by Lauren Royal
Joseph was finding it hard to breathe.
He knew she was innocent—he’d been the first man to kiss her, for heaven’s sake. But did she have to be so innocently seductive? How was he supposed to resist her when she was shucking clothing left and right?
He felt movement beside him and figured she was rolling down her stockings. Picturing that wasn’t helping his breathing any.
“Oh, that feels so much better.” He could hear the smile in her voice and imagined her wiggling her toes. He’d never seen her toes, and he couldn’t see them now, but he envisioned them all pink and pretty and stopped breathing altogether.
“Let me help you with your shoes,” she whispered.
Not sure he could stand her help, he leaned over and tugged them off before she had a chance. His stockings followed. He finally blew out a breath.
Her soft chuckle made him wonder if she knew what she was doing to him.
Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as he’d thought.
When he straightened again, she leaned close and managed to find his lips with hers. Her mouth was so sweet, it took all he had to keep from tearing her gown off then and there. He was tired of fighting with himself. Forgetting that they shouldn’t be lying horizontal together, he found himself drawing her down to the pallet again.
Or maybe she drew him down. He wasn’t sure.
And lost in the moment, in the pleasure of her mouth on his, he didn’t care.
TWENTY-THREE
CHRYSTABEL COULDN’T believe she was in bed with the love of her life.
Well, on a bed, as he kept pointing out. And the bed wasn’t really a bed. Regardless, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.
Joseph was softly kissing her. One of his fingertips had found the bare skin at the base of her neck and was tracing a pattern there, sending tendrils of sensation everywhere. Exhilaration thrummed through her, making her feel warm all over.
Actually, warm was a weak word for what she was feeling. She burned for more.
She burned for everything.
It had all happened so fast. In mere days she’d gone from not knowing him to wanting him to learning he belonged to another, and now, miraculously, he was hers. Now she wanted him in a different way, with a fierceness she’d never even imagined.
More than three weeks. It seemed like forever. She pressed closer, parting her lips, trying to coax him into more than these soft, dreamy kisses.
Joseph pulled back. His fingers on the nape of her neck stopped moving. ”Oh, Chrysanthemum,” he whispered, but the whisper sounded more like a groan. She worried for a moment that he was upset and wondered why—but he didn’t push her away. Instead he just waited a moment.
Their breathing sounded loud in the darkness.
Then, quite suddenly, his hand curved around the nape of her neck and brought her mouth to his again.
The lips that had been soft and gentle earlier were urgent now, more fervent. He kissed her until she felt breathless, senseless, then his mouth trailed down to play in the sensitive hollow of her throat.
His lips felt so good against her skin. His tongue drew warm circles on her flesh, moving lower, delving closer to the cleavage revealed by the low neckline of her Christmas Day gown. Her heart raced faster as new sensations rippled through her, not only where his mouth teased her, but other places, too. An ache was building inside her, a most strange and wondrous feeling.
Wishing to make him feel the same way, she reached to unknot his cravat.
He lifted his head. “You cannot do that,” he murmured.
“I want to do to you the same things you’re doing to me.” The lace-edged fabric came untied, and she began drawing it from his neck. “This is covering places I want to kiss you. I want to make you feel—”
“You cannot.”
She stopped, stunned by the vehemence of his whisper. “Why?” she breathed.
“Because if you do,” he said very slowly, “I fear I may not be able to keep from doing more.”
Oh, was that his only problem?
Knowing he couldn’t see her, she smiled as she pulled the cravat free.
“Chrysanth—”
“Joseph.” Her mouth feeling suddenly dry, she licked her lips. Her heart pounded so loudly she feared he could hear it. “I want you.”
“You’re going to have me,” he said, his whisper sounding painfully forced. “We’re going to have each other. In three weeks.”
“It’s going to be more than three weeks, and I want you now.” As her fingers went to loosen the lacing at the top of his shirt, she realized she’d never felt like this before—like a wanton, truth be told. But then, she’d never before been in love.
She opened the placket of his shirt and put her mouth to his skin as he had to hers, tasting him, faintly salty and spicy, a heady flavor that was his alone. He smelled better than any perfume she could possibly create.
She heard him swallow hard. “Your parents would not approve of this.”
She kissed his neck and felt a tremor run through him. “My father is dead and my mother might as well be.”
“Your brother, then.”
“I care not what my brother thinks.” She kissed the top of his chest in the unlaced opening, then moved up to kiss his mouth.
“You’re truly bent on seducing me, aren’t you?” Sounding incredulous, he allowed a light kiss, but no more. “My parents wouldn’t like this, either.”
“Your mother might.”
“What? What do you mean by that?”
“What did your mother say your family motto was last night?”
She heard him sigh. “Interroga Conformationem. Question Convention.”
“Exactly. This isn’t conventional, but I think she might be all right with it.”
He was silent for a long moment, while she heard and felt his breathing getting rougher. “Well, she wouldn’t like this,” he finally said, yanking her against him and kissing her again, harder than ever before.
She was shocked for a bare moment but then let herself slide into the demanding caress. He plundered her mouth, tasting of warm chocolate and Joseph. When at last he let her go, she found herself trembling with uncontrolled desire.
“Your mother likes me,” she informed him shakily. “Your parents are going to be happy we’re betrothed. So why can’t we question convention? We’re going to be married anyway, so why should we have to wait? We’ll be wed in a few weeks, but I want you now.”
“If you say that enough times, I might begin to believe you.”
He’d made it sound like a threat. “How many more times?” she wondered. “A dozen? I want you now, I want you now, I want—”
He silenced her with another kiss, a kiss so fierce she wondered if perhaps he’d given in.
But then he drew back and was silent again.
It was a different kind of silence. She couldn’t see him, but she could tell. He was fighting with himself, she was sure of it.
“I cannot do this,” he said at last, his whisper sounding forced. “Not before we’re married. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Are you a virgin, then?” she whispered.
She thought she heard him choke. “My impulsive, impertinent Chrystabel. Is there no question you’re unwilling to ask?”
“No,” she said shortly. “Are you one, then? Have you never…”
“I have,” he admitted on a sigh.
She’d known that, of course, because he wasn’t at all nervous like she was. Unlike her, he knew exactly what he was doing in—on—this bed. His hesitance had nothing to do with a lack of confidence and everything to do with a moral dilemma.
His answer hadn’t surprised her.
“Thank you for answering my question honestly,” she told him.
“But those other times were different.”
He’d whispered that so softly she’d barely heard him.
“Let me guess,” she returned dryly. “Because she wasn’t a lady?”
/> “None of them were ladies.”
None of them? “Them?”
Now he’d surprised her.
“How many—”
“Oh, Chrysanthemum,” he interrupted, “none of them mattered. None of them made me feel anything like you do. Not anywhere even close. Forget them. Just forget them, please. Don’t make me sorry I was honest.”
She was still catching her breath. It took her a moment to respond, a moment to absorb the fact that she was far from his first.
“Are you done with them?” she finally asked in a tiny whisper.
“I’m done with them.” He sounded desperate, but also desperately truthful. “I was done with the last one before I met you. Weeks before I met you. I am so, so done with them—”
“They why aren’t you willing to bed me?” she burst out.
“Because—”
“Oh, I don’t want to hear it,” she cried, cutting him off. “You’re a hypocrite, do you know that? I’m no better than those other girls. You and I are going to marry, so what does it matter? You’re not a virgin, and I don’t want to be one anymore. Please, Joseph, put me out of my misery.”
“What?” He sounded completely nonplussed. “What misery?”
“The anticipation is killing me.” If he could be honest, then so could she. “Martha and Cecily—my older sisters, my married sisters—both told me the first time would hurt. I want to get that over with. I want to come to you on our wedding night free of this worry. After saying our vows, I want to come to you with no reservations. I want to come to you with only joy.”
He was silent for so long, she began to wonder if he’d fallen asleep.
Then slowly his fingers moved to unfasten her stomacher.
Her heart soared. She’d won.
She wanted this. She burned for him. And she truly did want her first time to be over and done.
“Are you certain?” he asked, his whisper low and earnest, his fingers fumbling on the stomacher’s tabs in the darkness. His hands fell away. “I’m undressing you, and you’re not stopping me.”
“Yes, I’m certain. I’m not stopping you.” She found his hands and brought them back to the stiff, embroidered garment. “I’m not.”
His hands didn’t move, just rested lightly against her front. Her pulse skittered. Beneath his fingertips, her breasts felt firm and overly sensitive.
A silence stretched between them. When he spoke again, his voice was even lower, more serious. “You do know what you’re asking?”
She began to nod, then stopped since he couldn’t see her. “I know exactly what I’m asking. I want you to make me yours. I want you to rip my gown off,” she clarified, echoing his words from earlier.
Immediately, he made a little sound of capitulation.
The next thing she knew, she found herself locked in his arms, and he had his lips pressed tightly to her forehead in a caress so cherishing it made her heart twist painfully in her chest.
After a minute he pulled back, and his fingers returned to her stomacher, less tentative this time.
Her own fingers fluttered up to unbutton his waistcoat. The stiff stomacher made a soft plop as he dropped it to the stone floor. She pushed his waistcoat back over his shoulders and off of him, then dropped it to the floor as well.
She really had won, she thought, her breath catching in her throat.
Beneath where the stomacher had been, Chrystabel was laced tightly into her bodice. Joseph untied the bow, then went to work on the laces. “You’re sure?”
Why was he still asking? Hadn’t she made herself clear? Hadn’t she, a rather bold girl, been bolder than ever before?
“I’m sure,” she breathed. She couldn’t let him back down now.
Remembering her sisters’ warning, she was nervous. But feeling Joseph’s hands on her, she was also excited. And the excitement overwhelmed her worry.
Every single bit of it.
Suddenly feeling frantic, she reached out to free his voluminous shirt from where it was tucked into his breeches. All she wanted, it seemed, was to feel his skin against her own. He seemed covered with so much fabric. Yards and yards of frothy fabric, all standing in her way.
With a pained chuckle he pushed her hands away. When he seemed to be struggling on the bed, it took her a moment to realize he was drawing the shirt off over his head. She imagined all of his warm, tempting skin being revealed and wished mightily that she could see it.
She couldn’t. But she could touch him. She reached out, running her hands up his bare chest, feeling the taut skin and the muscles underneath.
It wasn’t enough. With a tiny moan of pleasure, she shifted toward him and spread her bodice wide. A soft gasp escaped his lips as she pressed herself against him, the gossamer material of her chemise the only barrier between them.
He felt so good. Her heart beat faster. Her breathing became strangely uneven.
“Now?” she whispered.
“Not yet,” Joseph said, pulling away from her a little. His fingers brushed a breast through the thin fabric of her chemise, and she felt the peak tighten into hard tenderness. Her body arched toward him involuntarily, her breath becoming even more ragged.
“Oh, Chrysanthemum,” he breathed. “I cannot wait. Can you wait?”
“I cannot wait,” she echoed in a whisper. “Now?”
“Not yet.”
Pulling away from her again, he wrestled the heavy bulk of her double-skirted gown over her head. It joined the rest of their clothes on the floor, leaving her clad in only the chemise. She lay there, shivering, not with cold but with anticipation.
“I wish I could see you,” he whispered.
“Feel me,” she invited instead.
And he did. She held her breath while, with whisper-soft caresses, his hands skimmed leisurely over her middle, then traced the curve of her hip. He brushed her mouth with his as his fingers teased lightly through the fabric, then more firmly, tracing the crease where her thighs met.
A heat spread from his hand, bathing her in warmth. She moaned softly and felt Joseph smile against her lips. Before she knew what was happening, he'd tugged down her chemise and fastened his hot mouth on her bare breast, suckling gently, stroking his textured tongue over the sensitive peak.
She’d imagined kissing and mating, but she’d never imagined anything like this. Good heavens, it was indescribable. He wandered to her other breast, his mouth hot there while the air cooled the wetness he'd left behind. Driven to distraction with new sensations, she writhed against him. Her breath came in short gasps; her hands roamed the hard planes of his back. She was acting wantonly again, but she couldn't seem to help herself.
She didn't want to help herself.
And while she was pondering the wonder of it all, he swept off her chemise.
Leaving her bare.
She’d sometimes wondered if she might feel shy or embarrassed in this moment, but in the darkness she felt gloriously free. She pressed against him once more, feeling the ache inside her spread.
“Now?” she whispered again.
“Not yet.”
“Oh, my God, when?” she gasped, and he caught that gasp in his mouth, reclaiming her lips in a devouring caress. While she was distracted by that, he slipped his hand between her legs and parted them gently, his fingertips trailing sensuously on her inner thighs. She began to tremble. When he brushed against the curls that guarded her most secret self, she gasped again, this time in shock and fascination.
“Hush,” he whispered into her open mouth. Distracting her once more with a long, deep kiss, he slipped a finger inside her tight passageway.
Chrystabel could scarcely believe a man was touching her there, let alone moving his finger in and out of her, as he was slowly doing now. But everything with Joseph felt right. He found an exquisite spot, and waves of passion swept through her. She clutched him tighter, feeling as though her heart might burst if something, she wasn’t sure what, didn’t happen soon.
Then sudden
ly his hands left her, and she was aware of a flurry of movement. When he reached again to pull her close, she found he’d removed the rest of his clothes. His arms went around her, and they met, skin to skin, from their shoulders to their toes.
This, she thought, is bliss.
Down low she could feel a hardness, a hardness that made her blood race, a hardness that told her he wanted her as much as she craved him.
Her married sisters had told her about this, too.
“Now,” she breathed.
“Not yet, my love.” He kissed her quickly, wildly, then bent his head to trail his lips down her throat. A hot stab of lust lanced through her. And love. It was all mixed up together in her head, in her heart, in her body so aware she felt if Joseph just kissed her one more time she’d explode.
All at once she felt the sensations were more than she could bear.
“Now, Joseph. Now.”
He chuckled against her, sending low vibrations through her. “Slower is better, my love. We’ve a long way to go before—”
“Now.”
His mouth left her. “Don’t you like this?”
“I like it too much.” She couldn’t catch her breath, and her entire body sang with an awareness she’d never even imagined. “Please, Joseph, join with me now.”
Everything he was doing felt good, but she wanted it all and she wanted it now. She wanted it done. She wanted this first time over with.
She couldn’t stand a moment more of this sweet torture.
“Please.”
She held her breath, waiting while she felt him swallow hard. “Chrysanthemum—”
“Please.”
He hesitated. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure!”
“Hush. You need to keep quiet, my love. You don’t want to be caught down here, do you?”
Oh, God. She could think of nothing more embarrassing. She briefly considered calling the whole thing off, but he was kissing her again, softly, and then he began to move over her, apparently having given in.
Chrystabel’s heart pounded, excitement blending with the fear. She forgot about calling anything off. Instinctively she raised her knees. Seeming to support himself on his elbows, Joseph took her face in both hands and kissed her while he eased his way between her legs.
