It smelled like him. Oh God, it smelled like him.
A bit of light flooded through the soft cloth, but she could not make out any shapes. It was not like he wasn’t there, but it at least saved her from having to look at him in her state of infernal bloody wanting.
“Is that better?”
“Maybe,” she whispered.
She felt him sit down at the end of the mattress, near her feet.
“I can’t tell you how to find pleasure. Every woman is different. But I’ll tell you what I’d do if we were lovers. And if you’d like to try yourself, you may. And we can stop at any time, and forget this ever happened.”
Sneakily, very sneakily, she shifted so that her heel touched against his hip. The contact with him sent a jolt up through her leg.
“Tell me what you would do,” she whispered, because she suspected whatever he would do, she would like. She brushed her arch against his thigh, as if by accident, and tried not to exhale at the pleasure of touching him. God, how she wanted to touch him.
“Hmm,” he said softly. His tone was not at all playful. “First I think I would touch your breasts.”
Could he read her mind?
She closed her eyes beneath his cravat and inhaled his cedary smell, and, summoning every last filament of courage in her body, actually did it. She pretended it was his hands that grazed her as she reached up over her breasts and pulled the fabric taut. “Like this?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said, except it sounded more like Mmm. “Just like that. And then I might squeeze your nipples through your nightdress, so I could just make out the pink.”
Her nipples grew firmer beneath the linen, and when she rubbed them through the cloth, it felt so tight and good that for a moment she forgot that he was watching.
She heard a heavy sigh, and felt him shift, making the slightest, slightest contact with her toe. Almost like he wanted to touch her too.
“Oh yes, just like that,” he said raggedly. “Rub them between your fingers.”
She did, and the friction of the smooth linen gown over her puckered flesh felt achy and lovely and made feelings in her stomach spark. Her breath quickened. Normally she would be horrified that he might notice and try to hide it, but with the fabric draped over her eyes, she felt strangely free. Almost like she wanted him to notice. She bit her tongue and flexed her leg, so that her heel pressed against the muscle of his thigh.
He didn’t move away.
“Yes,” he said in a voice that was not quite a sigh. And when she heard the hitch in his breathing, and knew he liked it too, a flood of distress shot down to her belly.
“Does that feel good?” he inquired.
“Yes,” she admitted. An understatement. “But I have yet to experience the death.”
He chuckled. “Sweetheart, sadly you are nowhere near the death. But don’t worry. We’ll see if we can kill you yet.”
“How?” she whispered.
“Well, what I would do is get that gown off you entirely, because I would be dying to run my hands over your skin.”
She smiled at this admission that he liked her skin. And then she imagined him actually looking at it—here, right now, in this bed—and got very, very hot. “Yes,” she agreed, “that sounds like just the thing.”
She could not imagine letting him see her nude under normal circumstances. But at this moment it seemed rather necessary and urgent that she no longer be clothed.
She shimmied her nightdress up over her thighs and pulled it over her head, careful not to let her impatience disturb the ties of the cravat. She had no desire to see him watching her. She just wanted to imagine it. She leaned back against her pillows and ran her hands along her naked breasts and belly and heard him breathing as he watched her.
“Oh, you’re a beautiful creature, Constance.”
“No, I’m not,” she objected. But it was disingenuous, because in this moment she did feel beautiful. Especially when he said:
“Show me where else you want to be touched. Pretend you’re guiding my hands wherever you want them.”
Lower.
She traced her hands over her belly, which provoked a sharp reaction between her legs—a pang. Did she dare follow it? In front of him?
Yes. Now was not the time for hesitation. She brought her fingers down to trace the path of the distress. But there she lost the thread, for it was somewhere deep inside her, and every time she’d ventured to locate the source of it alone, she’d only left herself sweaty and frustrated and irritable, unable to produce the relief that she desired.
Her fingers paused at the hair between her legs.
“Yes, that’s exactly where I’d want to touch you,” Julian whispered.
Tentatively she ran her fingers lower, but stopped at the shock of what was happening there.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured, and the tone was not confusion or disgust but something more like … hunger.
“That’s good?”
He groaned. “Very good.”
She ran her fingers over her flesh, exploring, though feeling rather aware that he was watching her and she had no idea what to do next.
“What now?” she asked.
“I’d spread your thighs a little wider and stroke you right there, at that lovely swollen bit, below your middle finger.”
She moved her fingers slightly. Oh.
“I might stop there and linger for a while. Stroke you. Just to see what makes you feel the best.”
It all felt good. It felt acutely good. It made her jam her heel even deeper into his thigh, not even bothering to pretend it was an accident. But he didn’t move away. Only kept talking in that low, intimate voice.
“But I would also want to make sure you felt good all over, so I might explore a bit to see what other places make you shiver. Deeper, between your legs, where you are very, very wet. Just slowly. Just to make sure we’re being very thorough.”
She did as he suggested, and more of her seemed to awaken in response. But the “lovely bit,” as he had called it, seemed to cry out for more focused attention. She kept finding her way back to it.
She heard herself make a little noise and froze, worried he would laugh at her.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed. “Yes, just like that. Let me hear how good it feels. Stroke yourself there. A bit faster if you like, in little circles, until you just can’t stop and go right over the edge.”
She rubbed her fingers rhythmically. “Julian, the distress is getting worse,” she gasped, curling her toes into his leg.
“I know, sweetheart.” She heard a smile in his voice. “It gets worse before it gets better. But it’s worth it, I promise.”
His low, rumbling voice made her feel woozy and she pressed her fingers to her fleur a bit harder, and was rewarded with a shock of pleasure. She gasped.
“I might slip a few fingers inside you, Constance, now that you are close. Feel how hot and slick and tight you are.”
His voice was heavy, thick, and he had moved closer, so his thigh was flush against the bottom of her foot. Close enough that she could feel the heat from his body radiating through his clothes into her instep.
“I’d want to take care of you so you feel full and needy, like you have every possible sensation that you want. All at once.”