Page 57 of My Darling Mr. Darling
“What do you want, Vi?” he whispered against her lips, relishing way they fought to cling to his. “Tell me.”
“I want—I want everything you promised me.” Her eyes were luminous, hazy and sincere. “I want you to touch me. Kiss me.”
Who was he to deny so earnest a request? He swallowed the cry she gave, felt the climax that swept through her, from the blunt little nails that dug crescents into the nape of his neck to the exultant arch of her back, to the tight grip of her velvety inner muscles as they contracted around his fingers. She shuddered, making small sounds of pleasure against his lips, and gradually her muscles went lax. He caught her as she wilted, lifting her in his arms.
This, right here, was the real Violet—the soft, vulnerable self she kept hidden beneath her brittle armor of sarcasm and stridence. The Violet she had never been allowed to reveal. Who she might’ve been, had he not shunted her off to that miserable school to force her into a mold she was never made to fit into.
As he laid her on the bed, it hit him like a punch to the gut—he liked her precisely as she was. All the disparate versions of her. The shrewish version that had stomped on his foot to vent her displeasure. The furious version that had attempted to slam her front door straight in his face. The wistful version that had explained to him the significance of her favorite childhood doll. The earnest version that had shared with him her deepest fears. But just now, this was the version he liked best—sweet and inviting, looking for all the world as if a cross word had never once left her lips, all of her sharp edges for the moment softened into smooth perfection.
In each iteration, she was still perfectlyherself, and that was all she had ever needed to be. Her father had known it. So why hadn’the?
Violet heaved a sigh, stretched out on her back. “At first, I thought you were bad at this,” she confided. “I am relieved that I was wrong.” Her face was half-hidden in the shadow of the bed curtains, but the satisfied smile that curved her lips remained visible.
John chuckled, managing the buttons of his trousers with unsteady hands and dragging the material down over his hips, aware of Violet’s curious gaze upon him. “While I would not classify myself as promiscuous, Ihavehad some practice,” he said, peeling off his trousers at last. “Thus far, I’ve had no complaints.” Something that sounded suspiciously like a grumble escaped her, and he grinned. “Why, Violet—are you jealous?”
“No!” she snapped, and then mumbled hesitantly, “Maybe alittle. It’s just so unfair that no one expects chastity of men.” She turned a little as he crawled toward her, stretching her fingers out to trace the line of his shoulder down to where his arm bent at his elbow. “I did not expect fidelity of you,” she said, with a queer little shrug. “But—I betrayed a vow, even if it was one I hadn’t wanted to make. I didn’tfeelmarried, and yet…still I felt guilty.”
He slid one arm beneath her neck, kissed her forehead, felt her lashes flutter against his chin. “I absolve you of it,” he said. “You owed me nothing. I would not censure you for seizing pleasure where you found it.”
Her hair spread over his pillow in a glorious silken tangle of curls. Her legs moved restlessly, sliding along his as if enamored with the sensation. “Well,” she said, her fingers drifting along the muscles of his stomach, exploring slowly. “It wasn’t…likethis.”
“How do you mean?” He caught her hip in one hand, stilled her fidgety shifting.
She gave a little trilling sigh, turning into the kisses he sprinkled along her shoulder. “There wasn’t nearly so much…skin.” Her fingertips coasted over his chest, nails gently raking in their wake.
He stilled, his thumb stroking along her hip. “You’re joking.”
She shook her head. “Housemaids are sorushed, you know. You’ve barely ever more than a moment to yourself, and if you’re caught carrying on—well, there was never very much time.” Her fingers kneaded his shoulder and slid around to sift through the hair at the nape of his neck. “But this is…quite nice. I didn’t expect it.”
“You didn’t expect it to benice?”
She gave a little nervous flutter of laughter. “I expected it to bequick. I didn’t expect it to be so…entertaining. Or so warm.”
She was trying to work her knee between his, squeezing closer to feel the heat of his skin on her own, he realized, because it was such a novel sensation for her. To be so close to another in this way—in any way. So he gathered her against him, slid his palm down her spine in a soothing stroke, and held her close. Let her move and shift, let her trail her hands where she pleased, discovering the lines of his body, marveling at the textures so different from her own. She scraped her nails through the light dusting of hair on his chest, prodded the powerful muscles of his thighs, and traced each vertebra on a leisurely journey up his back. She wiggled her leg between both of his, testing the friction of his skin against hers. She laid her ear against his chest and listened to the pounding of his heart beneath it, rubbed her thumb over the stubble shadowing his jaw.
And then, at last, she settled into the crook of his arm and turned her lips to his. It was an awkward, clumsy kiss, more enthusiasm than technique. But as she did it, she draped her arms around him, trailed her hands down the tight muscles of his back, wriggled until her breasts were pressed against his chest, and slid her right leg along the outside of his.
He suppressed a groan as she nibbled at his lower lip, and his hand cupped the curve of her bottom, drawing her hips tight against his own. Her titillated gasp was smothered beneath the insistent pressure of his lips; her fingers flexed and kneaded as he eased her to her back.
“I wasn’t finished,” she said as he broke the kiss at last.
“Ivery nearly was,” he countered, though that didn’t dissuade her from sliding her hands between them and wrapping them around his cock. His forehead dropped to hers as he shuddered. “Christ, Vi. Mind your hands, or this will be over too quickly,” he managed, his voice hoarse.
“But I wanted—”
“Another time.” He didn’t know how much longer he could bear the grip of her fingers. “Another time, I promise you.” She had caught onto the fact that she could torment him like this, her lips quirking into a devious grin, which he was obliged to kiss away, and he would have sworn that he couldtastethe satisfaction on her lips, and knew that she had filed away this particular weakness in her mind. God help him.
Slowly, regretfully, she released him, her body softening into the plush mattress beneath her as he slid one hand up the ladder of her ribs to palm her breast. Perfect—just like the rest of her. Smooth, warm skin that filled the cup of his hand, rising gently with each unsteady breath that left her lips. She shivered as he brushed his thumb over the soft pink crest, teasing it to pebble hardness.
A strangled little sound of pleasure escaped her when he bent his head, taking that small peak into his mouth. Her body undulated beneath him on a helpless wave, her fingers threading through his hair, raking across his scalp. She murmured something—his name, he thought—on a breathless whimper.
Tiny passion noises bubbled out of her for long minutes, as she learned that he could just as easily torture her in the same measure she had tortured him.Helearned the delicate lacework of her ribs, the sinuous ripple of her belly when he chanced across a particularly sensitive spot, the hitch of her breath when he traced the dip of her navel with the tip of his tongue.
She jerked when he dropped a kiss low on her hip, her legs—which had been trapped in place by his arms—reflexively squeezing. Her voice muffled, owing to the fact that she had pressed the heel of one hand to her mouth in an effort to stifle those sweet little noises she had been making, she said, “You didn’t truly meaneverywhere.”
He grinned. “I’m not known for making idle threats.”
She gave a low groan of mortification as he spread her private flesh with his thumbs, sank his fingers into the dewy wetness revealed. Her hands splayed over her burning face, obscuring her eyes. Despite her embarrassment, still her hips arched up into the slow plunge of his fingers; an instinctual motion beyond her control.