“I mean them,” Val rejoined, drawing her fingers from his lips. “I am not in this bed for a casual romp, Ellen. You matter to me, and any child of ours would matter to me very much.”
“That’s… good.” Ellen nodded, heaving a deep breath. “To me, as well.”
Val regarded her at some length, sitting beside him with the sheet tucked primly under her arms, her cinnamon hair down her back in a tidy braid. This discussion of children had to touch sensitive nerves for her, for she’d quite plainly considered the lack of a Markham heir her failing. He’d love to give her a child, to prove to her the shortcoming had not been hers.
But children deserved legitimacy, and that meant asking Ellen to tie herself not just to a man with a disability but to a man who came with a parent who thought nothing of bribing mistresses to conceive or footmen to spy on their masters. The Duke of Moreland considered such measures excused by his need to protect and control his children—not in that order. And His Grace considered grandchildren more than reason enough to force marriages where they ought not to be forced, no matter how much Val might wish to have Ellen for his own.
So, there would be no children. Another shadow, but one that haunted every coupling outside a marriage bed and probably many within one, as well.
“Any more rules?” Ellen asked, drawing her knees up to her chest.
Val shot her a bemused smile. “One.”
“And that would be?”
“You tell me what you do like. I can read your body to some extent, and will delight in doing so, but I cannot read your mind.”
“What I like?” Ellen’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think I understand this rule.”
“Do you want to be on the bottom, or would you rather ride me? Do you want my mouth or my hand, and would you ever want to use your mouth on me? Are your nipples more sensitive, or your lovely derriere? And what of toys, bindings, spanking?”
The look she gave him was such a combination of confusion, fascination, and bewilderment, Val realized if she didn’t have the vocabulary, she likely lacked the experience, as well.
“I see.”
“What do you see?” Ellen asked, uncertainty in her voice.
“How did you and Francis typically join?” Val asked, sliding down and crossing his arms behind his head.
“In the dark.” She glanced over at him, her gaze going to the soft down at his armpits. “In bed, at night. Without removing our nightclothes. We certainly did not discuss it, and I am not comfortable discussing this with you.”
“What did you like most about being with your husband?” Val asked, reaching out a hand to stroke her arm. “What do you miss most?”
She shot an unreadable glance at him over her shoulder, though Val could see longing in her eyes and… loneliness?
“He’d hold me,” she said very quietly, “afterward. At first, he’d just kiss my cheek and go back to his bedroom, but I asked him to stay, and it became… comforting. I had to make up excuses—I was cold, I had something to discuss, but eventually, he’d stay for a few moments of his own accord.”
Val kept his expression bland but surmised that dear Francis had left his wife hanging, and holding her was the only comfort she could ask for. Of course she’d want cuddling and comforting if her every experience was one of vague frustration.
“Let’s start there. Let me hold you. But, Ellen?”
“What?” She was regarding him warily, as if his rules had provided not the sense of control and safety he’d intended for her, but just the opposite.
“You can recall your husband with all the love you ever bore him,” Val said, holding her gaze. “You can be grateful for the years you shared, the affection and the memories, but in this bed today, you are with me.”
“I am with you.” Her reply was gratifyingly swift and certain. “Only with you, and you are with me.”
“Just so. Now come cuddle up with me on this beautiful rainy day, and be my love.”
She curled up against his side with a sigh that bespoke five years of fatigue and loneliness, five years of coping, managing, and wishing for more, even when more could never be.
Val heard that sigh and propped his chin on her crown. “What does an enterprising gardener do on a rainy Monday?”
“I can start seedlings or get some baking done. Tally my books, work on my mending or sewing or embroidery. I can clean this cottage, particularly the windows—they get dusty easily this time of year.”
“I see,” Val murmured, drawing a slow pattern on her arm with his index finger.
“What do you see?” Ellen closed her eyes, and Val felt her begin to relax.
“I see you are as bad as I am.”
“In what regard?” In imitation of her lover, Ellen began to sketch on his chest with her third finger, though she probably wasn’t aware of her own actions.
“I am accused of being too serious. If you were to ask me what I will do with this rainy day, I would mention correspondence with both family and business associates, the accounts, perhaps plastering, glazing the kitchen cabinets, laying new tile in the foyer, moving pots of flowers to the terraces, hanging hammocks, ordering this and that from London, tending to my horse, and a whole list of activities that fall sadly outside the ambit of fun or even pleasure.”
Though a month ago, his list of activities would have been much shorter: He would have been at his piano. For the first time in his recollection, that state of affairs struck him as… sad.
“You don’t play,” Ellen observed succinctly, and Val started a little at her word choice.
“Well put.” Val kissed her temple. “I no longer play.”
“Is this play to you?” she asked, waving her hand at the bed in general.
“It is pleasurable, and it can be playful—I’d like to see you playful in bed, Ellen—but it isn’t a mere frolic.”
“Folly but not frolic. So what do you like?” She completely spoiled the boldness of the question by burying her face against Val’s shoulder so he could feel her blush.
“I am easy to please,” Val replied, hugging her to him. “I like to share pleasure, to give it and receive it from a willing partner. Beyond that, I am fairly flexible and accommodating.”
In truth, he was what plenty of grateful ladies had called, “a generous lover,” and ironically, he attributed the ease with which he pleased his partners to the same skills he’d honed at the keyboard: He listened—to the pillow talk, to the sighs, to the silences, to the urgent, inarticulate sounds, and to the occasional tears. He was willing to take small risks, to care a little more than he should, to expose his vulnerabilities a little more than he should, to experiment beyond what might be strictly expected. In other words, he was willing to put a little feeling into even his casual liaisons.
And then too, there was the simple matter of virtuosic manual dexterity.
But with Ellen, there was going to be nothing of the casual. He knew that as he held her naked beside him in bed, discussing seedlings and ledgers and—God bless her—his own preferences.
“You know,” Val went on, “I haven’t been asked before what pleases me.”
“Valentine…” Ellen’s voice was repressive, and he smiled at her truculence.
“I don’t mean in bed,” he added, though it was it true there, too. “I mean in the larger scheme. You know you love to garden and put up your jams. I can see you enjoy embroidery, and you dote on that lazy beast who lumbers around your gardens ignoring the mice. I’m not sure I’ve given much thought to what I enjoy.”
Besides—would the thought never leave his head?—playing the piano.
“You ride very well and you dote on your beast, too.”
“I’ve always liked horses, and my father taught us to take care of our stock. As boys, we rode everywhere and often.”
“Do you enjoy horses, though?” El
len’s cheek was pillowed on Val’s shoulder while she lazily spelled out words of a lascivious nature on his chest: w-a-n-t, k-i-s-s, t-o-u-c-h… Did she think he couldn’t feel the letters she was burning into his skin?
“I did,” Val answered her, “but St. Just became the family horseman, and one wouldn’t want to steal his thunder.”
“What about your manufactories, then?” D-e-s-i-r-e. M-o-u-t-h.
“I run them.” Val shrugged, suffering her spelling practice manfully. “They make a scandalous profit, but one can’t expect that to last. I know something I do like,” Val said just as Ellen stroked a finger across one of his nipples, perhaps crossing a t.
“What?” Her finger paused, and it was both relief and frustration for that finger to stop stroking over his skin.
“Kissing you.” Val shifted slowly, carefully, so he was poised above her on his knees and forearms. “I really like kissing you, Ellen FitzEngle Markham, but I’ve found that practice can make the enjoyable nigh sublime. Assiduous, unrelenting practice.”
He started with the softest, most fleeting hint of what was to come, just whispering his lips across hers. She sighed and brushed her lips over his just as lightly.
“I like kissing you too, Valentine Windham.” She repeated the gesture, and he settled in a little more closely to her—on her—preparing to besiege her mouth.
“I like it exceedingly,” Ellen said, closing her eyes as Val’s lips went cruising over her features. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair, nuzzled her ear, pressed his cheek to hers, and ran his tongue up the side of her neck.
He wanted every sense—scent, touch, taste, sight, and hearing—involved before he’d proceed further.
“Valentine Windham, you are,” Ellen whispered in his ear, “the most sumptuous man.” On his back, her finger traced out the letters m-o-r-e.
That little, breathy compliment settled into Val’s heart, just like her willingness to use his name, and lit a small steady flame of determination. This had to be perfect for her. He could not give her marriage or permanence or much of his future, but he could and would give her this day and as many others as she would permit.
“You are my feast,” Val whispered to her. “I hardly know where to start, you present me with so much to enjoy.”
“Kiss me more,” she suggested, pressing her lips to his cheek. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”
Blazes. Val seized her mouth with his own, angling his body up and over hers, the better to engulf her lips and teeth and tongue and mind. His hands found hers where they lay on either side of her head, and he laced his fingers through hers. She closed her fingers around his and arched up, offering more than kisses and asking for more than kisses.
By degrees, he let her have some of his weight, pressing his chest to hers. She seemed to need it, pushing herself up against him, asking him to anchor not just her hands to the pillow but her body with his.
Her mouth was open under his, her tongue seeking and exploring. Val gave her his tongue in a slow, sinuous rhythm, one she unknowingly began to mimic with her hips.
She was catching fire beneath him, and Val battled the temptation to merely slip himself inside her body. She would more than allow it. She would welcome him and let him worship her as intimately as a man could.
But not yet.
He was not going to leave her hanging, not like her sainted husband had time after misguided, inept time.
“Easy,” Val murmured, shifting up farther to rest his cheek against her temple. “We’ve all day and then some.”
She said nothing but turned her face and closed her lips over his nipple. Above her, Val went still, tensing momentarily then relaxing. He shifted just a little to the side, so Ellen could be more comfortable while she tasted and suckled and tongued him.
And bit him, with just the right hint of sting, before soothing him with her tongue and feathering a sigh over his wet flesh.
“I like that,” Val whispered, sliding a hand under the back of her head. “Don’t stop.”
She didn’t stop; she hiked her knees, though, and pushed her pelvis against his, shamelessly seeking his weight. He let her push and retreat against him, resisting mightily the urge to synchronize his own undulations with hers, while he enjoyed the draw and slide of her mouth.
“Both,” Ellen muttered, pushing at Val with her hands. He shifted to the other side, understanding she wanted to work at his other nipple.
And work at him, she did. God, what a mouth…
While her free hand came up to rub at the wet, exposed flesh she’d just abandoned, each caress sending a riot of pleasurable sensation to Val’s groin. He had to slow her down, as much as he didn’t want to disturb what had to be the boldest overtures Ellen had ever made to a man in her bed.
“My turn,” Val warned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and rolling them both so he was on his back beneath her.
“Valentine.” Ellen blinked at him from her perch straddling him. “I want…”
“I know.” He leaned up and kissed her swiftly, hard, to shut her up before she could finish that thought. “And you’ll have it. Soon. But I get a turn, too.” He hooked his hands under her arms and lifted her bodily, thinking to position her breasts for his mouth. Needing to, in fact.
But her sex dragged along the rigid length of his cock, and they both froze at the contact.
“Oh, yes.” Ellen closed her eyes and let her upper body go limp, hanging on Val’s hands. “Again, please.”
She wasn’t waiting for him to reposition her; she was searching with her hips for him, and he was all too readily in evidence. Slowly, she drew her sex over him again and again.
Distraction, Val admonished himself desperately. If he didn’t distract her, he was going to finish before they’d started; damned if he wouldn’t. He lifted Ellen slightly, so her breasts were closer to his mouth, and captured one rosy nipple between his lips.
“Ah, God…” Ellen’s prayer was hissed through clenched teeth as Val began to play with her.
“Turnabout,” Val murmured against her soft skin. “Put your hands on my shoulders, love.”
She opened her eyes as if to locate these shoulders he’d mentioned, and complied by sliding her hands over his chest, particularly over his nipples, back over his nipples. She might have had every intention of repeating that caress until her fingertips were sizzling with the pleasure of it, but Val’s mouth prevented her.
He made love to her breasts. When she braced her weight above him, he used his hands to capture her breast and position it—by fondling, stroking, petting, and kissing—at his mouth. When he finally drew on her nipple, she groaned relief.
“Ride me,” Val whispered as he shifted to torment her other breast. His hands slipped down to her hips, where he applied enough pressure to show her what he meant. Firmly, he pushed her hips down and held her, so her sex was snugged down to his cock. Val rocked her slowly along the length of him, and Ellen whimpered.
“Make yourself feel better,” Val murmured. “Find relief. Use me.”
She made a few tentative passes over him, and Val sensed she was torn between relief and increased arousal.
“Trust me.” He urged her along him again. “You feel so good to me, Ellen. Just move on me a little.”
He bit her nipple, lightly, then bit and suckled at the same time, and Ellen’s body began to move with its own momentum. She arched, and he nipped her again so her nipple stayed in his mouth as her chest heaved up, and she let out a half groan, half sigh. There was frustration in that sound, and Val heard it.
“Let me help you.” Val anchored her to him, his arm a tight band low on her back to keep her close to him as she moved more and more strongly. And then, just there, where all the sensations of pleasure and torment should focus for her, Val worked a hand between them and brushed a thumb across her wet flesh.
“No.” She tried to shrink away, but Val’s arm trapped her against him, and his hips arched up to increase the pressure against her sex.
“Valentine,” she whispered. “Oh, God, Valentine…”
He could feel her body seizing, and bucked up hard against her, holding her tightly to him and aching with his own need to spend. He stroked over her again and again, until she was shaking and clinging to him, then crying softly against his neck.
“It’s too much,” she finally murmured dazedly. “It’s so much too much, and I never knew…”
It had been too much, Val silently agreed. He hadn’t intended that her orgasm be so… violent, but she’d resisted the pleasure, and he’d forced it on her, and he wanted nothing so much as to do it again and again until they were both sore and spent and mindless with it.
Until she’d been compensated for five years of marital frustration and five years of wasted widowhood.
“Just let me hold you. Take a moment to gather your wits.”
“I will never have wits again,” Ellen muttered, curling up more closely on his chest. “I don’t even believe wits exist at this point. What on earth did you do to me, Valentine Windham? That was different from what happened at the stream. You are an awful, awful man.”
There was such affection in her tone, such pleased, bewildered exasperation, that Val felt the very opposite of awful. “I didn’t mean to be so rough with you. You are a lady.”
“I was rough with you,” Ellen countered. “I became a beast.”
“An awful beast.”
“God above.” Ellen’s sigh breezed over Val’s heart. “I was awful, wasn’t I?”
She sounded so proud, Val hugged her tightly, odd feelings coursing up from his chest. “A tigress pouncing on her prey could not have produced more awe in me than you did.” He nuzzled her neck. “You have got such a mouth on you.”
Her tongue flicked out and Val flinched away.
“For shame,” he scolded. But when she merely nuzzled lazily at his neck, he stroked his hand over the back of her head in an easy rhythm. “Insatiable tigress.”
The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3) Page 85
