Her whole body melted into his, the hand at the belt of her dressing gown forgotten as she felt Henry’s body press against hers.
There was no restraint to his movements like there had been previously. There was no tempering the way that he held her face, his desire pressing into her belly as she fought to know how to answer his heated passion.
She didn’t know what to do with her hands, gripping his shirt like they were.
She knew he was going to stop, that they were nearing that point where he would pull back and stare into her eyes with them both breathing raggedly as they tried to come back from that edge.
But the moment didn’t come.
She thought that maybe his hand might be closed over her hip, his fingers digging into the thin fabric covering it as his thumb slipped past her chin where it had been resting to her throat.
His palm flattened against the skin there, his thumb tracing a wide arc over the expanse of visible flesh there until his fingertips could work down into the fabric she had pulled so tightly over her in the seconds after he had entered her room.
“I’ve thought about this since that first moment in my sitting room,” Henry groaned, breaking away from her lips to run his instead across the line of her jaw. “Thought about you, how you would taste, how you would feel.”
Oh, she was a harlot. Because she had wondered the same about him.
And now, with his lips at the corner of her jaw, with his hand pushing down lower and lower, snagging on that fabric over her breast as he palmed it … now she wanted more.
“Henry,” she breathed, arching into his touch and gasping as his thumb traced the sudden, raised edge of her nipple.
“Again,” he commanded, his voice rough as he allowed his lips to trail lower, his tongue to trace the line of her throat. “Say my name again.”
“Henry.” He didn’t have to ask her twice. Not with his hand still going lower, the one on her hip tracing until it hit that knot she had tried to make of her belt.
“Tell me what you want, Josephine,” he begged, his teeth scraping against her throat as he undid that knot with a simple twist of his fingers. He pushed her dressing gown from her leaving her in the thin shift of her nightgown alone.
“I–” She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know how to tell him what she wanted or what words to use. Her words were turning into odd noises, breathy moans lifted out of her throat with each press of his lips, teeth, and tongue against her flesh. “You,” she moaned. “I want you.”
And just like her saying that she was his, that seemed to do something within him.
She gasped as he lifted her off her feet, the stuff on her vanity shoved to the side as he sat her atop it and pushed her knees apart so that he could come to stand between her thighs.
She could hear the ribbons of her gown being ripped out, the fabric falling from her shoulders as his lips moved even further down.
“I want you, Josephine,” he growled, his hand moving in front of him, his fingers working between her thighs and beneath the fabric pooling now about her waist. “I want to be inside of you; do you know what that means?”
She struggled to breathe, to nod yes, despite that she didn’t. Not really.
But he knew.
Without her having to say a word, he knew.
His lips were hard as he took hers again, but his fingers were the exact opposite. Soft and slow as they pushed against the wet folds of her centre, as he found the sensitive bit of flesh hidden there and ran his finger down the uppermost part of it that had her jerking and gasping on top of the vanity.
“It means I want to be here,” he moaned into her lips raggedly, his thumb taking over that part that was making her jerk as two other fingers slid down even further. “It means I want to feel you around me here.” He slid his fingers inside of her with her next gasp, his thumb arching as he twisted them up into her and–
“Oh, God. Oh – Oh, Henry.” She didn’t know what nonsense she was moaning as she cried out, arching into him as her head fell back with a loud, resounding crack into the mirror.
“Tell me to stop if you want me to stop,” he growled. His fingers pushed up further into her, his thumb circling in an opposite rhythm. And further still. Until she was writhing with his thumb and–
“Oh.”
Something snapped inside her. The pain, a slight, uncomfortable thing that was quickly overridden by that motion his thumb was still making against her. By the press of his lips into her corner as she shook.
“Tell me to stop, Josephine,” he groaned. “Or I won’t be able to.”
Josephine’s head rolled back further, her hips pressing into his hand as she heard more fabric rustling. She couldn’t open her eyes. She was chasing something. Chasing something elusive, she didn’t know what, running towards it despite not having a name.
