Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Lydia was lost in him in that moment, swept away by his nearness, by sensations that were both achingly familiar and strangely novel all at once.
She was no longer the innocent young girl she'd been.
Being part of the serving class, she'd been privy to conversations that had eliminated—at least in theory—the mystery of what happened in the marriage bed.
Including, she thought, the fact that marriage was not a requirement.
And she did not expect that from him. Not now.
Not after everything. But she still didn't have the strength of will to walk away.
She longed for the connection between them like she was starved for it.
And perhaps she had been. Perhaps the last twelve years, devoid of feeling by and large, there was no power on earth which could have made her push him away.
She felt the weight of his hand moving over her calf, sliding beneath the hem of her skirts and petticoats.
When his fingertips touched her and only the thin barrier of her stockings separated them, she could not stop the shiver that raced through her.
But he paused, as if fearing she might have changed her mind.
To disabuse him of such a notion, Lydia reached up and carefully tugged at the knot of his cravat until it slipped free.
And when his throat was bared, she dragged her mouth from his and moved it along his jawline, then down the strong corded column of his neck.
“Christ above,” he muttered, his hands gripping her firmly. “Lydia, you are courting danger.”
“I am never in danger with you,” she replied. “I know what I am about, Oliver. I know what I want. It's you… us. And all the things we've been denied for twelve years. Show me what I've been denied for so long.”
He stared at her for a moment, his heated gaze roaming over her as if to gauge her certainty.
Apparently whatever he saw was convincing enough.
He reached for the ties at the neckline of her modest gown, tugging them free and parting the fabric to reveal the swells of her breasts just above the top of her stays.
His eyes darkened with appreciation and that appreciation left no room for maidenly modesty or missishness.
With a simple shrug, she sent the loosened garment sliding over her shoulders, freeing her arms from the short puffed sleeves and letting it fall to her waist.
Lydia let out a gasp of pleasure as his mouth pressed to her neck, his heated breath and the sweep of his tongue on her skin adding to the fire that already burned inside her.
Clinging to him, her hands gripping his shoulders, she thought she might die if he stopped.
Then his lips moved lower, pressing kisses to the swells of her breasts, his hand slid beneath her skirts to slip between her thighs.
It was shocking and thrilling all at once.
It also robbed her of thought and speech.
The sensations were so intense. It was not the first time she'd been touched intimately, but only by her own hand, only under the cover of darkness in the small narrow bed in whatever chamber she'd been assigned.
But it had felt nothing like this, nothing like the pleasure that swept through her at his touch.
“I've dreamed about you this way,” he whispered the words against her skin. “I almost feel like I'm dreaming now.”
“You aren't dreaming,” she whispered back to him, her voice thin and breathy, sounding like it belonged to someone else entirely. “This is real. I'm real… We've waited so long for this moment. I don't want to wait anymore. Make me yours.”
“You've always been mine,” he told her, even as he lifted her up.
When he settled her once more, she was astride his thighs.
She could feel the hard press of him against her and his hands moving between them as he freed the buttons of his breeches.
But he didn't rush. He didn't simply press himself inside her.
It was slow, gentle. Just a bit, then he would pull back, enough that she craved more.
And with each advance, that is what he gave her.
Pressing deeper, joining them more fully, but never rushing.
Never hurried. Patient, tender… and so completely Oliver that she felt more emotionally vulnerable than physically.
When finally he grasped her hips and surged upward, her softer flesh yielded to his hardness with an ease that belied her inexperience but gave testament to his patience.
He'd made certain she was ready, certain that he would not hurt her.
And as she clung to him, feeling him moving within her and the pleasure climbing ever upward, Lydia knew that no matter how long she lived, or whatever happened between them next, she would never love anyone the way she loved him.
Then all thought fled her entirely. The sensations became too much.
All she could do was cling to him as her body quaked and trembled with it.
And when at last, her release came, wracking her with sobs, he was with her, the hot rush of him spilling inside her only increasing her pleasure more.
It was a wonder. A marvel. Her only regret was that they'd lost so much time.
“I love you, Oliver. I've always loved you,” she said, the words barely above a breath.
“I know that. I've always known it… just as I've always loved you,” he replied, his voice just as soft, as reverent. “That was never what lacked between us.”
“No… it wasn't. It was faith. Faith in myself, faith in you, faith that our love could withstand hardship… Can you forgive me?”
He kissed her again, his hands stroking lazily over her shoulders and down her back.
“Lydia, I'd forgiven you long ago… If I hadn't, I wouldn't have searched for you.
I wouldn't have seen past my wounded pride and anger to know that something else was at play.
I simply didn't know what that something was.”
Lydia leaned forward, resting her forehead against his, thinking not for the first time in her life, that he was better than she deserved.