His Lordship blinked down at her with obvious surprise. “Are you propositioning me, Louisa?”
How easily he could refuse her when fate—and some maneuvering on her part—had gathered the fractured pieces of their marriage so that she and Lord Granborough needed only to fit them into place. He could follow her into their cabin, press her back onto the mattress, and perform the same tired act he’d done before, but she did not think he would.
She could show him what she wanted, and how she wanted things to go.
Louisa moistened her lips and lowered her voice, laying it all bare before him, “I am inviting my husband into my bed.”
Without hesitation, he reached past her to open their stateroom door. Together, they crossed over the threshold into the darkened space beyond.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Pale moonlight shone through the porthole windows to cast shadows on the sitting room floor. The Axminster carpet, a paradox of soft luxury and industrious efficiency, muffled the sound of Louisa’s footsteps as she entered the dim space.
Lord Granborough followed a step behind, his hand resting on the small of her back, and his breath warming the nape of her neck. He too must’ve felt a shudder of anticipation, the thrill of whatever awaited them tonight. They’d reached a critical moment in their marriage, and there could be no turning back.
His Lordship urged her forward until she stood in a halo of moon glow, and her skirts crushed against the edge of the brocade sofa. When she could go no further, Louisa turned to him to meet his gaze.
Two icy blue eyes studied hers in the dark. His hands shifted to her hips, palms encircling her corseted waist, yet he hesitated to hold her too close.
“Tell me this is what you want,” he pleaded.
She nodded. “It is.”
He was everything she wanted. Their happiness lay within her grasp.
Lord Granborough began to strip her. He slowly unfastened the hooks and eyes, tapes and laces of her peach velvet gown. He pushed her skirts to the floor, and then dropped to his knees before her.
Louisa gasped, resting her hands on his shoulders, gripping him for balance as he removed her slippers and stockings, petticoats and underpinnings.
“What are you doing?” she marveled.
“Finishing what I started on our wedding night.” He kissed from her bare ankles to her inner thighs, dragging his open mouth over every inch of soft, pale skin. “Doting upon you as I ought to have done from the very beginning.”
She trembled, arching her hips, spreading her knees to accommodate his big, male body. Large hands cupped her bottom, spreading and caressing, and offering support for his wandering mouth. He licked a wild path up her belly, nipping at her navel, and tasting the French-scented flesh she offered him.
Louisa clutched his skull and buried her fingers into his blond hair. She tipped his lips to meet her breasts, and he took one nipple into his mouth, gently drawing on it until she moaned.
Never had she imagined such a spark of desire could come from kisses, from simple touches, yet His Lordship lavished attention on those tight pink buds. While he worshiped her, his fingers wandered. She couldn’t see them in the darkness, but she felt the trail his fingertips blazed between her parted thighs.
Her husband found her core, slicking the pad of his finger against a place she’d only recently discovered. Louisa sucked in her breath and fought back a moan. She rocked her pelvis against his hand, carefully chasing this new, raw sensation.
He coaxed her further, sinking one long finger deep inside. She couldn’t fight her cries of pleasure, panting hard and pleading for more. In answer, he slid another finger between her folds and began to pump and circle, pump and circle, until she grew mindless.
He pulled his mouth from her breasts to claim her lips. “Oh, Louisa, I marvel that you’re mine.”
Together, they stripped him quickly. Busy hands tripped over each other to divest him of his evening clothes. Louisa tossed each layer aside, leaving a trail of garments until they reached the brocade sofa. She pulled her husband down onto the cushions and relaxed her head against the pillowed armrest.
If lovers in the French novel coupled beneath date palms, surely Lord and Lady Granborough could claim a sofa as their marriage bed.
Louisa angled her body in the moon glow, offering her kiss-swollen flesh to His Lordship’s eager hands and mouth.
“Baise-moi,”she whispered.“Je veux jouir.”
She knew no polite words for what she wanted.
Thankfully, her husband comprehended.
He spread her thighs, slanting half-on and half-off the cushions. His fingers gripped the armrest above Louisa’s head, and he gazed into her eyes as he eased inside her. There was no pain or friction, only a wanton heaviness as he sailed against her.
