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Georgiana giggled. “To hear you tell it nobody loves me as much as you do.”

“Only because it is true.”

He slipped the dress off her shoulders, massaging her back where the stays had dug into her flesh. She groaned with relief, dropping her head as she enjoyed his ministrations.

“That feels very good,” she sighed.

“Mmm,” he replied by massaging her with increased vigor. He bent forward, kissing a line down her backbone. “Are you very tired?” he asked gently.

She snorted. “Notthattired.” Turning around, she pressed her lips to his. “Here, help me with the rest of my clothes.”

Georgiana leaned forward to whisper in Robert’s ear.

“Claspt in the arms of her love, In vain, alas! For life I strove; My flutt’ring spirits, wrapt in fire,” she whispered in his ear, “By love’s mysterious art, Borne on the wings of fierce desire, Flew from my flaming heart.”

“Mmm,” Hehe nodded, shivering slightly when her breath brushed his skin, “who wrote that?”

“A man named Thomas Otway, an acquaintance of Lord Rochester’s. He died of syphilis from the court of King Charles II,” she said as she straddled him, her mouth against his ear.

Robert wrapped his fingers around her ribcage, just below her breasts. She was dressed only in a thin shift and could feel the warmth emanating from each of his fingers.

“You know an awful lot about him,” he said.

She straightened up so she could look him in the eye. “Yes, because I am an avid reader of his poems.”

He stared back, seemingly mesmerized, although his hands did not move from her sides. “Lord Rochester? Or Thomas Otway?”

“Well…Lord Rochester and Thomas Otway both write about ‘dying’ as a metaphor for…”

“Orgasm.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, the French do call itle petite morte.”

“A most apt description, as I do feel resurrected afterwards.”

He leaned in and kissed her neck, just beneath her jaw. “Everytime?” he purred. She could feel his mouth moving against her skin, his tongue leaving little wet patches.

She gave a long sigh. “Yes, every time.”

He picked her up, wrapped her legs around his waist, and carried her to bed.

“Tell me more of that poem,” he whispered as he laid her down.

“It is called The Enjoyment.”

“How appropriate,” he said against the skin of her hip as he gently pushed her shift out of the way.

“Thus lying in a trance for dead, her swelling breasts bore up my head,” she whispered.

“Oh, has she already climaxed?” he asked, mouthing her thigh.

“I suppose since I feel as if my breasts become fuller too on each occasion.” She reached out a finger to flick at her own nipple, closing her eyes as she felt his tongue trace patterns on her inner thigh. She held her breath.

“Do not stop. Keep reciting,” he said as his hands pulled apart her thighs.

“When waking from a pleasing dream,” she said shakily as he began to nip and suck at her inner thigh, “I saw her killing eyes.”