She was achingly lovely. His stomach twisted and tightened. Painfully lovely. A few tears had left tracks down her cheeks, her mouth glistened, and—by God—some of his cum had dribbled down her chin. Oh, how he wished he could commission a painting of this image. No. No one was to ever see her thus. Just him. That word floated through his mind again.His.
He softly dabbed away her tears. Then swiped away the evidence of his release off her chin. He folded the cloth over and used the fresh side of his handkerchief to carefully clean her lips.
Fitz dusted his knuckles over her flushed cheek, warm to the touch from her blush. She leaned into his touch like a contented kitten. His contented kitten.
“Did I please you, husband?”
Did she please him? He almost scoffed. He couldn’t articulate how well she pleased him. The words didn’t come. And for once it wasn’t because he was nervous, it was just that there were no words to describe the enormity of it.
He just stared at her. His beautiful wife. Green eyes glowing, lips swollen, a stark-pink against her creamy skin. Creamy all but for the blush painted high on her cheekbones. And bloody hell, her chignon in tatters from his touch. Just as his heart was from hers.
“You did so well, bella,” he finally murmured. “No one has ever, nor could ever, please me so well.”
She preened under his regard. And his chest swelled to the point he was sure it would burst. She wanted to please him. This beautiful, confident woman wanted to pleasehim. And he, bumbling Fitz, had clearly just pleased her.
He pulled her into his lap, and she nestled into his chest. Like she wished to be there. He pressed kiss after kiss to every part of her he could touch: her hair, her forehead, the delicate curve of her ear. And then he trailed a finger under her chin, gently tilted her up to him, and dusted kiss after kiss to her lips. She sighed, one that whispered hopes and dreams and promises against his skin.
His swollen heart skittered across his rib cage. And even though he was the one holding her, the one doing the holding, he fell into her. And he thought, just maybe, this sensation swirling in his chest could be everything falling into place. Did she feel it? Or, like so many other things in his life, was he alone in this, too?
20
Georgiana
GeorgianawonderedifFitzfelt it, too. How something about what they had just done, something about being in his arms, was different. Right. She hadn’t lied to her husband; she wasn’t a blushing virgin. She had sucked a prick or two in her twenty years of life. But never had it been anything more than a physical act, slaking lust, fulfilling a desire, a sexual experiment. But with Fitz? She had almost gone and done something completely embarrassing like cry afterwards. She had been so utterly overcome. Still was.
Maybe it was the way he had called her Gigi, a pet name that only existed for her with him. Or maybe it was the way he had instantly reverted into caretaker afterwards. There had been no thought for himself. He’d reverently cleaned away her tears, the evidence of what they had just shared, and then she was in his arms. His lips dusted over her, and it was like all the pieces of her, the broken pieces she hid deep inside, fit perfectly in his arms.
She ran her hands over his upper chest, a small twinge of disappointment piercing through her. She wished she had gotten to explore more of him. She plucked at his linen shirt hiding what she was sure was a delectable physique.
“Is something amiss?” he murmured.
“No.” She glanced up at him and the words on her lips, the thoughts in her brain, died a swift death. Nothing remained but gleaming sated eyes darkened to a rich mahogany—intoxicating, entrancing. And that was what this man seemed to have done to her—pulled her into a spellbinding trance one only read about in folklore. Their breaths mingled, warm whisky and sweet cinnamon overwhelming her senses. Fitz overwhelming her senses.
Her fingers twitched, crisp linen dragging over her fingertips, breaking the hold he had on her. She cleared her throat and cleared away the headiness of whatever had just passed between them.
“I was just wondering if your body is as delightful as my fingertips have determined it to be.” She smiled cheekily at him. “That and, to be frank, holly is not very comfortable to cuddle with.”
His cheeks, already flushed from orgasm, bloomed a deeper hue. “I’m happy to remove it and, urm, make you more comfortable and satisfy your curiosity.”
Her gaze went to his, and she smiled. Her fingers found his cravat. “May I?” But she was already loosening the knot and pulling the neckcloth free. He chuckled, a low rumble reverberating into her. She stilled, her eyes flicking to his. “You have a lovely laugh.” And now his ears matched his cheeks.
“Me?” His lips twitched. “My laugh is usually as strangled as my throat trying to form words.”
She nearly had his waistcoat undone—not a simple task with the giant wreath of holly on it—and then moved up to the buttons that closed the V of his shirt. “You don’t seem to be strangling overmuch right now.” She pushed off him and stood. “There, now off with it.”
He shrugged out of his waistcoat and then reached behind his head for his shirt. “I’m chocking it down to languidness and temporary insanity,” came his muffled response inside his shirt as he pulled it over his head.
A shy grin peeped from under his hem. “I’m sure I’ll be bumbling again soon. And I’m still blushing, so there is that.”
But Georgiana barely heard his words. Because she was struck dumb.She stepped forward, hands trailing over each little square of muscle on his abdomen. “How do you look like this?” she whispered. “I thought you did Italian translations for a living.” She looked up at him, but didn’t stop touching him. Couldn’t. His skin twitched and quivered under fingers, hot to the touch.
“I-I take it you approve?”
A slight stumble, but she wasn’t sure if it was because her fingers were perhaps tickling him or if her bold exploration had brought his nerves back. She nodded, her gaze falling to the large, hard discs of his chest. Her fingers traced the delineated muscle, circled his nipple. He hissed in a breath between his teeth.
He was broad and all lean muscle. Not bulky, not like a blacksmith or a dock worker. But there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. She leaned side-to-side, searching for it. Poked and prodded. Not. One. Bloody. Ounce.
“I s-swim,” he finally answered her earlier question. “We have a bathing pool here at Thornfield Hall, heated with numerous fireplaces so it can be used during all seasons.” His breath caught when her hands traveled over the triangular muscles where his shoulders met his neck. “I find that it is somewhat thera-peutic.” He cleared his throat. “For anxiety, when I get in my head.”
