Chapter Twenty-Two
Emily hadn’t intended to yield any part of herself to Oliver.
She had enjoyed teasing him, enjoyed it so much the steady ache between her legs had turned slick, her arousal smearing every time she moved.
The urgency to appease her own need rose—but more than that, she wanted to reward Oliver for allowing her this.
For enjoying it, even, when it was all done at her whim.
His eyes pierced through hers, the pupils blown so large his gaze was near black. “My turn?” he rasped.
In answer, she reached behind him and fought with the knots; his squirming had tightened them, but not irreparably so. Then she stepped back and began to unlace her dress. Her heart hammered. Her fingers were slick with nervous sweat.
This had never been part of the plan. Yet he looked at her with such hunger.
“Don’t touch me,” she said. “Not yet.”
His face was flushed, but he merely stared, watching her as though if he did so much as blink, she would disappear. “Your wish is my command.”
Finally, she finished with her dress, pushing it down her legs. There were so many more layers for a lady to remove, but though she saw his fingers twitch as though he longed to assist her, he made no movement to help.
That was good. Good.
She inhaled sharply as cool air finally hit her skin.
Her nipples, already peaked, pinched still further.
Oliver looked at her face, and then, as though her silence were permission enough—and indeed it was—he turned his gaze down the rest of her.
She had to stop herself from covering all her most intimate places—her breasts and the thatch of reddish-brown hair between her legs.
The press of her ribs against her skin. The hollow of her stomach.
But Oliver’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it grew sharper. And his erection twitched, as though it sought her.
“Oliver,” she whispered.
His gaze snapped back to her face. “Please,” he said, and although she had enjoyed making him beg with her mouth, this was different. Deeper, so much more viscerally needy. “Please, Emily. Let me touch you.”
Eyes still on him, she lay back against the covers, opening her legs to give him a view of what lay between. He sucked in a quiet breath, and it was as though with that single gesture, he had sucked the air from the room. She felt hot all over.
“Here,” she said. “You may touch me.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as though thanking some unknown gods for her benevolence, and knelt at the end of the bed, his good hand fastening around her thighs.
His skin was not tanned, but the contrast against her extreme paleness—she was so white there the veins shone blue under her skin—made her stomach flip.
He pressed his lips in a chaste kiss against her inner thigh, then looked up at her through his golden eyelashes—searing, molten. “I am your servant, Emily. Tell me what you need.”
“I—” She knew men used their mouths on women, and Marlbury had even mentioned he would like to try it, but at seventeen, she had been too afraid to let him near her. It seemed wrong, somehow. A level of intimacy too far.
Only he had convinced her to use her mouth, and she had enjoyed it more than she had thought she would.
Although he appeared to hold the power—and indeed he held her hair and made use of her—she had been the one to dictate his pleasure.
It had been her actions that had made his eyes roll back in his head and his jaw drop and his seed to spill.
But in the end, they had never gone beyond that; he had never used his mouth on her, and she had never asked him to.
But with Oliver, it felt different. With Oliver, everything felt different.
“I want you to use your mouth,” she said.
“Have you ever had this before?” he asked. She shook her head. “Then I will do my best to please you. Guide me if I do it wrong.”
He brought his lips between her legs and licked.
At the first touch of his tongue, she cried out. Her clutching fingers found a pillow and held on. It felt as though she was a raft in a storm, and he the rocking waves. She had been wound so tight that every tiny movement against her felt as though the pleasure was splitting her apart again.
“Like this?” he asked. “Tell me, Emily.”
“Like that,” she managed. “There. Keep going.”
“Mm.” He made a satisfied noise, as though he had not been content until he received her instruction.
And when he returned to her, it was with increased vigour.
Her world turned to white, ripped apart at the seams, and her body rocked as he finally pushed her over the edge.
Her climax washed over her. Waves and waves of it, the storm picking her up and tossing her across the seas until finally—finally—she reached the shore and came up for air.
Oliver climbed up her body, his hand resting lightly on her stomach, his nose pressing against her jaw.
She turned, blindly seeking his mouth, and he offered it to her.
He kissed her slowly, unhurriedly, though she could feel the urgency in the erection lying against her leg.
She knew she wasn’t beautiful, knew objectively she was plain, and she had made her peace with that.
Until now, she had never thought she felt a need to be anything more.
But Oliver made her feel as though she could be—as though he truly believed her to be.
And so, in this moment with him, she was.
A little of the ice around her heart cracked.
“Thank you,” she said, drawing back.
He kissed her nose. “As always, you are very welcome. Especially if”—he rolled them so she lay across his body—“you might be inclined to please us both in return.”
“If I said no?”
He grinned, unrepentant. “I would beg. You’ve heard me often enough already today, but I would be amenable to more.”
“You don’t think it’s unbecoming for a man to beg for a woman in this way?” she asked seriously.
“Unbecoming? Darling, it’s one of the most arousing things to happen to me.” His hand slid up and down her side. “The only thing that would be unbecoming would be to break your trust.”
She kissed him then, as deeply as she could manage, and slid down onto his erection. He cupped her breast, and the feel of him, everywhere, was so good she felt as though she might cry.
Suddenly, she wanted more—more, more, more. She was greedy for it, needy for it, desperate for it. For him. Every single last bit of him that he gave her. She wanted it all.
He made a sound in the back of his throat, and she caught his lip between her teeth, biting it hard. A new wave of pleasure washed through her. Her climax had made her sensitive, but not so much that she couldn’t fathom bringing herself to another peak.
His eyes bored into her, holding her captive. “I won’t forget this until the day I die.”
“You’re too young to make such outlandish claims.”
His hand gripped her hip, not guiding but merely holding. “I’m not too young to know what I want.”
She dug her nails into his skin, holding on so tightly she thought she might draw blood. She wrapped a hand around his neck, needing to feel in control again. Everything was slipping, too bright and too fast, too wonderful for her to fight.
“Can I hold you here?” she asked, careful not to lean any of her weight on that hand.
His eyes were dark, and he brought his free hand to her wrist, encouraging her to apply more pressure. “I trust you.”
Such liberties. She could not have imagined taking them before—not with anyone else. Until now, she had not known such desires existed, had never suspected that such things took place in the bedchamber.
She squeezed her fingers, just a little.
His breath rasped, and she felt it. Right there, she felt his life as clearly as she felt her own, and she held it.
The magnitude of that thought overwhelmed her, brought to the edge in such a rush of slick desire that he gasped.
He thrust up into her, his hips rolling in a surge of pleasure that scattered her thoughts. There was nothing in her world but him.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped.
His face was tight with strain, alive with desire. He was every perfect creation mankind had to offer, and just for now, for this one last precious moment, he was hers. He had offered; she had taken.
Her heart clenched at the thought of the inevitable parting that would follow, and that was the moment her body chose to release its tension.
She shuddered, eyes rolling back in her head, and Oliver kept going, kept obeying her demands until his own climax overtook him, and jerked free, withdrawing and finishing messily across his stomach.
Sweat misted them both. As he panted, she flopped beside him and slid her fingers down the long column of his throat—the one she had held and squeezed and felt his life beat through just moments ago—to his chest and the ragged pounding of his heart. It matched hers.
“I never thought I would do this again,” she murmured.
He cocked a brow. “Do what? Lie with a man?” His gaze sharpened. “Or lie with me?”
She laughed, the admission slipping from her more easily than she would have guessed. “Both. Either.”
“Do you regret it?”
She paused, looking at him carefully. They were tangled together—not embracing, but close. “No,” she said eventually. “Not yet.”
“I hope you continue not to, then,” he said, and rolled off the bed to find a cloth to clean her up with. Emily lay back, her hands across her chest as she stared at the ceiling and allowed her body to settle into this feeling of having been so thoroughly pleasured.
Along with the pleasant buzzing through her limbs, however, and the rush of boneless satisfaction that had filled her, she was aware of a slight ache in her heart.
As good as this had been, it would be—by her own decree—their last time.
Probably her last time ever. Now she had experienced what it could be like with a man who submitted, could she ever return to intimacy that required a man compelling her into submission?
Yet how empty the years seemed to her now without that intimacy.
When Oliver returned with the promised cloth, he leaned over to kiss her again. She allowed it, wanting to thank him for everything he had shown her even as she knew that every time she let him, it would be worse when they parted.
“Emily,” he said against her mouth. “Emily, I can’t bear it any longer.”
“Can’t bear what?” Her brows drew together, and she sat up, examining him. There were marks on his skin—her marks—and she should not have felt such a rush of exhilaration at the sight. “Did I hurt you?”
He shook his head, but there was a new expression in his eyes now.
All his teasing had fallen away, revealing something that looked just as raw as her heart felt.
“No,” he said, and sucked in a breath. “I know you said I should expect nothing from you, and I admitted that I’d have no chance of convincing you otherwise, but I can’t bear this.
I can’t. Let me care for you and Isabella—we can find her a good home, I promise.
Another husband. I have connections—my sister is a duchess.
You are the daughter of a gentleman; we are not so very disparate if you consider it.
I can provide for you so you’ll never have to go hungry again, and perhaps your sister will take some time forgiving us, but she will, and—”
“What are you saying?” Emily asked, her lips numb, the last of the post-coital bliss tightening and sinking until it resembled a lead weight inside her.
He gave a desperate, crooked sort of smile. “You know what I’m saying, darling. I’m asking you to marry me.”