Chapter 27 #2
Then, as Frances opened her eyes she started and grasped his forearms tightly, realizing that while the curtain hid them on one side, they would be entirely exposed if anyone passed the library window from the garden.
“Ambrose!” she exclaimed. “Oh!”
Immediately perceiving the problem, he lifted Frances in his arms and carried her out from the curtain into the library, letting the thick velvet fabric drop behind them.
“No one can see us in here,” Ambrose assured her, his voice slightly roughened with desire as he laid Frances down on the sheepskin rug before the empty fireplace, and then took his place beside her.
Then one of his hands was cupping Frances’ breast again and his lips were on hers.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Frances? Do you know how much I want you?” murmured Ambrose between his kisses, his other hand now stroking one of her thighs and bringing up her silk-stockinged leg to be caressed.
“Oh, you feel too good…” Frances moaned. “Ambrose…I do not know what to do…”
“Only enjoy me,” he returned, his voice lower and more animal but still recognizably his. “Tell me what feels good, or tell me to stop. You need do nothing more. Only enjoy…”
Frances kissed him in reply, her tongue dancing shyly with his, and sensing with anticipation rather than nervousness, how much her husband was holding himself back.
The speeding of Ambrose’s breath, the dampness of his skin and the eagerness of his eyes aroused her.
Frances knew that he could bring her to that strange pinnacle of pleasure for a second time, although the route remained hazy.
“Oh, Ambrose!” she sighed again as his hand slid over her bare thigh above its garter and stocking, his lips skimming the sensitive tips of her breasts with teasing kisses.
Somehow Frances’ skirts had now been entirely wreathed above her waist in a swirl of white muslin and the duke’s mouth was kissing its way slowly and intentionally down her belly. Surely, he couldn’t be going to…?
She cried out in sensual amazement as Ambrose’s lips brushed their way over the triangle of dark fur at her mount of Venus, the stab of pleasure this sparked violent in its intensity.
What was he doing and why did it feel so good?
Then, Ambrose’s lips pressed a soft kiss actually within her slit, on the throbbing nub that ached most for his touch.
Frances’ sensations and sounds soon became incoherent as Ambrose explored her most intimate regions with his mouth, tasting, stroking and then licking, with slowly building rhythm. Strong hands slid beneath Frances’ bottom and held her in place for his tongue, despite her helpless wriggling.
As Frances’ pleasure mounted to almost impossible levels, Ambrose’s fingers found the tight entrance hidden within her slit and slid within so that she felt her womanhood spasming around him as the excitement peaked.
As her muscles relaxed and her cries softened back into moans, he returned to lay beside her and stroke her face.
“I had no idea,” Frances panted, instinctively still clinging to him as her flesh echoed with pleasure. “I did not know of that, Ambrose. Oh, hold me, please, hold me.”
The duke willingly complied, embracing Frances with kisses that were gentle, hungry and salty with her arousal.
Although Ambrose held her carefully, she could feel the undeniable hardness of his male organ through his clothes and began to wonder what it would actually look like.
Frances had only ever seen naked statues or little boys bathing and could not quite imagine the shaft of a grown man.
“I’ve wanted to show you that for so long,” he told her. “I should like to do that with you every single day, if you wish it.”
“Does it feel good to you too?” she asked him and Ambrose laughed deep in his throat.
“To see you lost in ecstasy? Yes, I enjoy that immensely, Frances, almost as much as…”
The Duke of Westall paused, laughed huskily again and returned to bestowing light kisses and caresses to her face and throat.
Almost as much as..? Frances felt a fresh and bewildering shiver of excitement, finding that it was possible to feel simultaneously satisfied and full of physical longing.
Was she brave enough to follow her instincts?
Reaching for Ambrose’s head, Frances began to unfasten his disordered stock and collar, her eyes meeting and holding his, as her heart beat harder again.
Ambrose gave a sigh of enjoyment as her hand caressed his bare throat and then leaned in for another kiss. Their shared passion now made Frances’ hands tremble with desire, fumbling as she tried unsuccessfully to unbutton his waistcoat.
“Would you…undress for me?” she asked him and saw both surprise and eagerness flooding her husband’s face. “I should like to see you.”
“Yes, but first…”
Ambrose jumped to his feet and walked away even as his hands worked at his buttons and Frances sat up in confusion.
As he turned the key in the library door and then turned back to her, it made more sense.
While Frances’ pulse quickened further with this move, she felt even more certain of what she was doing.
This afternoon, there was only the two of them, closeted securely here in their own little private world.
“Shall we both undress?” Ambrose suggested, tossing his waistcoat to a chair, soon followed by his shirt.
Her eyes drawn to his strong torso and well-shaped arms, Frances nodded and stood, untying the ribbon at the waist of her already- half-unfastened dress and allowing it to fall away.
Her light petticoat followed. The summer air was warm, but still she shivered slightly with unfamiliarity and anticipation.
The sight of Frances standing there only in her stockings and garters seemed to have a powerful attractive effect, drawing Ambrose back to her within seconds, like a bee to a flower.
“Let me take those off for you,” he said, his voice cracking a little between his heavy breaths, as his hands covered hers.
Frances nodded and submitted herself to his knowing and unhurried caresses about her thighs once again.
She made small involuntary sounds as he removed each embroidered cream garter and pushed down the silken fabric encasing her legs, raising each to his side in turn to remove their stockings all the way to her foot.
Then, Frances was in her husband’s embrace again, now pressing her own kisses onto the damp, naked skin of his chest as his hands roamed ever more freely over her graceful curves.
“These too,” Frances dared to whisper, her hand stroking the waistband of Ambrose’s trousers. “You must take them off."
“You want to see all of me?” he asked, flushed and panting but still careful of Frances’ comfort.
“I do,” she told him and then watched from the corner of her eyes as Ambrose unfastened and pushed away his trousers and undershorts, kissing her again as he did so.
The Duke of Westall’s manhood reared proudly between his thighs, a hard, hot rod of flesh against Frances’ belly as they kissed. It was only after several further kisses of sweet, heated incitement that Frances allowed her eyes to gaze fully upon her husband’s manly parts.
How strange and different to her own Ambrose’s body seemed, and yet how wonderful and compelling. Fascinated, Frances’ hands took in the shape of his face, his shoulders, torso and waist. Her husband was beautiful, if a man could be described so.
When Frances’ hand took hold of his shaft, Ambrose’s groan was so deep, and his body stiffened so much that she would have thought she had hurt him if his kisses and his words had not told a different story.
“God, it feels so good to be touched by you like that, Frances…”
Encouraged by Ambrose and by the sympathetic tingling in her own body, Frances stroked the whole throbbing length of him.
“I want…” she began to say and then closed her eyes blushing. “I want you to…”
“What do you want?” Ambrose murmured in her ear, his manhood throbbing in her palm. “I am already bound to give you all that you want from me. I promised I would, remember?”
Frances did remember, and she ached for him now, a hundred times more than she had when he made that strange promise to her.
“I want you to make me your wife,” she managed to say. “I want all of you.”
Lifting her off her feet with a hungry growl, Ambrose brought them both back to the rug.
“Then you shall have all of me,” he told Frances, rolling above her and kissing her deeply as she pushed breathlessly up against him, excited but fitful.
“I don’t know how,” Frances moaned. “I want to know.”
“You need only enjoy me,” the duke repeated his earlier assurances, stroking her parted and trembling thighs. “I shall show you the rest.”
For a while, there were only kisses, strokes and mutual panting.
Then, the head of Ambrose’s substantial shaft found its way to Frances’ slick channel and rubbed there for further long moments while she sobbed with desire.
A thrust of Ambrose’s loins finally carried half of that organ into her slit, where she wriggled upon it and cried out for more.
With slow, sure swirls of his hips, Ambrose gradually embedded the fullness of his rod, giving it to her inch by inch as Frances opened to him, until their hips rested against one another.
Fully shafted for the first time, she moaned and writhed at the new sensations, the pleasure as powerful as that given from Ambrose’s tongue.
When he began to move, Frances could only move with him, desperate at each small withdrawal to bring him back into her again, pushing up her hips towards the pleasurable rubbing of her swollen bud.
The rhythm built slowly, powerfully and then inevitably, their bodies seeming to work together until Frances was overcome once more by ecstasy. Ambrose’s deeper groans merged with her cries this time, and she felt his organ throbbing deeply inside her own spasming flesh.
“Why did you not tell me it could be like this?” Frances sighed after yet another paroxysm of pleasure subsided and Ambrose withdrew from her body for a fourth time that afternoon, lowering her feet to the ground from where he had just taken her against the wall.
“Would you have believed me?” he asked, drawing her back to the hearth rug where he covered them both with a blanket from one of the chairs.
Laughing, Frances shook her head and snuggled into his arms. She felt pleasantly dazed, with muscles aching in strange new ways, and her thighs damp and sticky from their repeated congress.
“I could not have understood.”
“I do not think you would have believed me until you felt it yourself, and you had to be ready to feel it,” Ambrose mused, stroking her hair.
From the hallway, the clocks struck four o’clock but neither of them moved to get up. Her head on Ambrose’s shoulder, Frances listened contentedly to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
There were still several hours until Winnie’s bedtime and dinner. As Miss Winters had observed earlier, if the Duke and Duchess of Westall wished to hide away all day long, they might do so.