He withdrew his hand, then put both on her hips and began to walk forward, pushing her backward.
“Where are we—” she began.
“The bed.”
“Sweetie—”
“You can find her as soon as you’re warm.”
“I’m warm,” she protested.
“Not warm enough.”
Her gaze met his, and her eyes darkened at whatever she saw in his face. They reached the edge of the bed, her bottom hitting the mattress. He didn’t have to ask her to slide onto it. She pushed up and onto the mattress, and he parted her legs and stepped between them. He thought he might have startled her with his forwardness, but her legs went around his waist, pulling him even closer.
His cock throbbed at the proximity to her sex. He tried to ignore the insistent urge to free himself and plunge inside her. Instead, he wrapped his hand around a section of her hair that had fallen down her back and kissed her. His other hand started a slow exploration of her body again. His mouth followed, kissing her neck and her shoulder then her collarbone. She fell back, catching herself with her elbows, and that was the perfect opportunity to kiss her rounded breasts. She made unintelligible sounds of pleasure as he took a nipple in his mouth and sucked lightly, and the sounds only became more demanding as his hand moved between them and then between her legs again.
She was already open to him, and he need only take a small step back to work a finger inside her. She was hotter and wetter than before, and he used that moisture to slide upward and find that nub hidden in her folds. He slid over it with a fingertip, coating it with dew, and Amelia cried out so loudly that he worried the servants would hear.
And then she fell back, her legs open, and he didn’t care about anything at all except making her cry out like that again. She was beautiful. Her curls were the same amber as the hair on her head, and her sex was pink and glistening. He glanced up at her face and found her eyes on his as he admired her.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. He half expected her to turn modest, and close her legs, but she bit her lip.
“Take off your clothes,” she said.
In that moment, he wanted to. He wanted to lie naked with her, exploring, kissing, taking. But he was painfully aware that he was a cripple. Painfully aware that the desire in her eyes would fade when she saw his legs. Painfully aware that he couldn’t make love to her as an able-bodied man might.
Instead of undressing, he teased her by sliding his finger in and out, then brushing that nub with his thumb. She bucked, her eyes closing in what appeared to be bliss. It wouldn’t take much to bring her to climax, but he didn’t want this to be over that soon. He wanted to make it last.
Instead of finding that nub of pleasure again, he teased her by moving closer, circling round the center of her pleasure then moving away again. Every time he inched closer, she writhed and bucked. He bent at the waist and kissed her upthrust breasts. Her hands speared into his hair, pulling his head down so he could feast on her. She seemed to relish his mouth on her, seemed to want more.
Her reaction was a revelation to him. He’d known she wouldn’t be a virgin, but he also knew she had little experience. Not to mention, she’d been secluded in the countryside caring for her father since the age of sixteen. But this was no demure country miss. This was a woman who wasn’t afraid to embrace pleasure and wring every last ounce of it.
He had to take control or lose his own completely. Gently, he pushed her back on the bed and when she protested, he silenced her by moving his mouth to the underside of her breast and then her abdomen below. He felt her tense, could almost hear her thinking, hear her wondering what he would do next.
He kissed a path to her navel then began to move lower. In his peripheral vision, he saw her hands lift then fall then lift again in uncertainty. “You’re wondering where I’ll go next,” he said, his mouth on the rise of her lower belly. “You’re wondering if I’ll do what you’ve only heard whispered about.”
He moved lower still, kissing and licking a slow path to those amber curls.
Her hands fisted in the bedclothes.
“You didn’t know whether to believe there was a man who would touch a woman with his tongue. Who would touch you with his tongue.” He kissed her curls, the soft springy hair tickling his cheek as he moved to one leg and kissed the juncture at her thigh and then the other. “You wondered if you would like it,” he whispered. He put his mouth just above her sex and looked up at her. Her dark eyes were impossibly large, saucers of chocolate.
“Shall I satisfy your curiosity?”
“Yes.” The single word had so much need behind it that he almost felt pity for her. Almost. The more she suffered now, the more she would feel in a few moments.
He lowered his mouth and laved his tongue along her seam. She would have bucked and set him off balance if he hadn’t grasped her hips and held her in place. He took his time exploring her. Her skin was petal soft and smelled faintly of the soap she used for washing, and underneath, the scent of woman. The scent of her.
He used his tongue to part her folds and tasted the slightly salty evidence of her desire for him. And then slowly, very slowly, he inched upward, closer to her clitoris, closer to where he knew she wanted him. When he tapped it with his tongue, she said his name like a prayer. “Nicholas.”
He touched her again, lightly, so very lightly, until what sounded like a sob escaped her lips. Her body was vibrating beneath his fingertips, her dawning pleasure like the crackle of lightning just before a storm. He flicked his tongue over her again then, just as she tensed for another wait, he circled her, surprising her so that her body jerked. “Yes,” she moaned, and he circled her again. “Yes.” That sounded like a plea. He circled her a third time. “Oh, yes.”
Her taut body was so tight he felt it might snap at any moment. He could have drawn this out. He could have moved away from that swollen nub and let her pleasure build. But he wanted to see her climax. He wanted to know what she would look like, what she would sound like.
And so he slid his tongue over her again and felt her soar off the cliff. He worked her then, pushed her up and up as his tongue raked over her. He lifted his eyes and saw her head was thrown back, the tips of her breasts dark cherries thrust upward. And then she broke and cried out. Her head snapped forward, and he saw her face. In that moment, he almost forgot what he was doing. She was beautiful, so beautiful. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips red and plump, her eyes wide and dark. She cried out again, her body giving a last jerk of pleasure. And then she was floating down, and he wanted so badly to climb onto the bed and pull her into his arms. She would be warm and soft and drowsy.
But it wasn’t so easy to climb into a bed, and if he tried, she would want to help him and concern would replace pleasure on her features and the moment would be lost.
To his surprise, she pushed herself up and put her arms around him. Her head rested on his chest, her legs on his hips. He pulled her close, feeling the softness of her loosened hair against his hands and the rapid staccato of her heart.
He wanted to say something. He’d never felt the need before, but she wasn’t a merry widow or an actress. This was his wife. But what to say? Some declaration of feeling seemed the thing, but he couldn’t tell her he loved her. She’d know it wasn’t true. They barely knew each other. She didn’t love him anymore than he loved her.