by Tessa Dare
And did it all over again.
Lucy gave up. She stopped wrestling the pleasure. It lost its sharp edges and melted to liquid, and she simply let it flow. Let it swim through her in sinuous, curving currents. Felt it swirl out to her fingers and down to her toes and up to the tips of her ears. Quivered as it tumbled faster, gathered momentum, and rushed back to pool between her thighs. She dimly heard herself murmuring words. Maybe his name. Maybe hers. She had no idea.
But when he left her breast and began kissing a serpentine path down her belly, she fell silent. She drifted down with him, her awareness floating below the rippling pleasure of his kiss. He sank between her thighs, the breadth of his shoulders pushing them wide. His breath tickled against her soft curls and the tender flesh they guarded. She felt his fingers, parting her gently. And then the hot, hooking joy of his tongue.
Oh, my.
Oh my oh my oh my. The book had definitely not mentioned this. This, she would have remembered. This, she would have underlined. His tongue flickered against her, and she cried out. Rather loudly.
He rose up on his elbow. “Lucy, hush. Someone might hear.”
She nodded, and he bent to taste her again. His tongue danced over her tender flesh, and pleasure rocked through her in a great, glittering wave. She cried out again. Louder.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I can’t help it,” she whispered when he rose up again. “It’s your fault, you know.” He had his fingers on her now, caressing her. He swept his thumb over that unbearable, sparkling place in tight, nefarious circles. Her head rolled back onto the pillow. “Oh, God.”
“Should I stop?” he asked, sliding a finger into her.
“God, no.” His finger dipped deeper, working slowly in and out. Lucy moaned against the back of her hand.
Then he was next to her, kissing his way back up her body, stretching out alongside her. Hard heat throbbed against her hip. His tongue flashed into her ear. The heel of his palm rocked against her as his finger worked in and out and in and out, and Lucy … Lucy was ready. Ready, willing, eager, prepared. Hot, liquid anticipation coursed through her veins. She was sinking through dark and wild and wet and hot, and she was ready, ready, ready. Ready for something to happen. Ready for it to never end. Never never ever ever end.
Waves of pleasure rocked through her. Flooding her, filling her. Forcing out everything else. Her hand fell away from her mouth, and a helpless cry surged from deep in her belly, wrenching into her throat. He clamped his lips over hers and took her cry into him. Joy, confusion, frustration, fear—she poured them all into one long, rapturous cry against his mouth. And he took it all. Took everything she gave, drinking it in, probing deep with his tongue to leave nothing behind.
He caressed her softly as she floated back down. Back into herself.
Oh, my.
Her body felt wonderfully languid, but soon restless questions churned in her mind. How could he know her body so well—so easily stir sensations it had taken her sixteen years to discover on her own? Ones she’d never discovered at all? How did she go about learning his secrets, making him ready? And was this truly just preparation? What pleasure came next?
So many questions, and she lacked the words to even phrase them. When at last she thought she could trust it again, she tried her voice. “Jeremy?”
“Yes?”
“What is it called, that … that thing that just happened to me?”
He paused. “Well, there are several words for it.”
“Only several?” Lucy marveled. “I would think there’d be hundreds. Thousands might not be enough.”
He nipped her ear playfully. “What? Weren’t a few of them in your book?”
Lucy batted his shoulder with her palm. “I thought we discussed the limitations of book learning.” He kept nibbling her earlobe. She sighed and ran her fingertips down the strong muscles of his arm. “And it can happen to you?”
She felt his arousal throb in his breeches, prodding against the curve of her hip. “Yes,” he murmured against her neck.
“But it didn’t … not yet.”
“No.”
“Then why are you just lying there?” She pushed him away slightly and turned to meet his eyes. “How can you stand it?”
A strangled laugh tore from his chest as he rose to his knees. “With great effort.”
She rolled onto her side and reached for the fastenings of his breeches. Her hand brushed over the stiff, straining bulge in front. It jumped. Lucy was fascinated. She rose up on her elbow, working the buttons loose with her other hand. He finally took the task from her, freeing the last few buttons, pushing the fabric down over his hips. Leaving her hand free to explore.
And what she discovered, she would have never imagined. The hardness and strength, yes. He was hard and strong, in general. But the delicate softness, she could have never dreamed. Velvet soft, and lightly ridged. Like a kitten’s ear. She let her palm glide over his length. He jerked away from her hand, and she curled her fingers around him tight. So he couldn’t get away.
He exhaled forcefully. A rough, faintly dangerous sound. “Lucy, we don’t have to do this. We can wait.” He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. “I can wait.”
“Whatever for?” She stroked him again, and he made a low growl in the back of his throat. “You want me, don’t you?”
Brushing her hand away, he kicked out of his breeches and lay down on his side, facing her. Staring into her eyes with a look so deep, so intense, Lucy’s whole body came alive with tingling. The narrow space between their bodies crackled with electricity, and when his hand shot out to cup her face, the shock sparked to the soles of her feet. “God, Lucy,” he said roughly. “You can’t know how I’ve wanted you.”
“Can’t I?” She slid closer to him, until her nipples just grazed his chest. “Tell me,” she whispered, gliding her hand down his muscled back and over the taut swell of his buttocks.
He shuddered as she gently squeezed. “Not enough words.” His hand slid around to fist in her hair, and he angled her head back to trail hot kisses along her neck. “I would need more than several,” he murmured, his tongue weaving a wicked path downward. “Thousands might not be enough.”
“Then show me.” Lucy hooked her leg over his, tightened her grip on his backside, and rolled onto her back, pulling him with her. He settled between her legs, grinding his hard, pulsing heat against her mound. Pleasure echoed through her as she arched against him, and their moans mingled in an urgent kiss.
He rested his forehead against hers. “Lucy, I can’t—” His breath rushed over her face, hot and thick, like steam. He swallowed hard. She could feel him there, pressing against her entrance. Poised to make her his.
“There is no going back from this,” he said, his voice strained. “If it isn’t … If you aren’t …” He nudged closer still, sliding into her a bit. She ached around him. Ached for him. He gritted his teeth. “Just push me away.”
She slid her hands to his hips and pulled. “Never.”
And then he was in her, swift and sudden and strong. Filling her, stretching her.
He stayed there, motionless, atop her. In her. His chest struggling against hers as they each fought for breath.
“You aren’t hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Should I be?”
“I … I don’t know.”
This admission sent Lucy into a bit of a panic. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” she asked, pushing on his shoulders until he rose up to meet her eyes. “You said you were a rake! Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve—”
“Of course it’s not.” Jeremy clenched his jaw. “But I’ve never bedded a virgin before. And I had been given to understand it’s painful.” Lucy regarded him quizzically. “For the woman,” he clarified.
“Oh.” Lucy closed her eyes and fell quiet, assessing. Sifting through the myriad overwhelming sensations to judge if any qualified as pain. As if they sensed themselves the su
bject of enquiry, her intimate muscles tightened around him. He groaned.
“I’m not hurt,” she said. “I feel …”
He sucked in a ragged breath. “You feel what?”
“That’s all.” She opened her eyes. “I feel.” She uncurled her fingers from around his arms and skimmed them up to his neck. “I feel you.”
He rocked against her gently. Exquisite pleasure washed through her body. Yes, she felt him. And he felt like heaven.
He withdrew slightly and thrust into her again, deeper this time. Into the very heart of her. She clutched his neck and cried out against his ear.
His whole body went rigid, and Lucy wondered for a moment if she’d done something wrong. Then Jeremy looked down at her, his gaze searching and anxious, and a sharp stab of emotion caught Lucy in the chest. It hurt him, she realized. It hurt him to think he’d hurt her. “No pain,” she assured him between panting breaths. “Only you.”
He held her tightly, tenderly, while her body learned to accommodate his, resting his forehead against her brow and dropping a light kiss on her cheek. And when he gently withdrew and thrust again, Lucy closed her lips over her cry, sealing it into a moan. Again and again he stroked into her. She buried her face against his shoulder and felt the sweet ache building once more.
He moved faster and harder, and she began to move with him, arching into each stroke with a gasp of delight. Her fingers sank into his shoulders. She heard a loud moan. It was probably hers, but he made no reproach. They were both past caring. She felt it starting again—that wondrous flood of pleasure that welled up from deep inside her, welled up from him. His breathing grew rough. His thrusts rougher, too. Until the dam broke and the flood took her and they drowned together in bliss.
He collapsed onto her, sinking her into the bed with his weight. They floated there together, simply breathing. And Lucy tried to collect the pieces of her body, scattered like branches after a storm. One leg she found twined around his. A few fingers she located tangled in his hair.
And just when she began to believe that she was all still there, if somewhat rearranged, another flood began. This one didn’t start from her womb, or from him. It began in her heart. A strange and powerful deluge of emotion burst forth and filled every inch of her body, until she trembled with the terrible task of containing it. And it wouldn’t stop. It only kept coming. There was no reprieve. It flowed in great rivers out to her limbs and pounded in waves through her still-quivering core. It swelled her lips and thundered in her ears and welled up in her eyes. And it was too much to hold, impossible to dam.
It spilled over into her soul.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Oh, I hate you!”
Sophia bent over Lucy’s betrothal ring, wearing an expression of fascinated envy. “You just have to stay one step ahead of me, don’t you?” she asked, flinging away Lucy’s hand.
Lucy remained seated at the dressing table, watching Sophia’s reflection pace back and forth in the mirror. Above her, Sophia’s lady’s maid muttered violent threats around a mouthful of hairpins. Lucy’s curls, like her thoughts, were particularly unruly this morning. The diminutive French maid was undaunted. She attacked with Gallic determination, yanking and twisting the chestnut locks into an elaborately coiled coiffure for the wedding.
The wedding. Lucy’s scalp prickled at the thought. Her wedding.
“First,” Sophia ticked off on her fingers, “you’re miles ahead of me in kisses. Then I get engaged in the garden, in perfectly scandalous fashion. One would think I’d have the advantage of you there for at least a solid hour, but no. Ten minutes later, you get engaged in the garden. You’re about to get married before my father’s even granted his consent. And now you’ve even beaten me to the ring. I shan’t have mine until Toby can retrieve it from Surrey. And even then, it won’t be half so fine.”
Lucy smiled at her friend’s pouting tirade. “Must I remind you,” she asked, “that I would not be engaged or getting married or wearing a betrothal ring at all, had you not invented that ridiculous letter?”
“It was your idea.” Sophia paused at the window and leaned against the glass in a petulant pose. “And don’t sound so put out. I did you a grand favor.” She toyed with the tassel of the amber-colored drapes. “You’re disgustingly happy; don’t try to pretend otherwise.”
“Very well,” said Lucy. “I shan’t.” She picked up one of her mother’s opal earrings from the dressing table and smiled at her reflection as she secured it in place, remembering the delicious sensation of Jeremy’s teeth nipping her ear. Her nipples hardened instantly, straining against the ivory silk of her bodice.
Had it truly been only a few hours since she’d left his bed? Already it felt like weeks. God, she missed him. Even worse than she had the evening before, after two unending days. Just thinking of him, she felt a dull ache cinch in her breast. And a hollow warmth kindle between her thighs. Fleeting memories teased through her mind, like flickers of firelight in the dark. His hand on her breast. His tongue in her ear.
“Just look at you,” Sophia said. “You’re so happy, you’re blushing bright pink with it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you taken with fever.”
Lucy pulled a face and pressed a hand to her forehead in feigned agony.
“And,” Sophia continued, sweeping back across the room to stand behind her, “Lord help us all, it must be catching.” She locked gazes with Lucy in the mirrored reflection. A reluctant smile played across her face. “I’m even happy for you.”
The maid jabbed the last hairpin into Lucy’s upswept locks. Lucy stood up and twirled slowly for Sophia’s appraisal.
“You do look lovely,” Sophia said, standing back to judge the effect. “The ivory suits your coloring handsomely. And it fits like a dream. One would hardly know the gown is made over.”
Lucy went to the full-length mirror and surveyed her reflection. Ivory silk clung to her body like a second skin, the bodice scooping to reveal more than a hint of cleavage. The skirt fell from an empire waist, skimming the curve of her hips before draping in a smooth column to the floor. Opals dangled from her ears, and jewels flashed from her fingers. Her hair was heaped and coiled in a classical Grecian style and wound with silk ribbon. The wisps that hung loose were not wayward stragglers, but carefully styled curls designed to lure the eye down the gentle slope of her neck.
“Just think,” Sophia said. “In a few hours, you’ll be a countess.”
Lucy watched her reflection blanch. A countess. Her? The words “Lucy” and “countess” just didn’t seem to belong in the same breath. They scarcely seemed to belong in the same room. Lucy suddenly realized she’d never even met an actual countess. How in the world could she become one? Her heart began to pound against her stays, and she felt the urge to run for her wardrobe and hide.
But she couldn’t hide from him there.
She steadied herself and took a deep breath, scrutinizing her reflection anew. The same steady green eyes looked out from a heart-shaped face, framed by sweeping cheekbones below and dark brows above. Her olive skin flushed rosy pink, and when she smiled, her teeth gleamed in a straight row. She was still Lucy after all.
And even in her mother’s earrings and a borrowed gown, she felt, for the first time in her life, as though the beauty belonged to her. She stopped worrying that she might teeter in the heeled slippers or trip on the heavy, satin-lined skirt. Her center of balance had shifted somehow. Her hoyden’s frame was still sturdy beneath the silk, but stronger than yesterday. Shored up with kisses and bolstered by passion. Strong enough to carry the formidable burden of elegance.
It still terrified her, this notion of becoming a countess. But Lucy thought she just might be able to manage it, so long as she was his countess.
“It’s as though that dress were designed for you,” Sophia said.
“I’m fortunate that Marianne’s proportions are so similar to my own.”
“You’re fortunate in general.” Sophia’s voice
grew wistful.
Lucy regarded her friend, feeling a slight pang of guilt. All of Waltham Manor had spent the past two days readying itself for this impromptu ceremony. Any celebration of Sophia’s engagement had been lost in the bustle of wedding preparations. And she’d been so absorbed in her own thoughts, Lucy had scarcely spoken with her friend. Their last true conversation had taken place over a bottle of very good claret.
“Aren’t you happy, too?” Lucy asked.
Sophia’s mouth quirked. “I expect I am.”
“You certainly got your moment of passion, didn’t you?” Lucy arched an eyebrow and grabbed Sophia’s wrist playfully. “Bare-chested passion, no less. Even Gervais would be hard-pressed to top that.”
Sophia bit her lip and smiled. “Oh, yes. A passionate moment, indeed.” She pulled her wrist from Lucy’s grip and hugged her arms across her chest. Her brow creased. “It’s just …”
Lucy paused a long moment before prompting, “What?”
“Toby adores me. Worships me, even. He goes on and on about it.”
“And that’s bad?”
“I know, I know. It seems ridiculous to complain about being the object of such ardent devotion.” She walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. “And I suppose I don’t mind hearing I’m beautiful. But when he starts composing odes to my purity and perfection, I don’t even recognize the woman he’s describing. I’m not at all certain it’s me. If he truly knew what I’m like, inside …” She gave Lucy an ironic smile. “Beauty goes no deeper than a reflection.”
Lucy rose from the dressing table and perched carefully next to Sophia on the bed. Ivory silk settled around her like a cloud. “But that’s the wonder of it, don’t you think? That he sees qualities deep inside you—hidden, beautiful things you didn’t know were there.”
Like passion, she thought. And tenderness. The grace to carry off silk and jewels. And that perfectly wondrous pleasure he’d shown her last night. The one he’d given her three different times, and for which she’d teased from him three different names—one of them even in French. Now those were the sort of vocabulary lessons a girl could enjoy. Perhaps she might make an accomplished lady yet. She sighed languidly.
