He smelled like he always did. Fresh-cut grass and salt and sunshine. How old had she been when she first realized that she loved him? That she wanted him? To her, the very concept of wanting seemed wrapped up in him. He had been her idol—and his scent was so deeply imprinted in her mind that it had become synonymous with desire itself. He smelled as if he came from a garden paradise. Arcadia. Not this simulacra created by Lady Worthington. The real thing. She had never been to his estate in Hampshire, but it was mythic. John and Catherine had fallen in love there, during one fateful evening. It had ruins in the gardens that, allegedly, according to Catherine, had belonged to the Romans. She had always wanted to go there and see it for herself. Would she go now as his wife?
The thought took Henrietta’s breath away. How could she refuse him?
Trem groaned and pressed her to him, cursing as he did so, and she gave herself fully back to him. It had become clear, very suddenly, without any words being exchanged, that they were about to truly defile this bower.
He broke the kiss.
“How do you want me?” he asked, panting over her now. His cockstand was absurdly heavy against her stomach.
She kissed him again instead of responding. She knew she wanted him, but—truth be told—her knowledge of sexual acts was still fairly limited. But their kissing was driving her into a state of indecency. She was warm and tender all over, her skin rubbing uncomfortably against the unusual fabric of her dress.
“I—I don’t know.”
“You know,” Trem said, nipping her mouth again with a tempting, teasing kiss.
“I want you to take me. Take me like you wouldn’t take a lady.”
“I think I’ve already done that,” he teased.
“Please,” she whined. She sounded petulant and a bit spoilt. But she didn’t care. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
Before she knew it, she found herself flipped around into the shrubbery. Her face was against the leaves. And she could feel Trem’s hard length against her backside.
“Then you’re lucky that I fully understand you,” he whispered.
She moaned in acquiescence. And then she felt him lift the hem of her dress. He was touching her arse now, kneading it, and rubbing her against his cock, where he seemed to grow harder and larger with each moment.
“You’re such a good girl for not wearing any undergarments. You knew that I would take you here, didn’t you?”
She closed her eyes. Yes, she had hoped.
“Admit it,” he said, in response to her silence. “And I’ll give you want you want.”
With these words, his hand moved to the thatch of curls that covered her core. Parting her ever so slightly, he found her clit and pressed. She let out a moan so wanton that even she was shocked.
“You have to be quiet. Or else they’ll hear you in the ballroom.”
She nodded.
“Now admit it. Admit that you wore no undergarments for me.”
A wicked thought crossed her mind. Darting like a minnow beneath the surface of her desire, she somehow managed to reach down and catch the notion with her bare hands.
“Who says that I did it for you?”
She heard his intake of breath.
“You did do it for me,” he said, his voice hoarse now. On another man, that tone of voice might indicate horror. But she knew that, from him, it meant pleasure. He loved her taunting.
“I can’t say. I did it for whatever gentleman was to win my favor this evening.”
“I see you’re not going to be reasonable,” he said gently. With these words, he slid a finger into her core and she let out another whimper, but this time she stifled the sound into her hand. He began to lazily stroke her, bringing his finger in and out, and only occasionally pressing against the bud that pulsed at the apex of her thighs. Her body betrayed her—she was so wet that he had her on the edge quickly. And yet he wouldn’t let her finish, even as she squirmed against him, looking for release. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. The sensation was too great.
“Please,” she said.
“Please what?” He brought his finger up to her clit again and teased her. She stifled her cries the best she could, but it was useless—she couldn’t hide what he did to her.
“Admit that it was for me.” He pressed into her core, hard, and she saw stars. And yet she still couldn’t come. He wasn’t going to let her. She let out a sob of vexation, even though she didn’t mind admitting it—not really. It was the power struggle itself that seemed important.
