Chapter One #2
Tempering the stab of hurt at his words, she shook her head. “Not only because of that,” she said. “Am I not permitted to like you merely for yourself? Come.”
She gestured to the bed and he sat on the edge. Then she slipped off her gown, slowly, while his eyes widened in anticipation. His breath caught as she unlaced her undergarments and shrugged off her corset.
There was no need to play the seductress and ask if he liked what he saw.
Wonderment shone in his eyes and his lips parted as she removed her chemise to stand, naked, before him.
Before she could temper her body’s reaction, her nipples pebbled as he flicked his tongue out to moisten his lips.
Then she stepped toward him, coaxed him to stand, and reached for his jacket.
He let out a low cry as her nipples brushed against his chest while she peeled off his clothes, layer by layer, until he stood before her, as naked as she.
“Sweet Lord, Dahlia,” he said, his breath catching. “Y-you’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” He reached for her mask and she turned her head aside. Then he retreated.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I-I forgot.”
“It matters not.”
She climbed onto the bed and it shifted under his weight as he settled beside her.
“What must I do?” he said. “I-I mean…I know what happens, but I don’t know how to begin.”
“You begin by kissing,” she said. “Kiss whatever part of a woman’s body you think will give you, and her, pleasure.”
He reached for her face, but she shook her head.
“The only woman you must kiss on the lips is your wife,” she said. “Kissing is the most intimate act of all.”
“More intimate than…?” He gestured to her body.
“Yes,” she whispered, “for, rather than a mere union of bodies, it represents a union of souls. Now—where would you like to kiss me?”
His gaze wandered over her form, then the color of his eyes darkened.
“Y-your…” His voice wavered, as if he felt shame for what they were about to do.
“You can tell me,” she said. “A woman likes it when a man speaks of the act of love, when he tells her what he wishes to do.”
His body seemed to vibrate with restraint until, at last, he reached toward her.
“I-I should like to kiss your…your breast.”
“Then kiss my breast.”
She leaned back, her skin tingling with anticipation as he lowered his mouth to her breast. He placed a light kiss on the skin, then, when she murmured her encouragement, he ran his tongue over her nipple and suckled hard. She drew in a sharp breath as treacherous pleasure swelled within her.
“Dahlia?” he said, lifting his head.
“That’s good,” she said. “Very good.”
Smiling shyly, he lowered his mouth again and continued, before giving his attention to her other breast. Then he hesitated before delivering an array of tiny kisses across her belly, moving lower, toward her center.
He placed his hands on her thighs and, when she murmured her assent, he parted them, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the heady scent of desire that filled the air like a thick fog.
He brushed his fingers across the inside of her thighs, then stopped as his fingertip flicked at a bump on the skin of her right thigh.
“What’s this?” he whispered.
“A mole,” she said. “A blemish.”
“It looks like a flower—a tiny pink flower.” He lowered his head and kissed it. “No blemish,” he said, his hot breath fanning a flame across her skin. “It is a part of you, and therefore exquisite. I must worship it.”
He continued to kiss her skin and little growls of pleasure rumbled in his chest. His voice, usually light and gentle, had taken on a hoarser tone, that of a man in readiness to take a woman. And when he shifted against her, she felt his length, hard and hot, against her body.
“I think, perhaps, it’s time,” she whispered, reaching for his hand.
He lifted his head and her heart almost cried out at the love in his eyes. But it was a love that she did not deserve—a love that he would bestow on another, on the good woman he resolved to marry.
If a woman existed who was worthy of him.
“What must I—”
“Hush,” she interrupted. “Come to me, my James.”
She parted her thighs wider and he climbed on top of her. Sweet man, he placed his hands on the bed and held his body up, as if he feared he might crush her.
“You can relax on me,” she said. “There’s nothing more pleasurable for a woman than the feel of a man’s weight on her.”
“Any man?” he said, a note of bitterness in his voice.
“No,” she said, reaching to caress his golden hair. “Not any man—the right man.”
She tilted her hips until she could feel the tip of him sliding against her curls.
“Do I…?” He lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.
“Your body knows what to do, my James,” she said. “Listen to it, and surrender to its needs.”
He hesitated, then slowly slid himself inside her.
“That’s good,” she whispered, tilting her head back to temper the surge of desire in her center. “Very good.”
He paused. Then, with her gentle words of encouragement, he lowered his body until he’d sunk himself fully inside her, his hips meeting hers as if they fitted together.
He let out a sigh and dipped his head, burying it against her chest. Then he withdrew, slowly, and entered her again. She bit her lip as pleasure threatened to come to the fore.
No…
Pushing the needs of her soul to the back of her mind, she arched her back and he withdrew once more. This time, he thrust into her more quickly, and the breath left her body as his hips slammed into hers. He let out a whimper and met her gaze, his eyes seeking approval.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said. “You’re doing well.”
He withdrew again, then his movements began to form a slow, steady rhythm, his breath coming in short, sharp puffs each time he entered her. He let out a low cry as he increased the pace and she shifted her body, meeting each thrust to urge him on.
“Yes, James—that’s it!” she cried, as his body began to shudder—the precursor to his release.
Her own body began to betray its own yearning, tightening and rippling around him.
She dug her fingernails into her palms, willing the pain to conquer the surge of pleasure—the pleasure that a doxy could never afford to surrender to.
No. Please, no!
But her body denied her. As he thrust into her once more, shouting his release, Cordelia’s body exploded into tiny fragments, sending shock waves tearing through her soul as she cried out, unable to fight the pleasure.
“Dahlia! Oh, my love!”
His whole body shuddered, then he collapsed on top of her.
His lips searched hers but she turned her head to one side and they met her cheek.
Moisture dripped onto her face as he cried her name once more, then he drew his arms around her, holding her as if his life depended on it while he continued to thrust, more weakly until, at last, he lay still, his body fused to hers as if they were one.
At length, his breathing steadied and he let out a deep sigh. Blinking back her own tears, Cordelia placed her arms around him, letting herself, for a moment, imagine that she lay with the man who would love her for the rest of her days. Then, the moment over, she patted his shoulder.
He lifted his head.
Satiation gleamed in his eyes. Then he frowned and placed his hand on her cheek.
“Are you all right, my love?”
She nodded.
“W-was I not any good?”
“Oh, heavens!” she cried. “No—you were…” She hesitated. Ought she tell him the truth?
Yes. She owed him that, at least.
“Y-you were the best I’ve ever had.”
He sat up and reached for his shirt, his body stiffening.
“Is that my coin you speak to, Dahlia?” he said. “Do you tell that to all the men you service?”
Though his voice was hard, she caught the undertone of pain. Poor, sweet man, he was jealous. But he had no need.
She took his hand.
“What I tell the others matters not,” she said. “With you, I say nothing but the absolute truth.”
He rose from the bed and dressed himself, while Cordelia slipped on her dressing gown. She turned to see him fumbling at his cravat.
“Here, let me,” she said.
He stood like an obedient child while she wound the cravat around his neck, then secured it with a knot.
“You ought to learn to tie it yourself, rather than rely on your valet.”
“I could hardly bring him here with us,” he said, “though you might accommodate him for an extra sovereign or two…”
Cordelia ignored the stab of hurt.
“There!” she said brightly, smoothing his cravat and brushing a speck of dust from his waistcoat. “You look the epitome of the respectable London gentleman, ready to court ladies in Mayfair ballrooms and find your bride.”