“Ha. Ah. That. The French call itla petite mort.”
“The little death? Well, explosions often end that way.” She grunted. “Did you feel it, too?”
“Not that time, but I will.” He continued stroking the length of her hair. “I am suddenly quite concerned, armed with the knowledge that I’m the only man you’ve ever kissed, that you do not know what… happens between a man and a woman.” He cleared his throat. “After marriage.”
She looked up at, resting her chin on his chest. She batted her eyelashes. “Something happens between men and women? What on earth could that be?”
“You’re bamming me.”
“Of course, I am. My mother told me about it ages ago. She never mentioned that, though.”
“Yes, well, for a man to experience that, he must,ahem… if I had a cravat on it’d be feeling too tight right now.”
She smiled sweetly. “Yes? What does the man have to do? Say thank you? Cook the woman breakfast? Compliment the turn of her ankle?”
“Why do all of your obviously fake suggestions focus on the man doing something for the woman?”
“Because I anticipate getting as much pleasure from what I know happens next as you will.” Her gaze flicked downward, then back up. “Must you only be… inside a woman to, you know, explode.”
He winced. “Can we not call it that?”
She shrugged. “Seems appropriate. It’s all explosions between us two.”
“True.” He nudged the back of her head and pressed her face against his chest. “There are other ways for men, but the only one I’m particularly anticipating is inside you.”
She sighed and closed her eyes, luxuriating in the heaviness of her limbs. “This must be why people are anxious to be married. Why ladies find ruin in gentlemen’s arms.”
“Speaking of marriage… how long did your father say we must wait?”
“Till the end of the season. Three or so months.”
“Too long. As soon as the banns are read.”
She looked up. “You can’t mean to go against my father.”
“As soon as the banns are read. Unless you—”
“No. Sooner would be preferable.”
“That’s settled, then. I’ll come round tomorrow to speak to your father. You may want to kiss me as it might be our last. I’ll likely die tomorrow. Murdered.”
“True.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed him. Softly, careful of his lip.
“You’ve not been kissed enough,” he said. “I should not kiss you more now. I should leave.”
It was true. She did not know what time it was, but her father, when he’d not spent the night at an event, woke earlier than the sun. “There will be plenty of time for kisses later.”
“Hm. I think I’ll kiss you every time I see you, from this point on. To make up for all those years without kisses.”
“I think not.”
“Afraid you’ll tire of my kisses?”
Not at all. “It’s merely that others might notice. Eventually. What with all the kissing.”
He bent down until the tip of his nose almost touched the tip of hers. “A kiss every time we meet or…”
“Or?” she asked, hoping he’d take her lips with his once more.
