Chapter Twelve #2
There was no way he hadn’t heard her. Even if blood was rushing in his ears as it was in hers, they were the only two people in the quiet room. There wasn’t even a fire crackling. The noise from below had died out a little while ago. He’d heard her. Yet still, he asked, “Pardon?”
“Show me. If you know how to do it—and I believe you do—show me.”
He waited one more moment, breathing heavily.
Harriet was just about to retreat under the coverlet in shame, convinced he wasn’t going to, when he gathered her right hand in his own.
He guided her back under her chemise, between her legs, and used her middle finger—perhaps that was the key!
—in between her slick folds. She felt her body jolt at the contact.
He shuddered next to her. She had the distinct desire to close her legs tightly around his hand and rub them together.
Something was most certainly happening.
“Here,” he instructed. His voice was low as he positioned her hand and rubbed his own finger on top of hers in a steady rhythm. “Like this.” He slowly withdrew his hand and let her try on her own.
The feeling was … sin. It was galvanic. She bit her lip hard to keep another desperate sound from coming out. He might enjoy making sounds, but Harriet felt mortified by them.
She could feel his intense stare on her as she tried to concentrate on the task.
As she continued, however, the desperation she’d felt only moments ago dissipated.
And with it, her boldness. She slowed her ministrations and risked a glance back at Alexander, whose pupils had overtaken nearly all of his eyes.
“I’m not … It’s not …” She wasn’t certain how to explain that this wasn’t going anywhere.
“You have to experiment. Find out what feels best for you. It’s not the same for everyone,” he explained. Despite his even delivery, something about him seemed tense. Harriet didn’t have the time or the patience to try forty different ways to touch herself. She wanted relief now.
“Then how do you know what to do for the women you’re with?” she asked, in frustration. “Or do you usually not touch their … quims?”
“I’ve touched every quim I’ve gotten the chance to.” That ought not to have given Harriet the idea it did.
“Well, all right then. What’s one more?” She gestured down at herself, praying he would not humiliate her.
His lips twisted as if he were about to decline; instead, he muttered something that sounded like “Oh, hell” and moved over her, grabbing her hands and pinning them above her head even as his mouth crashed against hers.
It was nothing like their not-proper kiss in the carriage.
It was desperate and punishing. As if he were trying to prove something.
He swept his tongue over Harriet’s lips, and she heard herself moan again.
She didn’t have time to feel ashamed of the sound before his tongue sailed over her own, tasting her, having her, demanding something of her.
And while his mouth kept hers occupied, one of his hands left hers and snaked down the side of her chemise, brushing against her breast and ribs, then grasped her hip as if he was claiming her.
Harriet giggled at the thought, foolish as it was. She sounded almost poetic. “Something amusing?” he asked, leaning back for a moment, then leaning in and grazing his lips along her jaw, his stubble an erotic contrast to her own soft skin.
“Just … well …” She rubbed her legs together, entirely too overcome to speak coherently.
Alexander rolled off her and over to his side again.
He loosened his grip on her hips and swept his fingers across her stomach, which shut off all thoughts of humor.
And then he bit her lightly on the shoulder and she lost the ability to think completely.
“I wouldn’t want to miss out on a good joke,” he said into her neck, giving her a short respite from having his mouth on her.
“It’s …” She shook her head, unable to think of a single other word she could add to the sentence.
“Should I show you then, how I know what to do? With quims and the like?”
Harriet nodded. Or she thought she did. Or perhaps she spoke clearly and coherently and asked him to positively ruin her. She had no idea. All she knew was his hand was finally—finally—reaching the curls above her quim again.
“Spread your legs,” he bid her; the sentence hit her squarely in the chest. Was she supposed to be aroused by indifferent instruction? How much warmer could her body flush? For her own sake, she rushed to obey the command.
“Good,” he replied.
Oh. Oh, that’s how much hotter a body could heat.
He—betraying none of her own undone-ness—slipped his hand farther down, parting her and settling where her own hand had just been. And then he demonstrated precisely where and how he’d intended for her to touch herself.
“Is there … a word … for that …?” Harriet panted, desperately trying to commit this all to memory.
He laughed, which should have embarrassed her, except she couldn’t summon the energy. “Clitoris,” he answered, still smiling as he stroked her.
“Oh,” Harriet choked out, “remind me again tomorrow.” Alexander nodded at her, clearly biting back a grin. She knew other ladies weren’t asking about words in his company; however, this might be her only chance in bed with a man and by God she wasn’t going to miss a single thing.
“You’re quite wet,” he said in a tone Harriet couldn’t read. The word made her clamp her legs together, trapping his hand. It broke any sort of spell she’d just been under. Her heart began racing with uncertainty instead of arousal.
“Sorry. Am I? I’m—”
He brought his other hand to her mouth and traced her lips, quieting her. Why did lips feel so sensitive? Had her lips always felt so much? Then her mind jumped back to her mortification at being … wet. Wet? Wet?
“It’s good, Harriet. It’s … it’s more than good. It’s necessary.” Harriet glanced down to where his hand was. A mistake. Having him touch her was enough without seeing it. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes tightly. This was humiliating on so many levels.
“… it is?” she gritted out.
“Yes, it means you’re ready.”
“For?”
“Relax your legs again,” he instructed, and Harriet did. “For this,” he said, slipping a finger farther back and then slowly inside her. Her entire body tensed. Her hand shot out and gripped Alexander’s forearm.
Was he …? That was …? Was this …?
What came out of her mouth, however, was simply “Alexander”—only it came out in a pitch she was certain she’d never used before. It came out as a sob. A plea.
“It’s all right,” he said, his voice deeper and rougher than she’d ever heard. “Let yourself go. Let me in.”
She wanted to. God, she wanted to, but she couldn’t.
She couldn’t relax. His finger was working its way inside her.
And his palm was still pressing on her clitoris.
And God, she felt so … so full. And then when she couldn’t imagine a single other sensation, he began to remove his finger.
She opened her mouth to beg him not to, only for him to thrust it back inside.
Her legs writhed in pleasure, in agony. She needed … more.
“Alexander,” she pleaded.
“Yes?” he teased.
“Please,” she begged, although she had no earthly idea what she was begging for.
But he did. He seemed to know precisely what she was asking for. His mouth met hers again just as his hand found a perfect rhythm. She ground herself wantonly against him, distantly aware that she’d be embarrassed later, only it felt far too good in the moment to stop.
He broke the kiss to look down and watch her, which only made her feel more exposed, lewder.
Then he looked back at her, and she saw his eyes were fiery and hungry and his breath matched hers.
He wasn’t unaffected. He wasn’t doing her a favor.
He whispered “Harriet” as a plea of his own, then kissed her again and she was utterly lost.
The base of her spine tingled, and her toes curled, and every single muscle in her body seemed to clench at once and then what followed was … ecstasy. Hot liquid pouring through her veins. Something … oh god, they didn’t make words for it. Because how could you ever tell someone about this?
“Oh god. Oh my god. I had … I had no idea,” Harriet panted out, when her mind returned.
Her body hadn’t moved an inch since she’d reached her peak.
She wasn’t sure how he’d found the energy to remove his hand, draw down her chemise, pull up the covers, and roll over. “No wonder men wear tight breeches.”
Alexander laughed lightly but said nothing. He was looking at her in a way she’d never seen before.
“Thank you” was all she could eke out before her eyes closed. Before she drifted off, she heard one last thing from him.
“Happy to be of service.”
She was asleep by the end of his sentence. He was awake for most of the night.