It was almost embarrassing how quickly he hardened at the feel of her lips on his. The longer he kissed her, the longer he wondered why he had ever resisted for this long.
After their first kiss, when he had been terrifyingly close to pushing up her skirts and taking her against the wall, he had known in precise terms what he had been denying himself. Buthe had been certain, or as certain as a man could be, that she would become his wife.
Then, after that became an impossibility, he had denied himself out of mistaken pride. The very concept of those boundaries, however artificial, had been a relief. A crutch of sorts. His vows had become a demonstration of his control in a life that had been subject to so little of it.
In reality, his restraint had never truly been tested by another woman. Still, he had found relief in the iron rigidity of his vows, as though it was proof of his worth.
And yet some part of him had always known that he would break his vows for her. Not as some twisted form of gratitude, or repayment, but because she wanted this—wanted him—as heartily and unashamedly as he wanted her.
Nothing that felt so right could be wrong.
The nape of her neck was soft against his fingers as he placed his hand there, tilting her face up to his. She made a small noise in the back of her throat, a sound of appreciation that made him twitch helplessly.
Their kiss had not begun gently, but somehow it deepened further still, the urgency of her mouth matching his. Her teeth scraped his bottom lip, and he groaned. He had known how good they would feel together, but he had not known quite how well they would fit. Her curves against his body, her mouth against his, her hands exploring the breadth of his shoulders.
She took his hand and brought it to her breast. The soft weight of it, the hard nub of her nipple. As he swiped his thumb across it, she arched back into his touch. He did it again, and she gasped into his mouth.
Aware of his inexperience, he experimented with how she liked to be touched. Gently or more forcefully, stroking and cupping and squeezing. It was the purest form of heaven to have her in his arms like this; it was the greatest torment.
It was everything he had dreamt about so avidly these past nine years, torturing himself at night while during the day he pretended indifference.
What folly.
He was beyond pretence now. His hips bucked into her of their own accord, and she laughed, a breathy, desperate sound. They moved together, bodies tangled, his leg moving between hers, her hands on his shoulders, holding him to her as she licked his lips. There was still too much space between them, though they were pressed flush.
He had never experienced such hunger.
The back of his knees knocked against the bed and he sat on instinct. Immediately, she was on his lap, hitching her dress up around her legs and inching forward so her breasts pressed against his chest. The air left his body in a rush.
Here, like this, she seemed tiny in his arms. Fragile. So easily breakable—and had he not already broken her? He had not been born to softness, and although when they were young, she had coaxed it from him, he had spent the time apart coating those tenderer feelings in iron and steel. If he was not careful, he might break her again.
If he was not careful, she would shatter him like a brittle sword.
“Louisa,” he said, her name sweet on his tongue like honey.
“No talking.” Her arms wrapped around his neck and she pressed the apex of her thighs against his erection, rocking against him in a way that made his entire body tighten. Then her mouth was back on his and there was no space in his mind for anything but this.
Soft curves. Layers of clothing between them. Her hands skating across his shoulders and down, touching him with a surety that told him she was not unfamiliar with the male form. All things he had known, and that were in many ways a relief tohim. Now he would not have to guide her with ignorance; she could lead the way and he would follow, he would gladly learn from her if only it would give her pleasure.
And the final piece of his heart, the part of himself he had saved, would be hers.
Her head lolled back as she broke the kiss, her face glazed with pleasure as she moved against him. Even through his breeches, he could feel the heat and dampness of her arousal. He throbbed, ached, the friction almost unbearable.
This alone would be enough to make him climax. Her tongue was hot and slick, and she was making tiny breathy moans into his mouth, and he was so ludicrously sensitive that it would take very little to bring him to the edge.
“Wait,” he said hoarsely, catching her hips and stilling her. “We should . . .”
Her lips ghosted along his jaw, and she pressed a kiss to the hollow of his ear. It was not a place he would ever have thought to touch, but the sensation sent a shudder through him. “Would you like me to stop?” she whispered.
Yes.
No.
He twitched helplessly against her. The answer was most definitely not—he was on the very edge of a precipice and if they went any further, there would be no turning back.
He wanted her.
But he had never been one to merely accept a night. The revelation that he still loved her had rocked him; this evidence of her desire for him had knocked him still further, and he was half out of his mind for her. He did not just want this once—he wanted everything.
