But she seemed to know enough for both of them. She took his hand and placed it where she wanted it, “Stroke me there,” she murmured, widening her thighs apart.
It felt sacramental, to touch her in this hidden place. He let her guide his fingers, showing him how to touch her. She trembled in his arms.
His touch had made her tremble.
He felt like he was falling, sinking, dying. He wanted to bathe in her. To put his mouth to her cunt and drink her.
She reached up for his lips and kissed him. She still tasted like the apple tart. He spread his fingers through her warmth and swirled her desire all across her flesh, hoping to make her tremble again. “Is this right?” he whispered. “How does it feel?”
“It feels like you, Henry,” she whispered.
“Is that good?”
“Yes. Oh, yes, I love your hands.” Her voice was soft and breathy. She was rubbing her womanhood against his palm, rocking her hips, mewling a bit at each new brush of herself against his fingers, and it was making him so hard he thought he might die from lust.
She put one hand over his, guiding him again. “Inside me,” she whispered. His fingers met a silky, narrow passage and suddenly he understood what it might feel like to be joined with her. Why men might risk disease and ignominy and hell to sink themselves into such hot, sweet lovely places. Why they might be mad enough to do it on the street.
He knew about burning. But this was different. This was immolation.
“You feel like heaven itself,” he whispered. Her lips fell on his neck and her gasps quickened, and then she was sucking on him, biting him, thrusting her hips in frantic time as his fingers slid against her, in and out, and his thumb caressed the swollen flesh that made her cry out when he touched it. She was almost dancing, undulating against his body, using him for pleasure.
“Use me,” he whispered. “Oh, yes, please, use me.”
She threw back her head and made a sound that was half his name, half rapture. Her flesh pulsed with pleasure beneath his hand, and his groin throbbed in time with it.
She sank back, collapsing onto him as though he was a fainting couch. “Oh, your body feels so good, after all this time of wanting it.”
“You’ve wanted this?” he asked, tracing his fingers over her soft skin, marveling in the delicacy of another person’s body. He felt it must be some other, better man experiencing the beauty of her breasts in the moonlight, the impossible sweetness of her navel, the harrowing vulnerability of the little mole over her ribcage—for he did not deserve this.
She was perfect. He had never seen such a lovely sight in all his life.
She snuggled back against him, letting him hold her, explore her, kiss her. Before, she’d been taut as a spring, but now she was limpid and sultry.
“Will you undress for me?” she whispered. “I want to feel your skin.”
He pulled off his shirt and breeches and dropped them on the floor. No woman had ever looked on his nude form, and he was certain she would not like it—all that bulk from his exercise regime, the red hair along his chest that went fiery around his manhood, the rude way his cock jutted toward the ceiling, a long thread of his excited moisture dripping. It was an insult to her that this was all he had to give, when she was such a delicacy.
And yet, she smiled as her eyes raked up and down his body. She looked at him like she had the apple tart. It made him emotional, that anyone—that she—would look at him like that.
It felt like being loved.
She reached out, beckoning him closer. “You are a treasure. Get in this bed so I can feel you.”
He slid beneath the sheets and she took him in her arms and his cock began to pulse in that ungentlemanly way he had so dreaded in the mill. But now, he was not embarrassed. He wanted her to feel it. He wanted to drag it against her. He wanted her to feel the magnitude of his desire for her.
She gripped the head of his cock in her small fist. “Henry,” she uttered breathily, running her hand up and down its length.
He groaned. He loved the way it felt but he still flinched at her knowing the dimensions of it, which had earned him mockery in his school days.
“I’m sorry, I know it’s coarse.”
“Coarse?” She laughed softly. “My dear, on Charlotte Street you could command a pretty penny for such coarse stature.”
She continued running her hands over it, in a way that made him almost want to cry.
“You don’t mind?,” he asked, sucking in his breath as she increased the pressure of her wanderings.
“I am grateful to the Lord who made you,” she whispered, gripping him more firmly, and he felt his eyes might fall from the sockets from the sensation.
She ran her finger over the wet knob, smearing his lust around his cockhead. “Does it always weep so much?”
“Sometimes, Alice, I just look at you and it begins to happen. It was happening that day in the whipping house. When you gave me the tour. I was worried I might …”
He could not complete the thought, because she smeared the hot drips all around his organ with her thumb, coating him in his own desire. It felt so good he could not stop himself from moaning, from moving his hips in time with her strokes.
“You’re dying for this, aren’t you?” she asked in a tender voice.
“Yes,” he whispered, exulting in the feeling. He bucked forward, his body chasing the sensation, wanting more and more and more.
“Me too. I was imagining this in the mill,” Alice whispered. “I could feel how big you were and how much you wanted me and I was in agony. I wanted to roll over and take you in my mouth.”
“In your mouth?” he breathed. He knew that this was done but had never imagined it might be done to him. And yet now that she had said it all he could think about was the way she might look between his legs, licking the excitement from his erection.
“Would you like that?” she murmured. Her mouth was behind his ear, and her warm breath sent a shiver through him.
“Please,” he said into her shoulder. “Please.”
She shifted and knelt over him, placing her lips level with his swollen manhood. She breathed lightly on the tip, then licked away his ooze with her tongue.
He was so shocked by the heat of her mouth that he could not even pause to wonder if this was some especially grievous sin. The sensation made him think in scripture.
Draw me after you; let us run. The king has brought me into his chambers.
It felt rapturous, like prayer.
She paused. “Is that all right, Henry?”
He tried to say yes but it came out as more of a strangled, pleading cry, and at the desperation in it she returned her mouth to his erection and began to stroke his bollocks with her fingers as she sucked and swirled him with her tongue.
His hips jutted forward to get more of that wet heat, and he was horrified at his own cheek, but before he could apologize she took him deep into the back of her throat, and he couldn’t think, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe.
He began to spill.
The throes of it were so intense he could do nothing but shake as wave after wave wracked through him. He expected Alice to dodge out of the way of the streams of his emission but instead, to his shock, she kept him in her mouth and drank his seed.
“There now,” she said, when he’d come back to himself, and she’d wiped off her mouth and come to snuggle next to him in bed. “Doesn’t that feel better?”