And yet…
Here they were, in the shade of the woods, away from the house and all the staid, strict rules it upheld. At her urging, he’d been open with her, confessing his desire. In this liminal space, for this brief moment, they could be fully themselves. From her own experience, and from communication with other governesses, she knew that men of the family often leveraged their power to force themselves on their female staff. Owen had done none of this, even as he wrestled with his attraction to her.
She could repay his trustworthiness and honesty with her own.
“I noticed you,” she said breathlessly, “your first winter home from Oxford. I had…thoughts, desires I shouldn’t have. That didn’t stop me from wishing and wanting. I did then. I do now.”
His thick, dark eyebrows rose. Clearly, her revelation surprised him, but she was equally stunned at her own candor.
She swayed closer, and as he did so too, the distance between them narrowed to inches until the heat of his skin pervaded her. His mouth was tempting, and she could not look away.
“If you wish,” she went on, still struggling to take in air, “for the next few moments, these woods will be our classroom.”
“What will you teach me?” His gaze went dark, and his shyness dropped away.
“The fine art of kissing.”
Chapter Two
His lips parted, and his eyes widened.
“I say,” Mr. Fernham called. “Your Grace! Dash it, where is he?”
Owen looked toward where the estate manager’s voice had sounded, then held out his hand to her. She threaded her fingers with his and together they wove deeper into the forest.
A massive oak offered refuge, with a hollow in the base of its wide trunk. She stepped into its shelter with Owen, thick roots spreading around their feet like jungle serpents.
He faced her, color darkening his cheeks. Then his lids lowered, and he said hoarsely, “Tell me what I need to do.”
The simplicity of that request, combined with his deep, rumbling voice, arrowed between Cecilia’s legs, centering in her quim.
“Put your hand on my waist,” she murmured.
In silent agreement, they stepped nearer until there was no space between them. Her breasts brushed against his chest. His torso was hard as iron, making her bite back a moan at the sensation. There was so much strength and vitality within him—he all but radiated with it.
He obliged, and despite her gown and stays and shift, the heat of him pierced her skin delectably. “Cup your other hand against the back of my head.”
His broad palm cradled her, rubbing the strands of her hair, holding her as though she were the most extraordinary creature that ever existed. She slid her arms around his shoulders.
Their breath mingled, humid and eager. The world was so small now, containing them alone and existing only in the minute space between their lips. Her pulse raced as he simply held her. She was balanced on the edge of madness. Once this line was crossed, there would be no going back. There was nothing to blame but her own need, yet she could not stop herself from lifting on her toes, bringing her mouth to his.
Arousal climbed higher as he made a low sound of pleasure—it was the sound a man might make when a long-cherished dream became reality.
“Put your lips on mine,” she whispered. “But take your time. Go slow. Learn and discover.”
He rubbed his mouth against hers, but soon grew bolder as the exploration shifted into a kiss. It took less than a heartbeat for him to learn what she liked and how she liked it, his need eclipsing any uncertainty he might have had. They drew on each other as their mouths opened, and she touched her tongue to his. He seemed to understand her cue, slicking his own tongue into her. With each stroke, sensation echoed in her breasts and between her legs.
“For a novice,” she gasped between kisses, “you’re exceptionally talented.”
His smile flashed, both shy and proud.
“Surely you’ve practiced,” she whispered.
Beneath her hands, his shoulders lifted. “The practice was only to make certain I got this right. I want—” His jaw tightened.
“Tell me what you want,” she urged.
“To touch you.” He brought his hand up from her waist to hover above the underside of her breast. “Been aching to know what you feel like.”
“No need to imagine.” She reached down and pressed his palm against her. Long fingers almost completely covered her breast.
He gave another growl and closed his eyes. A shudder moved along his body, resounding in hers. “God, yes.”
“Stroke me,” she breathed. “My nipple…pinch it.”
When he did as she said, the pleasure was so acute, her knees buckled. But he held her snug against him, supporting her.
“Put your thigh between my legs,” she breathed. “Rub against my mound—it’s where I need you most.”
He rumbled as he did so, lodging between her legs and creating impeccable friction.
Instinct seemed to guide him as he bent his head and kissed her again, the stroke of his tongue timed with flicking and pinching her nipple. She gripped his shoulders hard, determined to keep herself upright. It was all she could do to keep from grinding on his thigh in a frantic attempt to soothe the ache building there.
“Tell me,” she gasped, “what you need. I want to hear it.”
“Words are…difficult.” His breath sawed in and out.
“Then show me.”
There was a brief pause, and then he took one of her hands and dragged it down his torso. She luxuriated in the feel of him, his body solid and hard beneath his clothing, taut with power. He kept going, taking her hand along his abdomen, then lower, to the straining length of his cock. At the touch of her hand on him, they both hissed in pleasure. Gently, she squeezed his shaft, and the cords of his neck stood out as he threw back his head to groan.
“Know what I was thinking when I saw you bathing in the pond?” she murmured.
“I’ve wanted to be inside your head for years,” he said shakily.
“Nothing but admiration,” she whispered against his lips. “Especially for this.” She stroked him through his breeches. “What are you doing with such a marvelous cock?”
“It’s been waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for you.”
His words were far too intimate, as though they were more than two bodies seeking pleasure—there was no room for anything beyond this moment. Lust was less complicated, less dangerous. So she gripped his shaft, caressing him, reveling in his sounds of ecstasy.
“Is this better than your own hand?” she asked throatily.
“Much better than anything I’ve ever dreamt,” he said in a low, rough voice.
As she stroked him, he moved his thigh to again rub against her quim. The first golden filaments of release began to gather, and she surged toward them. It had been so long since anyone other than herself had made her come—yet she knew that the release would be all the greater, more devastating, because he was the one bringing her over the edge, and she had wanted him for so long.
There were several sets of footsteps nearby, and the rustling of leaves. Damned Mr. Fernham was still searching, and now he had someone with him.