And he lost control, rolling his hips against her, loving the cry she sent into the air, holding her tight as she shattered, and damn it all, he shattered, too, the fire in her expression shooting through his veins, the painful pleasure of her innocent touch breaking him. He kissed her as they rose, and he kissed her as they fell, and when she gave a little worn-out sigh, a hint of wonder at the edges, it fed him because he kissed her then, too.
Thundering hearts and sweaty skin and gentle fingers hesitant now.
He gathered her close, and she let him, curling into his chest like she’d been born to do so and pressing her palm against his muscle.
When she spoke, it was in her practical Emma voice, not the fated tones of a goddess, though he’d half expected her to arrive on the other side of pleasure as such. “It is terribly unfair that I am spread naked before you, and you still possess many layers to keep you warm.” She fiddled with the buttons on his waistcoat.
“Are you cold?” He dragged her to the top of the mattress—while she laughed—and tugged the quilt down, pulled it on top of her. Laughing, she let him tuck her in, and still she laughed when he settled back down beside her on the outside of the blankets. “There. Better? Why are you laughing? You are naked as the day you were born. The air is cold!”
She only laughed harder, curling in on herself and pulling the quilt over her mouth to silence her glee. He kissed her, needing to share her happiness, and that calmed her. She cupped his face and sank into his embrace, and when she was soft and silent in his arms, he asked again, “Are you cold?”
“Not a bit.” She ducked her head, then tilted it back to peer up at him. “Thank you for showing me. And thank youfor keeping all your clothes on. I may know little, but I know enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you had undressed… that would be more dangerous than this. This we can still turn away from.”
No, they could not. Didn’t she feel it? Didn’t she understand?
She kissed the round of his shoulder and settled into the mattress at his side. “Thank you for protecting me. And for teaching me. Now sleep. We have much to do tomorrow.”
Yes, they did have much to do tomorrow.
But Samuel did not sleep. He undressed and slipped into the cold tub, washing away the evidence of their lust in the frigid water, taming the new bout of lust slowly creeping over him.
His tall Emma seemed so small curled up on her side, her cheek glowing in the shadows, her tangled hair spread like streams of sunlight over the pillow.
He would have to tell her. About the books, about his sisters, about the risks. And he’d have to pray she thought him worth it all.
He rose from the tub, stepped over the side, and right onto something that was not the floor. He scooted his foot a few inches to the side and grabbed the object as he grabbed the linen he’d used to dry her and dried himself.
A book.The School of Venus.Oh, hell. Not one ofthose. He dressed in clean smalls, trousers, and shirtsleeves and sat at the window, peering out. They weren’t here, Felicity and her rogue. But he’d keep a watchful eye, anyway.
Despite that heavy disappointment, something bright like a candle lit within him. The book was a sign. Those books had nearly ruined his family. Those books controlled who he wed. Those books had brought his parents together. And without the book he’d just discovered discarded on the floor by the tub, he’d never have watched Emma attempting to pleasure herself, and ifhe’d never done that, he might never have had the chance to take up the job himself.
He opened the book, and as the moon glowed high and bright, he read.
And he hoped.
Chapter Eighteen
Emma woke with a sunbeam in her face, an unpleasant taste in her mouth, and the memory of Samuel’s touch alive on her skin. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. What time was it, and where was—ah, there, Samuel Merriweather, the Duke of Clearford, sleeping in a window.
She swung her feet to the floor and yanked them back up again. Curses, it was cold! And she… she was entirely naked! She’d never slept without a shift before, but she’d fallen asleep to the sound of Samuel splashing in the tub with the traces of his touch still warming her skin.
Disaster. Complete disaster.
She wanted to do it again.
He looked so peaceful, mouth slightly parted, a day’s worth of scruff shadowing his cheeks and jaw, hair ruffled beyond recognition. Not at all the same man who’d exhausted her last night. She was still exhausted, and clearly so was he, slumped lifeless against the window frame. Not the bad sort of exhaustion that followed grief or worry or a day spent in endless toil. The good kind. Apparently, it existed. The kind that wrapped a body up warm and safe, rocking on gentle waves of satisfaction.
She’d learned another type of satisfaction last night, and some foundation she’d stood on had shifted, crumbled, leaving her on entirely new ground with an entirely new need pulsing through her. No wonder women were supposed to wait for marriage. It would be quite difficult to acquire last night’s floating pleasure without a husband conveniently in house.
Braving the cold, she set her toes to the floor and darted to her satchel, threw a shift over her head. Still too cold. So, she dressed completely, then pulled her hair into a loose knot at the back of her neck and tiptoed over to the sleeping duke. She touched his hand. Freezing. And no wonder, there was a chill in the morning air that seeped through the glass. She found his greatcoat and draped it over him, tucking it tight around his shoulders, trying not to wake him, though she must, eventually. Morning was seeping across the sky. They should be off once more.
When his eyes fluttered open, a smile spread across his face. “Good morning, Em.” He shrugged one shoulder of his greatcoat off and reached for her, then darted back beneath the garment. “Bloody hell, it’s cold.”
She laughed. “You should not have slept at the window.”
