Chapter Thirty-Three
If she had wanted, Oliver would have waited until marriage—or after—to be with her again. She dictated the pace of their physical relationship; that was the way it would always be.
But he couldn’t deny his relief that she wanted him as much as he craved her. Helped, he had to admit, by the spectacularly delicate nightgown she was wearing.
“Your gown is delightful,” he murmured into her ear. “Would you mind terribly if I took it off?”
She paused, and he wondered if, as punishment for asking when she had not offered, she would withhold permission.
Part of him craved the idea of her riding him, nightdress still intact, forcing him to use his imagination instead.
The memory of her using him for her own pleasure made his cock strain against his trousers.
But another part of him needed to see her. A primal, wordless urge to make her his—and, more importantly, to offer himself wholly to her so she could make him hers. For that, they would both have to be without clothes. Naked, together.
Perhaps she saw that need in his eyes, or perhaps she felt the same way, because she smiled a little.
“Be my guest.” Stepping back, she turned so he might access the ribbons criss-crossing her back.
This was a nightgown designed to be unwrapped. One unmarried ladies did not habitually wear. If Louisa had provided it—
He shut the thought away. The less he thought about Louisa at a time like this, the better.
His mouth went dry as he tugged at the silken ribbons, loosening the nightgown at the back. Soft, freckled skin emerged, and he trailed his fingers down her spine before sliding the material free of her shoulders.
She stepped free and turned, letting him see every inch of her.
He nearly groaned; no matter how often he had her, it would never be enough.
Need consumed him—she consumed him. Every imperfectly perfect inch of her body.
Her small breasts, nipples pink against her skin, already pearled in the evening air.
The smooth lines down to her waist, ribs just visible under her skin, and the jut of her hips.
Slender—everything about her felt compact, and he adored that although she might have been near his height, her body still felt small compared to his.
And the thatch of hair between her legs. He ached to touch her.
But he didn’t. Instead, he drank her in, waiting for her to come to him.
“Emily,” he said, his voice a trifle hoarse. “I love you.”
Her chin tipped up, and her eyes met his, and in them, he saw something he hadn’t often seen before—wonder.
“I know,” she said.
“Does that scare you?”
A soft smile lit her face. “Not as much as it did.” She slid a hand across her stomach, and the juxtaposition of her overworked, rough skin against the pale softness of her stomach made him throb. By God, she was perfect. Perhaps not by usual standards, but for him.
“Can I touch you?” he asked—near begged.
A smile caught her lips, and she shook her head.
“Not yet. Let me undress you.”
It took effort, but he held still as her hands roamed over his shoulders, gentle with his injured arm and exploratory elsewhere.
This, he understood, was a claiming of her own.
They had come up against Marlbury, and now she needed to ensure that he, Oliver, was still hers.
Marriage was one thing, but there was honesty in vulnerability.
He could not hide his arousal, nor the strength of his need for her. Just as she could not hide the flush that painted her cheeks, or the vividness of her eyes in the candlelight. In this, they were wholly united.
She undressed him with her customary brisk efficiency, though her hands lingered somewhat when she finally encountered bare skin. And when she carefully drew his trousers down over his erection, she made a tiny hum of approval in the back of her throat that made his cock jerk in response.
“Emily,” he said.
She looked up from where she knelt before him, and his heart almost stopped. “Yes?”
“I think I might have died and gone to heaven.”
She smiled then, so beautiful he couldn’t take it, and gently kissed the tip of his erection, licking her lips at the moisture he left there. One hand glided up his thigh to his stomach, and the other wrapped around him.
His legs were sure to give out. The last time she had done this, she had tied him—however ineffectually—to a bedpost, both so he had support and no way of touching her.
Now, she trusted him to ask permission before touching, and relied upon the structural integrity of his knees.
A fool’s error. When she took him entirely in her mouth, he prayed to God above that he could hold out.
With his one good hand, he reached for something to support him.
There was nothing, and so he dragged that hand through his hair.
The torment of her tongue overwhelmed everything.
She licked him slowly, as though savouring him, and sent her other hand between her legs.
He cursed under his breath. His thigh muscles trembled as they endeavoured to keep him upright.
Blood pounded in his head, and pressure tightened at the base of his spine.
He ought to look away, but all he could see was her hand delving between the dark hair.
The subsequent rush of heat almost made him spill, and he jerked free of her.
Saliva slid down her chin, and he reached down to wipe it away.
Touching her had become an obsession, and he had to have his hand on her.
If only his other still worked—he flexed his fingers in the sling, gritting his teeth at the sudden throb from his arm.
No, that would not be an option. But one hand alone was not enough.
She looked up at him, chin tilted to expose the long, elegant line of her throat. Emotion threatened to overwhelm him.
“Sit there.” She pointed at the edge of the bed, and with a groan of relief, he sat. His erection throbbed hungrily, still perilously close to the edge.
“Now what?”
“Now,” she said with deliberate slowness, “you watch.”
“Watch what?”
She positioned herself before the fire, lying on the carpet with her knees bent and legs wide, showing him very clearly what lay between. His jaw clenched.
“Emily,” he rasped.
“I like the way you watch me.” A smile flashed across her face, and he had to sit on his hand to prevent himself from reaching for her.
Or worse, stroking himself to completion when it was obvious she wanted more from him than his instant gratification.
If this was what she demanded, then he would offer it.
If he could.
“Is this an exercise in education or restraint?” he asked, unable to stop himself from staring hungrily at her as she touched herself, fingers sliding through the slickness that awaited them.
“It is an exercise in my pleasure,” she said. “Next time, perhaps you can do this to me.”
“Why not this time?” Even he heard the desperate whine in his voice.
“Because I want to learn my pleasure so I can better guide you. And how else ought I do it?” She drew a small circle across herself, and her entire body tensed.
He watched the way her muscles rippled and breath caught, and if this was supposed to be letting him down further from the edge, then she was very mistaken in her intentions.
“Would you prefer me to do it in a private room on my own, or would you rather watch?”
“I would much rather watch.”
“Well, then.” She sent a single finger inside herself, and her hips canted slightly. Now it was his turn for his breath to catch. “I see we are in agreement.”
Oliver watched as, with painful slowness, she brought herself closer to the brink, teasing herself with small, delicate movements.
He read the flush in her cheeks, the quiver in her legs, the tensing of her stomach muscles, and knew she was close, even if she never quite let herself fall over the edge.
It was torture of the most delicious kind, and he paid attention to every detail.
He ached for her, so desperate that he would have handed over everything he might ever own just for a taste of her.
Logic held no court here; all he knew was desire.
All he knew was Emily.
When she finally allowed pleasure to take her, she cried out, back arching as she shuddered and her fingers jerked across herself, lost in the intensity of the sensation.
Oliver throbbed, overwhelmingly tempted to touch himself to ease the pressure—it bordered on pain.
But with some effort, he restrained himself, and when Emily finally looked up again, it was to see him exactly where she had left him.
At her smile, he knew he had done right with this, at least. She trusted him, and he would never do anything to make her question that trust.
“I have never been so enthralled in all my life,” he told her as she came to straddle his thighs, both hands going around his neck. “But I warn you, that has done nothing to dim my enthusiasm for you. Rather the opposite, in fact.” At the brush of her thigh against him, he jerked, and she chuckled.
“I see.”
“Go slowly if you want me to last, darling.”
“I’ll be the judge of how quickly I go.” She slid closer, positioning herself above his erection, and guided herself down on him.
Hot. Wet. So slick, he felt her arousal coating him; he slipped inside with barely any resistance.
At the feel of her inner muscles contracting, he grunted, bringing his arm around her hips and dragging them more firmly against his, careful to avoid his sling.
With him seated fully inside her, she dominated his senses; with every breath, he took more of her in.
“Oliver.” She brushed at his hair, which had grown just long enough to flop across his forehead. Her eyes were big and starry, and he felt like he could see entire galaxies in them.
“Emily.” She shifted against him, and he groaned, trying to focus on anything but the idea of spilling. “In the future, I will do a better job of lasting.”
“Mm.” She bent her head and lightly bit the curve of his shoulder, just hard enough for the flash of pain to transform into pleasure. He throbbed inside her. “I rather like that you are incapable of holding back.”
“Oh no. I have held back, believe me.”
She trailed her lips across him, still remaining remarkably still—which was a good thing, because for all his talk of restraint, he knew it would take very little for him to tip over that edge.
In his daydreams, he had made love to her for hours upon languid hours, lavishing attention on her until finally she begged him to stop.
Reality had not been so flattering to his ego—yet the feel of her made it plain that she was highly aroused.
Evidently she had not been lying; she enjoyed his eagerness as much as he had enjoyed her performance.
“I love you,” she whispered, and finally began to move.
She rolled her hips slowly, just enough that sensation burned hot and heavy through him, yet not enough for him to immediately reach the point of no return.
She built him up gradually, seconds turning into minutes, the minutes stretching golden like sunlight.
He kissed every part of her he could reach; cupped her breasts and told her, over and over again, how perfect she was for him. How much he adored her.
At last, however, as her breath fractured, it became impossible to hold back. He did his best, trying to give her as much time as he could, but his release could not be denied.
“I’m close.” He didn’t have the words for anything more poetic, though they hardly did justice to everything she had done to him. “Where should I—”
“Inside me.” She kissed him again, smothering any doubts he might have had. If Emily ever decided something, she did not do it on a whim. And he was too far gone to argue, too far gone to do anything except hold her tight as his release came upon him.
She rode him until he squirmed underneath her, and then a little more until he pulled her free and turned her, laughing, onto the bed.
“Marry me,” he said as he collapsed beside her.
“You know I will. I asked you first.”
“Stay with me.”
Her eyes turned soft and limpid. “This is my room.”
“Love me.”
“I already do,” she said, and pulled him into her arms.