throat to her chest, to her breasts, first one then the other, squeezing her nipple as she brushed his erection through her folds one final time.
She shuddered apart.
Oliver held her, his own muscles drawn taut, his own desire tangible even when she was lost in the midst of hers.
She tasted his lips, his tongue, allowed him to draw her into his mouth, to muffle her cries as her arms shook.
He wrapped his arm around her as she caught her breath, boneless, the tail end of pleasure still ricocheting through every limb.
“Shh,” he said, and she realised she was shaking still.
Splaying both hands across her chest, she braced herself, then took his hand in hers. “Touch me here,” she said, bringing that hand between her legs, allowing him to feel her slickness for himself. His fingers hesitated only for a second as they glided through her folds.
“Emily,” he said hoarsely. “You’re beautiful.”
“You can’t see me.”
His lips curved. “I know.”
A ludicrous thing to say, probably a compliment he had bestowed on countless other lovers—yet still a different sort of warmth bloomed in her chest.
A dangerous warmth.
To prevent him from saying more—or perhaps to prevent herself from feeling more—she finally positioned him at her entrance.
There, she hovered, waiting for some sign that at this crucial moment, he would force himself inside.
One thrust would be all it took; she was wet enough that there would be no real obstacle.
His fingers trembled against her sensitive pearl. His jaw feathered, and the light flickered. The candle was burning low, and she drank him in while she had the chance.
The light vanished, plunging them into darkness, and she sank all the way down in one smooth motion, seating him fully inside her.