“I haven’t seen you at all,” she retorted. “So perhaps you should go first.”
“If that is what it will take to convince you.”
He disrobed. The sling fell on the floor, closely followed by his jacket and linen shirt. She gasped—why hide it?—at the golden expanse of his skin, the sparse dark hair on his chest, the intimacy of seeing his muscles flex in the candlelight. Then, he removed his boots, his breeches, and he was only in his smalls. He was beautiful unclothed, his body powerful and well made, as if someone had crafted him for some exquisite purpose.
And then the smalls disappeared and she realized that, before, she had lied. Because she remembered—his cock made her remember.
“I have seen you before.”
He took a step towards her.
“What do you mean?” He caught her arm and pressed her to him. “How could that be?”
“Three summers ago—in the woods.”
He released her and sat on the bed.
“Tell me as you undress.”
The idea of telling the story while she was undressing seemed unbearably intimate. It also seemed to violate the principle of what they had shared that day: his endeavor to leave the past behind and know each other on their own terms.
And, yet, the intensity of his gaze and the beauty of his body, how it made her lose her breath, had the story coming from her lips.
“The summer after my first season, you were visiting Edington Hall,” she said, undoing the sash of her simple day dress and pulling it from her shoulders.
“It was summer. A beautiful day. And I went for a walk in the woods near the Hall.” Her dress pooled at her feet. She heard his breath catch and the sound pushed her to keep going. “I heard you tell John you would be swimming at the pond. And yet I wouldn’t admit to myself that I was walking there.”
Trem groaned as she undid her stays. She was only in her chemise now. She hadn’t worn drawers.
“And then what happened?”
She took a step towards him, positioning herself between his legs. She touched his shoulders, lightly, the sensation of his skin, warm and smooth, making her wet.
“I saw you. Naked. In the water. You were so beautiful. I didn’t believe anyone could be that beautiful. I thought it should be a crime.”
He reached between her legs. He gave a sharp inhale when he discovered how wet she was already. He parted her with one finger, gently and slowly undulating in and out of her. The sensation made her head swim.
“And then what?”
“That’s the end of the story. I watched you. And then I snuck away.”
“No,” he said, “I know you. Now I do. You did something with a sight that pleased you so much.”
He reached up and pressed his finger against her clit. She moaned at the sensation, the gentleness of his touch. It had been days and she was so ready for him. He did it again and she felt her knees go weak.
“What did you do?”
She had forgotten what they were discussing. Then she remembered. He was right. Of course he was.
“That night, I couldn’t sleep for thinking of you. I had never quite felt that way before. My skin felt feverish. I could feel myself growing wet. But I didn’t understand it. I had never touched myself before.”
He groaned. “Christ, Henrietta.” He pressed two fingers inside of her now and she cried out, grasping onto his shoulders for balance.
“I swear. It’s true. I had never done that before. And I started to throb, thinking about you in the water. Your smile, the drops of water running down your body, your cock…”
“Minx,” he teased. He moved his fingers up to her clit again and stroked her. She could feel the tension building deep inside her.
“I reached down to touch myself, just to discover what was wrong. But it felt good. So good. Especially when I imagined you doing it—touching me.”
