Her mouth found his again. She could taste herself, her own arousal, on his lips. He kissed her—one long, hot, demanding kiss—and then pulled back.
“I want you,” he said hoarsely. “I want you so much. But we needn’t—I can wait. I can—”
Her palm was on his chest and she could feel the pounding of his heart, a match for her own.
“Yes,” she murmured.
He froze, one hand in her hair and the other half-underneath her stocking.
“I mean, no,” she said. “Don’t wait. I don’t want to wait.”
He flipped her over in the bed. She laughed and gasped, and he pressed his face into the curve of her neck on a rough, pleading sound. She could feel his erection through his breeches, hot and hard against her.
“You won’t regret it.” She barely made out his hoarse promise, growled into her skin.
Somehow, she believed him. Her anxieties, her fears of wanting more than he could give—they were nowhere to be found in this soft dreamworld of twilight and bed linens. She did not let him go.
He came into her slowly, so slow and patient, as though desire were not a mad demand upon him. He fitted himself inside her, tiny shallow thrusts, and her hips arched to take more of him.
He made a desperate sound.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “I’m all right.”
“Oh Lydia.” His voice had dropped, just above a groan. “Oh my love. I would not hurt you for the world.”
It did hurt, a little—a stretch just past the point of comfort. But he brought one hand between their bodies and touched her. A soft caress, a gentle stroke. He whispered something in her ear, some small praise, and her hips pressed up again, seeking more.
His mouth was at her neck. His fingers moved over her, and she whimpered as need mounted in her, the ache rising as he thrust again, deeper this time. A little harder.
“Yes,” she said, “oh please, yes.”
She slid her knees up and the angle of their movements shifted—a sudden, dizzying pleasure. She cried out, her body tightening around him, her feet flexing against the bed. His hand caught hers, pressed her palm into the linens beside her head. There seemed no end to her culmination when it came—no end to his voice whispering endearments.
Beautiful, he said.My love. My own.
He was so careful with her. He moved slowly, languorously, almost until the moment of his crisis, until his rhythm grew erratic and his fingers held her fast. He trapped his cock between them and thrust hard, spilling himself on her belly as he clutched her hips. She welcomed his urgent grip, relished the way his hands recalled her to herself.
There was nothing in this moment as real as her body, and his, and the pleasure of their joining. In the gathering dark, his touch felt like a vow.
Chapter 23
Dearest, find enclosed an early copy of the library’s newest pamphlet on condoms. If you do not find it personally useful, please assume I’ve sent it to you to assess the quality of the engravings. (They certainly are lifelike!)
—from Selina to Lydia
Lydia sat cross-legged in her dressing gown and surveyed the man in her bed.
He was still asleep, his curls mussed and one muscular arm flung across his face. After four nights on the mail coach, they had both slept long and deeply. If her mother had made up a separate chamber for Arthur, Lydia was not aware of it—no one had broken in upon them or knocked at the door.
She’d been awakened only by the dawn. In the soft light of the morning, she’d shrugged into her muslin wrap and pondered what she might find for Arthur to wear as well.
He certainly couldn’t wear the scarlet footman’s costume again. She intended to wreak some revenge upon Ned for that incident, once she stopped laughing whenever she thought of it.
Arthur’s gold-tipped lashes fluttered slightly. He had the beginnings of golden stubble on his cheeks and jaw as well, and she found she wanted to press her face there. Feel the rough scratch against her lips.
Perhaps she could, now. Perhaps that would be permissible.
It seemed possible, this morning, that he would welcome it. She felt a cautious and tentative hope unfurl itself, one petal at a time, in her chest. She might have many mornings like this, dawn-colored and sleep-warm beside him. She might have all of them.
