Chapter Twenty-One
HARRIET KNEW—SOMEWHERE IN THE BACK OF HER MIND, SHE knew—this was a terrible idea.
Libraries led to liberties, in her experience with him, and she could ill afford to further muddy her sentiments regarding the man.
She understood his actions could be chalked up to availability—she was the only lady in residence—but nothing about his demeanor suggested this was an act of convenience.
“May I?” Alexander asked, stepping closer, tossing the blanket over a nearby armchair.
Harriet had no earthly idea what he was asking permission for and every confidence she’d enjoy it. So she nodded.
Alexander bent and cradled her face in his hands before claiming her mouth again. Tasting her, nipping at her. Each kiss of his made her want. She felt in grave danger of melting. His entire body felt hard and hot against hers. Were kisses supposed to make one feel heavy?
Then he pulled away and she almost whimpered with need.
“You can touch me back, you know?” he teased, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. Mortification suffused through her at having to be informed. He was no doubt accustomed to women who didn’t need to be instructed in the act of seduction. Harriet froze in place.
Without appearing to give it a second thought, Alexander bent and scooped her into his arms as if she weighed as much as an embroidery hoop.
No one had lifted her since she was a child.
Alexander might be used to tossing women around his bedroom—or library as it were—but undoubtedly, they were not her size.
“Alexander!” she screeched, the noise unpleasant even to her own ears. She was getting this all wrong, although he seemed not to be noticing.
He set her down on a divan as if she weighed naught and stood, grinning.
“So you do know my name?” he jested, shrugging out of his tailcoat and beginning to unfasten his waistcoat, a sight which Harriet would never tire of.
Should they ever be short on funds, they could no doubt sell admission to the display.
“I believe I’ve used it before,” she replied, biting into her lip, hoping to stay fully attentive to both the conversation and the show before her.
“Only thrice,” he said, simply.
“You’ve been counting?”
“Fantasizing,” he corrected.
He undid his cravat and removed his cufflinks and then sat on the edge of a nearby armchair to remove his boots.
Transfixed, Harriet watched for a moment; then, realizing what she was meant to do, began to take off her gloves.
She reached down to remove her own shoes. The gown would require his assistance.
“Not that I don’t adore what you’re doing, but you can stop there.” Before Harriet could be hurt by the words, Alexander held up a hand. “Don’t fret, we will get there. If you’d like. First, however, I thought we might try something.”
The suggestion brought no small amount of panic; if someone with his expertise was going to “try” something, she was certain to be out of her depth. A lump of nerves appeared in her throat, which she swallowed to ask, “You haven’t done this before?”
“Well, no, not exactly …” he said, continuing to undress himself, removing his breeches and then returning to sit.
“Marvelous,” Harriet trilled, sitting up next to him on the divan and placing her hands on her thighs to signal that she was ready. For … whatever came next.
Harriet was proud that her voice sounded relatively even. He smiled broadly at her and sank to his knees. Some of her nerves disappeared at the act. Or perhaps just rearranged themselves. He’d known quite well what to do with his face in that area last week.
Instead of rucking up her skirts and diving in, he watched her intently—a little too intently. He traced a finger up her now bare arm until he reached the sleeve of her gown. He skipped over the fabric and continued his ministrations on her collarbone.
“I had thought you might touch me,” he explained, though he didn’t stop his caresses.
Nodding, she reached out cautiously. “Right, yes. Of course.” Alexander grabbed her hand before it could land on his impressive chest. A sigh of relief escaped her lips; she had no idea what he meant for her to be doing. He stood again and then held out a hand to her. She rose, still mystified.
“I thought I might lie down and let you have your way with me.”
Upon reflection, Harriet would always be proud that she didn’t choke or sputter or cough at the suggestion.
Other than her insides rupturing and her mind dissolving, she remained unchanged—a portrait of stoicism and maturity as he crossed, almost entirely nude, to where he’d left the blanket.
Then spread it down over the Axminster. He tossed a few cushions on the pile for good measure, then glanced back, noticing she had yet to move.
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Alexander said, no doubt in response to the trepidation written on her face. Despite the nonchalance of his words, he himself looked apprehensive.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Harriet rushed to assure him. “It’s only—I have no idea what I’m meant to do.”
“Come here,” he instructed. So she did. He reached out a hand and gathered her close.
“Now what?” They were still standing; was she meant to sit? Was this to be like a picnic in the park?
“That’s the beauty of the enterprise. You’re meant to do precisely as you’d like.”
“But I—I don’t know what will feel good for you.”
“Virtually anything you do will be enjoyable, I swear it.”
“Yes, but …”
“As long as you don’t knee me in the bollocks, we’ll be remarkably far ahead of our last experience in a library.” As he teased her, he took a step back and removed his shirt; he was now fully nude in front of her. More molten heat flooded Harriet’s core. A fire wasn’t necessary at all, as it were.
“Where would you like to touch?” he asked, simply. His lack of clothing didn’t seem to bother him at all. It hadn’t changed his composure or his comportment. Harriet couldn’t fathom ever being so at ease, even with her clothing on.
She kept her eyes trained tightly on his face and the upper half of his body. Scandalous as those areas felt to ogle, she had at least seen his chest before. A chest was survivable.
She reached a tentative hand out to his forearm. It seemed like a relatively safe starting point. One could touch a gentleman’s arm without impropriety. Although one was usually being escorted into dinner or around the perimeter of a ballroom. And the gentleman was ordinarily clothed.
Focus, Harriet, she chastised herself, willing her mind to stay present for this monumental event. This could be the last time she ever touched a man, after all. That thought spurred her on.
She picked her hand up and then moved over to his chest. Gaining confidence, she let her fingers trail down the hard muscles, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of his hair there.
He let out a groan of pleasure. She smiled and bit her lip, though she didn’t lift her gaze.
How different they were underneath their clothing, and yet, so much the same.
She trailed one daring finger lower, following the path of hair.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, although his voice was strained. He let out a hiss as she continued down.
She snatched her hand back. “Sorry. Is that painful?”
He chuckled. “The opposite, in fact.”
“Oh. Well then,” she said, feeling bold. She returned her hand to where she’d left off only to discover that she was in the vicinity of his … She almost laughed at her reluctance to even think the word.
“Something amusing?”
“I find myself rather reticent, which is unusual.”
“Quite,” he answered. “I think this is the least you’ve spoken since we met.”
“I’m not used to these words, is all.”
“Which words?” he asked.
“Er, you call it your”—Harriet swallowed—“cock? Yes?” Alexander groaned at both her use of the word and likely how close she was getting to touching the appendage in question.
“I do.”
“Cock,” Harriet repeated, surer of herself this time. “Cock,” she said again. “It’s only a word.”
“Come now, it’s a bit more than that,” he teased.
“It’s only that I’m so used to saying words.
I mean, obviously I am. And normally, I have no compunction about saying the ‘bad’ ones—though I’m loath to call any word bad.
Bloody. Damn. Hell. See? I can say those just fine.
I just haven’t really had any experience saying cock in this context.
I suppose it’s simply a matter of time before you become comfortable.
Perhaps one day, I’ll have no compunction about saying it. I’ll simply need to practice.”
The rambling had either calmed her or emboldened her, or both. Harriet finally allowed herself a good look at all of Alexander. From his strong thighs, down to his feet, back up to his broad chest. She could admit that her gaze snagged a bit at his truly impressive cock.
“You can say cock to me as often as you’d like.”
“How generous of you, my lord,” she teased back.
“Only trying to assist my wife in her … practice.”
“Is there another word for it?”
“For …?” And then Alexander did something truly wicked and made it move on its own. Harriet let out a small yelp of surprise or delight or something in between. Then she laughed, fully and loudly, the sound bouncing off the high walls of the library.
“I had no idea it could do that! That you could do that! Can every man do that?”
“I would imagine. We haven’t discussed it at White’s, but I can’t see why not.”
“Intriguing. But you haven’t answered my question. Is there another word for cock like there is with quim? A lack of synonyms often becomes repetitive.”
“One wouldn’t want that,” he replied, trying to stay serious. “You could call it a ‘penis,’ although that feels rather … medical. Or ‘member,’ but that’s rather bland. ‘Prick’ is fairly common. And then there are the less than appropriate names.”
“Less appropriate than ‘cock’?” Harriet asked eagerly, removing her hand from him, the body part in front of her forgotten in exchange for its synonyms. “Oh, you must tell me!”