by Sara Reinke
* * * *
He led her from the terrace and to the gardens beyond. They hurried together, stealing in the shadows along the side of the house until they came to the stables. They could hear the sounds of servants and coachmen enjoying revelry of their own as they gathered around fires, with pipes and pints in hand, laughing raucously and loudly. Charlotte and Kenley hunkered together against the wall of the barn and ducked inside, scurrying in the loosely strewn straw covering the floor. The horses snuffled and whinnied softly as the unfamiliar figures darted past.
Charlotte followed Kenley to a ladder at the far end of the barn, and she climbed first, with him behind her. They ascended to the hayloft; here were the accommodations for the household stable staff. The small cots, tables, and chairs were all vacant, the loft empty.
Charlotte turned and Kenley was there, pressed against her, kissing her. Her mouth opened reflexively to meet his, to greet his tongue with her own, to welcome him into her. They stumbled together across the loft, and he closed his hand against her breast again, teasing her with the firm motions of his hand. He kissed her without allowing her a moment to reclaim her breath. She backed into a table, nearly knocking it over, and they stood tangled together, kissing.
Kenley turned her around, his hands against her shoulders. “Put your hands on the table,” he whispered against her ear. “Lean forward.”
“What?” Charlotte whispered, glancing at him, wide-eyed and anxious of being discovered, of what he meant to do to her. Yet at the same time, she found herself seized with a tremulous excitement, an insistent and desperate need for him, and she could feel it shuddering within her, some sort of wondrous energy straining for release.
Kenley cradled her chin in his hand and tilted her head back to kiss her. “Put your hands on the table,” he breathed again, and she did. “Good,” he whispered, little more than a resonant rumble in his throat; the sound made her shiver with anticipation. “Lean forward, Charlotte.”
Charlotte folded herself over the table. He leaned over, crumpling her pannier frame inward, and kissed the back of her neck, following the slope of her shoulder.
She felt him hook his fingers against her box pleats and skirts, gathering them in his fists and lifting them, raising them over her pannier.
Charlotte stiffened reflexively, anxiously. Her eyes darted over her shoulder again, her breath stilling with sudden, confused alarm. “I… I have… Kenley, I have never done this…” she whispered, trembling.
He leaned toward her, his mouth, his breath against her ear. “I know,” he whispered, his lips dancing against the side of her ear. “And you will not tonight, either. Not here. Not yet. Trust me, Charlotte.”
I do, she thought. No matter what James had said, she trusted him. She could not explain it anymore than she could explain this sudden, relentless eagerness suffocating her form. She relaxed, turning her head again, looking down at the table, her breath fluttering from her throat. I trust you, Kenley.
She felt his fingers delve between her legs and she tensed again, gasping in start. The gentle prodding stoked something deep and primal within her, however; something she had never felt before, stirring within the very core of her form. She felt sudden, warm moisture flood between her thighs, and she trembled with fright, confusion, and anticipation. Again his voice calmed her, mesmerized her, sounding softly and deliberately against her ear. “I will not hurt you,” he said and when his fingertips slipped against the warm, moist folds of her tender flesh, she gasped softly. “Trust me.”
His hand moved slowly, exploring her measure by measure, sliding against the velveteen warmth. His fingertips pressed against somewhere of particular tenderness, and when they settled here, moving slowly at first, grinding deliberate, gentle circles, Charlotte moaned. As his fingers moved faster, marking a wondrous rhythm against her, she grew breathless. Charlotte hooked her fingers into the tabletop and closed her eyes, moving with him as he stroked her nearly to reeling.
All at once, his hand shifted backward, and his fingers slid easily, deeply inside of her, driving her to some tremendous crescendo. She had never felt anything like it in her life; Charlotte moaned, gasping for breath.
Kenley stood so near, she could feel his arousal through his breeches, hard and warm, straining against the fabric, pressing with firm promise against her thighs. She moved against his hand, savoring this, needing this—wanting more. Wanting the hardened portions of him she could feel against her from behind.
“Not yet,” she whimpered. She wanted him inside of her; more than his hand, she wanted all of him. She wanted his full measure deep within her, where his fingers thrust now. She was not frightened anymore; this was too wonderful to be frightening.
“Yes, yet,” he breathed against her ear, his hand stroking a dizzying, pounding rhythm into her. She trembled as she felt it swell upon her, some enormous, shuddering pleasure. “Yes, yet,” he whispered again. “Yes, Charlotte, now.”
She jerked against him, crying out in sudden, exquisite release as he moved her beyond anything she might have ever imagined, hoped, or dreamed possible.
When it waned, she was left gasping and trembling, her knees failing her, her entire body shuddering. She crumpled back against him, and he cradled her in his arms, kissing her ear, her cheek, her throat.
He had brought her to heretofore-unknown pleasure; but when she had pleaded with him, begged him to take her, claim her, he had refused. Did I do something wrong? she worried in dismay. Why had he not wanted me?
She was virginal; the claiming of a young woman’s virtues was something men boasted about, bragged among one another over, and yet Kenley had left her intact. Why?
She did not understand; she closed her eyes and damned herself for her innocence and inexperience.
She had stiffened against him without realizing it, but Kenley noticed. He turned her slowly, gently toward him and drew her near. She trembled against him, her breath fluttering, and he kissed her lips. The urgency of his mouth was replaced all at once by tenderness, as though he recognized her uncertainties.
“You do not know,” he said, his voice breathless with need. “You do not know how much I want you, Charlotte, or how much of a struggle you just saw me through.”
She blinked up at him, further confused. Why, then? she wanted to ask him, but she could not summon her voice. Why did you not?
“I will make love to you,” he whispered in promise. “If you want me… whenever you want me, Charlotte, as much as you need me, I will make love to you. But for the first… not here. Not yet. Not like this.”
She looked into his eyes. I do want you, she wanted to whisper. I want you here, Kenley, now. I want you to make love to me. I do not care about your secrets. I want you, Kenley. I love you.
