Page 82 of Marry in Scandal
“Oh, but I’ll need that,” she said.
“What for?”
“If we’re going riding before dinner.”
“We are, but trust me, you’ll be better off without it.” He attacked her corset, undoing hooks, tugging free the laces. It too fell open, and he slipped it off her and tossed it unheeding across the room. Vile thing.
Her smooth white skin was creased with red lines from where the blasted thing had bitten into her. He ran his tongue along each crease, warming, soothing, sucking, the taste of her entering his blood.
“Edward.” She sagged against him, gripping the windowsill to support herself.
Now all she wore was a chemise—a delicate, flimsy thing, through which her skin glowed—and her stockings. No drawers? God give him strength.
He gave silent thanks for her girls’-school upbringing that taught that only fast girls wore drawers. He ran his hand down over her hips, caressing the lush curves of her backside through the soft fabric. And moaned.
He was as hard as a rock. He breathed deeply, fighting for control.
Slowly he turned her around to face him. Oh, lord, the chemise hid nothing, caressed her ripe curves in a pretenseof modesty that flaunted her beauty, even as it teasingly veiled it.
Creamy gossamer, cut low at the neck, a generous, tantalizing scoop barely covering a gorgeous pair of breasts, clinging to the rosy hard points of her nipples.
He groaned, wanting to rip it off her, to fling her back on the bed and plunge into her, into that warm place hidden beneath the shadowy dark smudge at the apex of her thighs. And to bury his face in those breasts.
Steady, Ned.
Her eyes devoured him, luminous with questions, her mouth ripe, plum-dark and satiny. He cupped her face between his hands and brushed his mouth over hers, once, twice, inhaling her breath, her sweetness. He would have moved back then, but she twined her arms around his neck and drew him closer as she opened her mouth to receive him, taste him.
His blood surged, pumping hard and hot through a body rigid and shaking with unfulfilled desire. His control was slipping. He had to leash it.
He slipped his fingers through her hair, sending pins flying. The scent of her hair, sweet as a summer night, blurred his awareness as her soft curls tumbled around them.
He ravished her mouth with deep, deliberate kisses, struggling to maintain a semblance of restraint, while she unraveled him with kisses that were eager and innocent and luscious.
He slid his hands over her buttocks, around her hips, sliding ever upward until he reached her breasts. He caressed them, their weight sweet and ripe in his hands. She gasped as he trailed his knuckles over her aching hard nipples. She shuddered under the featherlight touch, thrusting herself against him. “Again,” she gasped, “again,” her words fuel to his flame.
He bent and took a rosy nipple in his mouth, laving it with his tongue, teasing and sucking. She gripped his hair in damp frantic fingers, holding him to her, half collapsed against him. In one swift movement he gripped the hem of the chemise and pulled it up over her head. He dropped iton the floor and stared at her, this lush, ripe beauty, his bride. Her hands came up to cover herself in a move as old as Venus—and as enticing.
“No, don’t,” he rasped, catching her hands. “Don’t hide from me. You’re beautiful.”
Her face quivered with some emotion. He swept her up in his arms and in three steps had her on the bed. He stood back, feasting his eyes on her, breathing like a drowning man.
She moistened her lips and gazed up at him, her eyes huge and liquid. She held her arms out to him; her thighs trembled, then parted a little, and he could wait no longer.
He ripped open his breeches, parted her legs and entered her with one slow thrust. She arched beneath him and stiffened, and he fought for the last shred of control, holding himself still while her untried body struggled to adjust to him.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face contorted in a grimace that cut him to the soul.
Cursing himself, barely able to think for the battle he was waging to slow his body, to hold back until she was ready, he slipped his hand between them and caressed her gently, seeking the little nubbin he ought to have attended to much earlier.
Her stiffness gradually softened. His fingers stroked and teased, and he felt her gasp and quiver in response. Faint shudders began deep within her and he could hold back no more. He began to move, thrusting deep and hard, again and again as the primeval rhythm took hold. The waves swallowed him and he was lost.
The last thing he remembered was his shout as he climaxed, and collapsed on top of her, oblivious.
Chapter Fifteen
The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.
—MADAME DE STAËL