Seductive Starts

by Courtney Milan

  But there was no cleaving. They felt awkwardly, painfully separate.

  Before Serena could lose her nerve, she ducked into his bedchamber. Her heart pounded, but she unbuttoned the pelisse that covered her gown and set it over a chair, then tugged off her gloves. Her hands were shaking by the time she undid the sash on her gown, but still she started to unhook the bodice. It was foolish for her hands to shake—foolish, because she felt no trepidation.

  She couldn’t feel trepidation. She wouldn’t let herself. As long as she didn’t look down…

  But she looked up from her buttons to see Hugo standing in the doorway, watching her. There was a point, she’d discovered climbing trees as a child, when she reached the end of the branches. When the leaves gave way to sun, and the breeze blew fresh and unhindered upon her face.

  For a few seconds when she reached the top, she would feel the finest sense of accomplishment. But that was also the moment when she first looked at the distant ground between her feet. And when she did, what came to mind was not the thrill of victory, but: Now how am I going to get down?

  She’d been outrunning her fears for so long, pushing them away, pretending the ground didn’t exist below her. But now she’d secured her farm and saved her child from bastardy. She’d set everything else aside for later. And now, with nothing left to reach for, later had come.

  He didn’t move toward her, but he didn’t have to. The dark recesses of her imagination took hold anyway. He was going to push himself on top of her. His weight would pin her down. She could hear herself breathing overloud; her vision darkened at the edges.

  She wasn’t sure where the first tear came from, or the second. She wasn’t the sort of woman to do anything so useless as weep.

  But the next thing she knew, she was crying into the orange linen of her wedding gown. And these were no demure, dainty tears; they were great gasping sobs that she couldn’t hold back.

  She wasn’t sure when he came to sit next to her on the bed, when his arms went around her. When he started to wipe away her tears.

  He didn’t offer useless platitudes, promising that all would be well. He didn’t murmur sweet nothings. He simply held her. It felt as if his warmth enfolded her for hours. When the storm began to fade to hiccoughing sobs, he handed her a clean handkerchief.

  “Uncomfortable memories?” he finally asked.

  Those. Impossible emotions, too. Guilt. Fear. Anger. All the things that she had put off like so many unpaid bills had returned to hammer on her door, insisting on immediate collection of all amounts owed.

  Serena blew her nose. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me. Just—can you just get on with it?”

  “No, sweetheart. I have to be aroused to get on with anything, and I find nothing to desire in laboring over a woman who wishes herself elsewhere.” He touched her nose. She was sure it must have been red. But he didn’t comment on her looks. “Even if she is you,” he said.

  “I’m well now.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think this should happen.”

  He started to stand, but she set her hand on his arm. “You don’t understand. I only have the one memory of Clermont. I need…” She gulped air. “When I wake up at night, remembering his weight upon me, I want another memory I can hold to, so that I might banish the thought. I need you to drive him out.”

  She gathered all her nerve and stood. The bodice of her gown was already undone. All she had to do was slide the sleeves off her shoulders and let the fabric fall. Like that, she was left in corset and chemise.

  She had hoped that disrobing would do the trick. But he was not overcome by lust at seeing her in dishabille. He simply walked to her.

  He was warm against her, warm and close; he parted her hair briefly and then, pulled a hairpin free.

  “We’re not going to be doing this that way, Serena,” he said.

  She swallowed. “Which way is that way?” Her voice was unsteady.

  He removed another hairpin. “Whichever way you’re thinking of right now. Your hands are shaking.”

  “What—how—I don’t know—” She choked on her uncertainty, on the dark fears that rose up inside her.

  But he kept removing her pins, one by one, scarcely touching her as he did so. Her coiffure tilted alarmingly, and then, as he freed a particularly crucial bit of iron, her hair tumbled down to her shoulders.

  “What do you intend?” she asked.

  “I am not going to consummate this marriage.” He found one last pin, dangling in her curls, and set this against the others that he’d gathered. He arranged them in his hand, a neat row of gray metal.

  “You’re not going to consummate the marriage,” she repeated.

  “I’m not.” He held out his hand, and when she reached out to take it, he dumped the hairpins in her palm. “But you are.”

  The heat of his body had warmed the pins. While she was staring at them in confusion, he closed her fingers around them.

  “This is how it works,” he said. “You may trade a pin for a favor. If you want me to unlace your corset, you can give me a pin. If you want me to give you a kiss, it will cost you a pin. But until you ask, I can’t touch you.”

  Serena swallowed.

  “Once I have a pin from you,” he said—and this time, he gave her that long, slow smile that she remembered so well—“I can trade it back.”

  “For a favor?” Her voice was still shaking. “You could trade a pin for the right to—”

  “Ah, yes. You can make me touch you. But I can only make you touch yourself.”

  “That hardly seems fair.”

  His smile quirked up at one end. “I’m not known for fairness.”

  Safe. Safe. It was coming back, that impulse—slowing her heart, driving her darkest fears from the odd corners of her body. He didn’t move. The dark images that had begun to infest her slowly dissipated. And in their place was…confusion.

  Still, she knew where to start.

  “Take off your coat.” Her voice shook as she did.

  He held out his hand. “A pin, please.” She handed one over. Her fingers brushed his palm as she did.

  He undid the buttons down his front and then shrugged out of the dark brown material in one smooth motion. His shirt was white underneath; it clung briefly to muscle as he wrestled his coat to the side. He let it fall to the floor in an untidy mess, and turned to face her in his shirtsleeves. Somehow, taking off that outer layer made him seem bigger than before—perhaps because all that impressive breadth of shoulder was that much closer to her.

  Serena’s pulse beat harder, but still he didn’t move.

  “Aren’t you going to ask for anything with your pin?” she finally managed.

  “No,” he said, with infinite casualness. “I want to build up a store of them first.” He didn’t elaborate, but her breath caught. Not, this time, in trepidation. No; this time she felt the first tendrils of curiosity curling about her.

  She pointed a pin at him. “Your waistcoat, then, if you please.”

  He complied. She couldn’t see through the linen of his shirt, but she could make out the form of his muscles as he worked—strong, defined curves.

  She was growing braver now, and handed him another pin when he finished. “Your shirt.”

  Wordlessly, he doffed that. As he pulled the fabric over his head, the muscles of his chest flexed and rippled, and Serena stared. She’d known he was a pugilist—his shoulders were broad—but there was nothing quite like seeing the truth of his former profession laid out in the flesh. Those shoulders had tensed when he’d struck another man. He’d taken blows against the hard ridges of his belly. A faint, pink scar traveled in a curving line up from his navel to halfway up his chest; a more ragged red line marked his ribs. There was an entire story written in his skin, and she wanted to learn it all.

  He hadn’t said anything as she looked him over, but he was hardly unaware of her perusal.

  “Are you flexing your muscles for me?” she asked.r />
  “That,” he said smoothly, “would be vanity.”

  She felt herself smile in response—the first smile since she’d entered his room. “So, yes, then.”

  He gave her a darkly wicked grin. “Should have known better than to try to bamboozle the governess.”

  Serena took a step toward him, and his smile froze. She reached out and touched the point of the pin to his abdomen. His breath stopped. She trailed it up his ribs, and had the pleasure of seeing him break out in gooseflesh.

  “I want your shoes.” Her mouth was dry; she could scarcely swallow around the words.

  He bent to remove them. As he did, his trousers grew tight around his buttocks, and the muscles in his behind shivered.

  So did she. She waited until he straightened before handing him another pin. “Do it again. I want your stockings.”

  This time, when he bent, he showed off for her—turning at an angle, flexing precisely so. He had to know how his thighs looked with all that wool hugging them. He didn’t say a word, but when he’d discarded the knit wool of his stockings, he met her eyes and winked.

  He’d made a game with the pins, one that stole her dread away. Still, she handed him another hairpin. “Do you have enough yet for your nefarious plan?”

  “Not quite.” He grinned. “Besides, you’re doing so well on your own. I’d hate to interrupt you.”

  Her confidence was coming back. Serena tapped him on the chin with a head of a pin. “For that impertinence, sir, I demand your belt.”

  “You demand it, do you?” He set his hands on the buckle, and tightened it. “Then I suppose I am bound to comply.” The tongue of the belt came loose, and then he pulled the belt slowly away. His trousers slipped down his hips a few inches as he did, revealing a dark arrow of hair, dotting down the front of his stomach.

  She wanted to know where that trail of coarse hair led.

  “Now,” she began, “I want—”

  “Now,” he interrupted smoothly, “it’s time for me to redeem my pins.” He fixed her with a steady look.

  It was only a moment that he looked into her eyes—half a second, scarcely even long enough to blink—but already her pulse jumped in response. His smile broadened. Her skin tingled. She was aware of every inch of her skin—her shift scarcely covered her limbs; her corset bound her breasts tightly. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or arousal that had her so suddenly on edge.

  “My first order.” He set a pin in the palm of her hand. “Wait right there until I come back.”

  She blinked, but he ducked out of the room before she could gather breath to protest. She took one step forward, before remembering that he’d asked with a pin, and under the rules of the game, she couldn’t follow. But he didn’t return—not for several minutes. She heard the clanking of metal and the working of a bellows—what in God’s name was he doing? Eventually, there was a hiss like steam and his muffled oath.

  He finally returned bearing a towel. A steaming towel.

  “This is a trick,” he said. “I learned it prize-fighting. Lie down on the bed.”

  At that bare command, Serena froze. He paused and cocked his head, and then set a pin on the table beside her. “I’m not touching you—recall that I can’t until you ask. Lie down on the bed.”

  Serena swallowed and complied. He sat next to her; the mattress gave way beneath his weight.

  “Put this over your face.”

  He handed over the cloth, hot and moist—almost too hot to touch. She unfolded it gingerly and then laid it over her eyes, covering her nose.

  “Breathe in,” he said. “Slowly, now.”

  The air was humid; she could feel the heat penetrating her skin, relaxing muscles she had not realized she’d tensed.

  “Now exhale.” She did; the air beneath the towel cooled temporarily.

  “Inhale.”

  She was drifting away on warmth with every breath. “This is lovely.”

  “Yes,” he said. “The more limber you are before a fight, the less likely you are to be hurt. Don’t know why that would be, but I suspect the same might hold true here as well.”

  She let out a little sigh of contentment. “What now?”

  “I couldn’t say,” he replied. “I’m out of pins.”

  She pulled the towel from her face. “How can that be?”

  He was watching her intently—his eyes dark, his mouth set in a determined line. He gestured to the table where he’d been laying pins the whole time. “I told you to breathe.”

  She had thought that lust would be selfish, no matter who entertained it. But there was a decided lift to his chin, a look in his eyes. He’d done all that for her—to steal the tension from her muscles, the fear from her heart.

  She was safe. This was the man she’d come to know. Determined, yes, and ambitious, too. But also playful and kind. He hadn’t hurt her. He’d seen her distress and he’d soothed it away.

  She pushed one of the pins he’d piled up over to his side and took a deep breath for courage. “Take off my corset, Hugo.”

  He’d scarcely touched her since he’d taken her hair down—just the brush of his fingers against hers as the pins had changed ownership.

  He touched her now, curling one hand around her hip. His other rose to address the knot of her front-lacing corset. He loosened the garment almost reverently. His fingertips seemed almost to scorch her, even through the stiff fabric of her undergarment. Her lungs caught fire as he loosened the laces. She took a deep breath and inhaled his smell—something like salt and citrus.

  Slowly, he undid the fastenings, peeling her corset from her. Released from confinement, her breasts swelled out in front of her, covered only by the thin fabric of her chemise. The air was cool against her skin, but she could scarcely feel it.

  His breathing had grown ragged. His gaze rested on the swell of her breasts, where her nipples made sharp peaks in the linen of her undergarment. His eyes moved in time with the cycle of her breath—up and down, as if he were already joined with her on some level.

  He slid her pin back to lie next to the others. “Touch your breasts.”

  His voice was rough; his words sent a current of heat through her. She brought her hand up, never taking her eyes from his. She cupped the curve of one breast in the palm of her hand and his pupils dilated. She ran her thumb along the upper slope and he licked his lips. Her own touch sent a weak spark of pleasure pulsing through her, but it was his gaze—worshipful, almost devout—that magnified the thread of pleasure, encouraging it to grow.

  She made another circle with her thumb, and he drew in another breath. And then, because her body begged for it—because his eyes pleaded for it—she teased her nipple with her fingertips. Desire shot through her, taking up an insistent, liquid beat between her legs.

  He didn’t move to touch, to take. He just watched, his breath growing ragged. Her pleasure was his.

  “Now…” She swallowed, and gathered her nerve. “Now you touch my breasts.”

  He leaned over her, setting his warm hand where hers had been. His thumb was rougher and more callused, brushing her nipple through the fabric of her shift. If her own touch had brought on a shock of pleasure, his called up a rough well of desire, dark and needy, from deep within. He leaned down and touched his lips to her other nipple. His breath was hot and humid; his tongue outlined the dark, puckered skin. She gave herself over to the sensation of being touched by him—small caresses still urgent with want; tongue and then teeth, teasing her, bringing her to the edge of her want.

  “Stop,” she panted.

  He pulled away. The muscles of his arm strained, holding himself in place.

  “I want your trousers,” she told him.

  “I want your chemise.”

  They’d stopped exchanging pins, Serena realized—just slipped into one request given for another. She took a deep breath and pulled her chemise over her head. She freed her arms just in time to see him kicking his trousers and undergarments away. Now she could foll
ow that dark line etched on his belly all the way down to a curly nest of hair, from which jutted his erection. He was hard and long, and so thick her fingers would scarcely meet if she were to place her hand around his member.

  She reached out experimentally—yes—her thumb just overlapped her forefinger. He hissed as she touched him, but did not otherwise move. She stroked down his length, wondering at the contrast—warm and soft at first touch, yet hard as steel when she squeezed him. He made a noise in the back of his throat, something akin to a growl, and his hands gripped the bed sheets, but he didn’t move. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t take her in his arms. He simply shut his eyes and let her explore.

  She let go of his erection and ran her hands up his body: up the rippling muscles of his abdomen, up the expanse of his chest. She rested her hands on his shoulders and then pushed onto her knees and kissed him.

  As she did, she stretched out against him full-length. All that warm skin, all that hard muscle pressed flush against her body.

  His mouth took hers with bruising force. Her tongue darted out to his, and he met her, stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss. She felt herself turning to liquid, each heated kiss stoking a building fire. But still he didn’t wrap his arms around her.

  She closed her hand around his member once more and he jerked almost spasmodically. “Ah, sweet—” he said, low and hoarse. She burned all over, from head to foot. But pressing herself against his hardness wasn’t enough. She needed more—needed his arms around her, his body demanding more of her. She wasn’t sure when her bravado had turned into brazenness.

  “Touch my breasts again,” she said.

  The command was less shy; his response was more certain. He set his hands on her waist and slid them up her ribs to cup her naked breasts. No teasing caress, now; he leaned to kiss one, then the other—first just lips touching, and then the entirety of his mouth, hot, his tongue stroking her nipple. So good—he felt so good.

  Her thighs began to tremble; he sank to sit on the bed, and pulled her to straddle him. That put her breasts right in front of him, and he took them again, tasting them. His hard erection fitted against the juncture of her thighs. Her want had gone beyond the tingle of her skin. It swelled to fill her all over. She was wet between her legs. She shifted against him, sliding against his hardness, and her desire intensified.