“Like what?” she said, her gaze snapping to his own. For a second, she feared that he meant to censure her. She was beyond wanton at the moment. She really didn’t know what was wrong with her. Other debutantes were content with the lives that their mothers outlined for them. With the rules that were put down for their safety.
But Henrietta had no mother. And she apparently had no talent for heeding such rules.
Trem didn’t answer her question. He was lost to his own pleasure. He did, however, say the words that she needed to hear.
“But I should have known that you would be. That you would be so sweet. And wicked. Only you, Henrietta. Only you could do this to me.”
That answer chased away her fears, so she rocked against him and let him enter her by another few inches. She felt herself stretch to accommodate him and it was a delicious tension.
“How are you now, my lord?”
“I need all of you. Immediately.”
She opened her legs wider and, through the motion, he slid into her to the hilt.
For some reason—perhaps it was the fullness of him inside of her—tears sprung to Henrietta’s eyes. She had never experienced anything that felt so right in her life. She had always thought of herself as a relatively happy person, even when difficult things had happened to her, even with her melancholy childhood. She had always been plucky, spirited, able to overcome obstacles in her path. Lady Wethersby described her as buoyant. But, in this moment, her life appeared differently to her. Because nothing that had ever happened before could compare to this moment. It wasn’t just the pleasure of him—but the way she felt at home. She felt suddenly, acutely, that in every other encounter in her life before this one she had been an outsider, an imposter, and now here, with him, she was finally laid bare, seen, and accepted. She belonged here, like this, with him.
Their eyes met. She wished she could hide the profound emotion coursing through her—but she knew she had no hope of concealing her feelings. She couldn’t tell what he felt, other than his extreme arousal, but she didn’t try any subterfuge on her own account. She let her countenance show what it would. It helped that she could see how lost he was to her body, how in thrall he seemed to her.
“Fuck, Henrietta,” he said, his voice uneven. “I need to move. God, I’m so sorry. I want to stay like this with you forever. But I have to fucking move. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me. You feel so good.”
“Ah, fuck, Henrietta,” he repeated. “I’m not going to be able to stop.”
“Please, Trem,” she pleaded again—and this time she knew exactly what she was asking for.
He withdrew slowly, cursing the entire time, and then slowly thrust again. The sensation was so sweet. It was torture.
“God, I’m sorry, Henrietta,” Trem said, and when she looked up at his face, she could see that he had tears in his eyes. “You’re too good, too tight, too fucking sweet.”
“Don’t apologize,” she said, moving her hands to his back. “You can’t know how good you feel.”
He groaned, withdrawing again slowly and pumping into her, quicker this time.
“Please, faster,” she said, and he swore in response. But he listened, quickening his pace just a little. She could tell he was trying to prolong their union for the sake of her pleasure—that he was only holding himself back by a thread. And she could feel her climax building inside of her, that bud at the apex of her legs swelling. But she needed more of him.
She couldn’t wait any longer. When he withdrew this time and came back into her, she rushed to meet him, thrusting so that his cock hit the back of her core.
He let out an inarticulate cry and jerked back. But Henrietta was already lost to pleasure—the sudden force of their combined thrust had made her see stars. Already, she was reaching her climax again. She felt herself spasm around his cock and the resistance it offered made her orgasm only more delicious.
At this sensation, he groaned in guttural, primal fashion. She felt him rear back again, almost as if he wanted to leave her. But she couldn’t let him go, not when she was still coming, and she needed him.
She thrust her hips again, chasing the last thread of her orgasm, and then he was really pulling back, with a shout, and she wanted to sob that he was being so cruel to her. But then she realized he was spending—she felt the warm seep of his seed inside her and then the rest fell between her legs. He had himself grasped in his hand and he seemed lost to pleasure himself now—his cum washed over her thighs in multiple waves, hot and primal, his eyes fixed to the sight.
Finally, their gazes met once more. So much passed between them in that moment. They were both shocked by what had just transpired between them. How raw and unfettered it had been. How well they had found their pleasure with one another, how they had known so intuitively what the other wanted. She had known when to push him—despite her relative innocence.
“Henrietta—” he began.
And then the door handle jangled. Trem froze above her. The lock, however, stymied whoever wanted to enter. An impatient knock sounded.
“Henrietta,” Catherine called through the door. “I have been looking everywhere for you. Mrs. Warburton has sent one of her seamstresses, for your ball gown that needs mending, and she is waiting in your parlor.”
She met Trem’s eyes. Alarm widened his gaze.
“Yes!” she called, working to keep her voice calm. “I am just finishing a letter. Please tell her I will be there in a moment.”
Trem had moved off of her and was frantically righting his clothing. She saw him look around the room and realize there was no place to hide.
