“Your dressmaker is wrong about your bosom, you know,” he said, taking her breasts in his hands. “I am wildly fond of your bosom.”
He put his mouth to her nipples, as she’d wanted him to do for what felt like days, weeks, years. “Oh, Julian,” she gasped. “Don’t ever stop.”
He didn’t for some time, suckling her as he drew her toward him, parting her legs with his thigh and pressing her up against his straining cock. At the feeling of it finally against her she felt a tremor rising up in her.
“Oh yes,” he whispered, sensing her arousal. He put a finger to her fleure and bit lightly at her nipples and it was too much and she widened her legs, inviting him deeper inside her.
“Oh no,” she gasped, for the death was rising up in her already. “I’m sorry—I’m going to come.”
“Come then, sweet girl,” he urged, giving her another finger. “I love to watch you.”
She did, still standing on her tiptoes. She had to wrap her arms around his neck to keep from buckling to the ground.
“I suspect I wasn’t meant to do that yet,” she whispered as she leaned against him, shuddering. He gripped her by the arse.
“Oh, you are meant to do that as many times as you can bear it,” he growled.
“We have to finish undressing you,” she said. “So that you might have a turn. Take off your boots.”
He turned and removed them, allowing her to admire the fine make of his shoulders from behind. She came closer and traced her fingertips along his narrow waist to the path of golden hair trailing below his navel.
He took her hands in his and dragged them down to the placket of his breeches. “Unbutton me.”
She did, taking her time, for she liked how he gasped when her fingers slid over his erection. When his cock was free he slid the garment to the floor with his stockings and turned around, fully nude.
He put his arms around her and hugged her tight to him. “Are you sure about this, sweet girl?”
She reached out and took his head in her hands and brought his face closer to hers, then placed a single girlish kiss upon his lips. He smiled, pulled her to her bed, and drew her down beside him, turning so they faced each other. He kissed her until they were both breathless.
“I’m dying to be inside you,” he said.
“I’m dying for that too.”
“I’m going to go slowly. Stop me if I hurt you.”
She felt a shallow, insistent pressure and then, finally …
Him.
“How is that?” he whispered.
“Better than an apple.”
He snorted and gave her more of his cock. It did hurt then, and she sucked back a gasp. He paused, holding himself up above her in a way that, despite the twinge of pain between her legs, she could not help but admire. She kissed him against his lovely, artful bicep.
He trembled a bit at the touch of her lips, and she felt such a wave of tenderness she forgot the pain and adjusted her hips to draw him deeper. “I’m ready,” she whispered. “Please.”
He paused, raised up on one knee, and flipped them over, so she was on top. He spread his hands over her buttocks and widened her thighs, so her warmth was spread out over his cock. “This is what I was thinking about in the powdering room.”
It felt so good to hear him say that. She wanted to hear all of his confessions. All the times he’d wanted her and hidden it away.
She wanted him to make her a list.
He paused. “Are you all right, sweet girl?”
“I’m nervous,” she admitted. For if she was meant to be exactly exquisitely who she was, she supposed there was no point in pretending that she wasn’t. “I don’t know how to do this. Will you show me how?”
He took her hips in his hands and lifted her up, then thrust deeper from below her. They both gasped at the intensity of the pleasure.
“Do it again,” she murmured. “Please, please do that again.”
He buried his face in her chest. “Oh, Constance. I will take such good care of you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
And he did.
By the time he had finished taking care of her, she had lost track of how many deaths she’d died, and the sun was coming up. He curled himself around her and cuddled her against his chest, nuzzling her skin and her hair, whispering that he loved her. Exactly as she was.
This must be marriage, she thought as she fell asleep. Never mind the church or the law.
When she woke up, it was high noon, and he was gone.
But there was a note beside her on her pillow:
I can’t wait to be your husband, Constance.
But I’ll be your courtesan whenever you would like.
Chapter 18
Constance sipped a cup of tea in the Rosecrofts’ sunny garden with Hilary, who was, one day too late, educating her about the events that transpired in a marital bedchamber.
“You might have heard that it’s distasteful,” her cousin said in a low voice. “But it should not be. Don’t be alarmed if you bleed the first time, but after that, it should not be painful.”
“No?” Constance asked innocently, shifting in her seat, for she was ever so slightly sore from having lost her virginity at least three times the night before. She dropped her voice. “How should it be?”
Hilary smiled and rubbed her belly. “It should be gentle and affectionate and pleasant.”
Pleasant was not the word Constance would have chosen, remembering the night before.
Julian, I want you inside of me again.
I know, darling. But first, would you mind terribly if I tormented you just a little more?
After last night she felt like she could fly. Her skin was glowing and her eyes were bright and at least six times today she’d caught herself laughing, all alone, out of pure joy.
“I shall endeavor to remember that,” she said.
“Apthorp may not be terribly experienced in these things,” Hilary confided. “He clearly finds you ravishing, as recent events would attest. But he is such a proper type. He gets it from his mother. It’s why I never put any stock in those dreadful tales about him.”
Get on your knees and hold the headboard. I want you from behind.
Constance nodded solemnly.
Hilary lowered her voice. “It’s no great cause for concern if he’s a bit nervous at the start. He’s quite young, after all. But if you have any trouble, send him to Rosecroft.”
Constance smiled demurely. “I should hope that won’t be necessary.”
Are you sore?
No. Don’t you dare stop.
Then might I tempt you to sit on my cock?
Suddenly the terrace door flung open and Apthorp came bounding out of it. His usual golden skin tone was flushed and red, and his hair looked as if he had flown from the Strand on a broomstick.
“Lady Rosecroft, I need a word with Constance,” he said breathily.
“Julian dear, are you well?” Hilary gasped.
“Please,” he said, not looking well at all.
Oh dear. She hoped he was not suffering some attack of postconnubial guilt. She certainly wasn’t.
Is this dull for you, since you’ve had so many others?
No. It’s incomparable. I’ve fucked, Constance, but I’ve never been with anyone I love.