Chapter Seventeen #2
His hand cupped her breast and her nipples hardened, sending currents of electricity shivering through her.
A delicious warmth slithered down into her core.
However strange it was to have a man touching parts of her only her maid had seen, she liked this.
His fingers softly pinched her nipple and she gasped, jerking her mouth away from his kiss.
“You like it?” he asked, his voice deep and husky.
“I…I find that I do,” she whispered back, eager for him to do it again.
He obliged and another gasp escaped her lips, to be snatched from her as his mouth came down on hers, this time as though a hunger for her was surging through him.
She reached up and put her own arms around him, drawing him closer.
This was what she wanted more than anything else.
Had wanted on the terrace and wanted now with an all-consuming longing.
She felt his hand slide up to the neck of her nightgown.
The laces came undone with ease, and then his hand was inside, hot on her skin.
As he reached for her breasts another gasp escaped her, ending the kiss, and her back arched in pleasure.
How could someone’s touch do this to her?
Although, now she remembered, even though she didn’t want to, it had been just such a touch that had persuaded her to give herself to Alexander.
He’d made her want more, and this was what Fitz was doing now. Making her want more.
It was working. She did.
She leaned in to him, eager for another hot kiss, as hungry as he was, tongues jousting.
The hot ache between her legs increased, and along with it came a desire to have him touch her there.
Was she a wicked woman to want that? She’d let Alexander and he’d not been her husband.
Did that make her wicked? Was it different to want your husband to do so?
Did husbands do this to their wives all the time?
As though he’d read her mind, his hand descended and she felt a tug as he pulled her nightgown up to her waist, but she no longer cared that she was naked.
With gentle, butterfly fingers, he touched her belly, where only the slightest of rises betrayed her condition.
Her whole body quivered in anticipation as his hand slid downwards towards that unquenchable ache between her legs, his fingers gentle, probing, and oh, so unbearably exquisite.
He found her hot, wet, aching core.
She couldn’t help it. A small cry of pleasure escaped her lips as his fingers moved. What was he doing? Her body took over her mind as she parted her legs and gave herself up to the pleasure that was coursing through her body. Was this what love was? It must be a part of it, surely.
And then he disappeared beneath the bedcovers. Where was he going?
She soon found out.
Was that his tongue?
If she’d thought what he was doing before exquisite, now he was taking her to a higher plane of pleasure, teasing, sucking, playing with her with his tongue until she forgot everything except his touch.
Thought vanished, everything was gone but that tongue, so soft and yet so hard, and what it was doing to her. Her body arched, her legs were flung apart, and that tongue never wavered but kept on.
“Don’t stop,” she managed to get out between panting breaths.
He didn’t answer, and he didn’t stop.
On a tidal wave of ecstasy, she flung her arms above her head and gripped the bedhead, her whole being centered on the spasms now racking her body as waves of pleasure cascaded through her and she arched, pressing her hips against his face, his tongue, his lips, wanting this never to end.
At last, however, her hips sagged back onto the bed, the passion exhausted.
But he wasn’t finished. His body loomed over hers and she felt him enter her, and as he did so she realized nothing was over, as, without warning, more waves of pleasure shuddered through her body, as though what he’d started had never finished.
She wrapped her legs around his back, holding him tight against her as he ground against her body.
And then, at last, it was truly over, and she lay, sweat-drenched and spent, the only sound in the room their panting breaths.
He must be as exhausted as she was, for he sagged as she had done, but didn’t move, his head hanging, just managing to keep his weight off her. She chuckled.
He went to move.
She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t. I like you there. I don’t want you to move.” She paused. “I like the feel of you in me.”
“Sadly, I have to move,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Afterwards, you see, a man…subsides.”
“Oh.” How did she not know that?
He pushed himself off her and rolled onto his back, the candlelight flickering over his sweaty face.
She propped her head on her arm to look down at him.
If it hadn’t been for Alexander, she would never have met him.
Or perhaps she might have seen him one day across a crowded ballroom, when Aunt Patience decided she was old enough to attend dances.
But she’d never have known him, not in this intimate fashion.
Did she even know him now? This man she’d just given herself to with such abandon, this man who’d done things to her she’d never have dreamed of, this man who’d shown her what pleasure truly was.
She didn’t care. They had the rest of their lives to get to know one another.
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I think we owe Mrs. Dove-Lyon a very big thank you, don’t you?”
He nodded. “We do indeed.”
Had Mrs. Dove-Lyon known all along that they were suited? Had the match she’d organized been carefully chosen? They’d never know, but if she was lucky, it would be a match made in heaven, which must make the Lyon’s Den heaven.
“Can we do this again?” she asked.