She had not been prepared to feel such a potent surge of awareness for her husband.
But she did.
It was powerful. Consuming. A conflagration lit from within, and she was helpless to stop it.
Her hands were on his shoulders, and his skin was damp. Muscles moved, hinting at his strength. Touching him only served to heighten the sensations, which were so new, bursting to life. His lips responded to hers, deepening the kiss, urging her to open so that his tongue could slip inside to coax hers.
The intimacy of the act took her by surprise, but the invasion was uniquely pleasant. He tasted of his morning tea and the sweetness of bergamot, and she wanted more. Tentatively, she copied him, running her tongue against his. He made a moan of approval, and then his hands were coasting all over her body. Over her waist, then higher, cupping her breast through the fabric of her morning gown and the barrier of her corset.
She longed to feel his bare hand there. What would it be like to be equally divested of her clothing? To lie with this man and have his touch on her body? On a frustrated groan of her own, she sank her fingers into his hair, which was still quite wet from his swim. The cool softness of it was a welcome distraction from the fires of desire threatening to overwhelm her.
But still, she could not stop kissing him.
It seemed that the place where their lips collided was the center of her being. If she had known a man’s kiss could be so wondrous, she might have spent less time toiling over inventions with Papa in his workshop and paid more attention to the business of being courted. Or was it onlythisman whose kisses moved her? Was it only Hudson who brought her so wickedly to life?
She could not be certain. All she did know was that she was filled with a wildness. An ache. A need to have more without comprehending what that was. Dimly, she became aware that they were moving together. He was guiding her away from the lake, toward a patch of grass not far from the bank, in the shade of the trees.
“Elysande,” he murmured against her lips before raising his head and gazing down at her. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the promise of passion glittering in their depths. “Shall I stop?”
“Not yet.”
Somehow, the breathless entreaty belonged to her, though she scarcely recognized her own voice.
On a low sound, he took her lips again in a kiss that was even more voracious than those which had preceded it. They kissed until she was dizzied by the combination of his mouth and his hands on her and the warmth of the morning. And then, they were on the grass together.
One moment, they were standing, kissing. The next, they were side by side, mouths fused, bodies straining together. Later, she would likely think she had made an error in judgment in walking by the lake, in not retreating when she saw her husband swimming. But now, she did not have a care for such thoughts.
She was awash in sensation. The cushion of the blades of grass beneath her, the gentle breeze stirring the trees overhead, the coolness of the shade juxtaposed with the wildfire overtaking her. They were pressed together from chest to hip, her breasts crushed into his bare chest. Her hands slid from his hair to venture lower, working their way across his shoulders and down the taut plane of his abdomen, seeking the slabs of muscle she had admired earlier. He was so vital and masculine, a light dusting of dark hair on his chest resulting in the most delightful tickle to her fingertips. His body was hers to discover.
And discover it, she did.
She traced over the puckered skin of his scar, over his flat nipples, down his shoulders and back. All the while, their mouths remained fused, lips and tongues teasing, learning. Elysande had been kissed by a handful of suitors. Stolen moments in alcoves or darkened terraces or corners of Talleyrand Park where no one else would see. But every prior kiss was a bland, pale comparison to Hudson’s.
He kissed her as if he revered her.
As if he could not possibly have enough.
As if she were the air he required to breathe.
And she was helpless to resist. Caught helplessly in the thrall of the handsome stranger she had married.
At last, his lips traveled to her ear, his hot breath as ragged as hers, cascading over her eager flesh and unfurling more desperate yearning within her. “I heard you in your bath last night, and it drove me mad to think of you in the water.”
His admission emboldened her. She kissed his neck, glorying in the scent of him, part fresh earthiness of the lake water, part uniquelyhim: shaving soap and man. She inhaled deeply, kissing lower, to where his pulse hid, beating as frantically as hers. He was every bit as affected by this interlude. How powerful the affirmation made her feel.
He desired her, the woman who had never drawn the interest of a suitor for anything more than her dowry. Oh, he had married her for her dowry as well, and no mistake about that. But there was hardly a need for him to feign an interest in her this intense the day after they had married. He no longer had to persuade her. The vows had been spoken.
He hummed in approval, then explored the whorl of her ear with his tongue before catching the fleshy lobe in his teeth and delivering a gentle nip. She nearly swooned. He had not been wrong when he had warned her that he was nothing like Old Wycombe.
New Wycombe was a force. He was enough to make her wish to drown herself in wickedness rather than her experiments. The second day of her marriage, and she was rolling about with him in the grass like a strumpet. But she did not care. Not when his clever mouth devoured her throat, licking and sucking and dragging his teeth over the tender cord there.
Her hat had fallen away, and so had the rest of the world. Along with them, all the reasons why she must not indulge in such reckless behavior with her husband. Those knowing fingers of his were on the hidden hooks of her gown, finding them with ease and plucking them open until her bodice sagged, and his hand slipped inside her corset and chemise, cupping her bare breast.
She inhaled, shocked at the power of his touch, the way it sent a lightning strike of pleasure straight to her core. Elysande pressed her thighs together to ease the ache, but the action only seemed to make it worse. He teased her nipple into a stiff point, and a moan escaped her as she arched her back. She had never known she was sensitive there, that a man’s touch could do this many things to her at once.
“You’re so silken and soft,” he murmured, finding his way to her shoulder and nuzzling her chemise aside to lightly bite her there. “Will you let me see you, Elysande?”
He was asking for permission. She could deny him. Her every interaction with him thus far had proven to her that he was a man of honor. But the trouble was, she did not want to put an end to this interlude now that it had begun.
