“We should talk about this,” he said, but his hands were at her hips, and she was moving against him again. A needy, urgent noise escaped him.
“There’s nothing to say.”
“On the contrary.” He raised his hand to her breast, the nipple erect even through the layers of fabric. She was so lush and soft and here, and he had wanted her so badly for so long. “Louisa, I—”
“Do you want me?”
He groaned. “I think you know what I want.”
“Then let me.” She arched into his touch. “Not as a transaction, Henry, but as a gift. Because I want to, and so do you.” The rest of the words, unsaid, hung in the air.
Because I love you.
“This was always what I wanted,” she said, and kissed him again. His hands were at her waist, and he could have pushed her away, but he didn’t. Instead, he drew her closer. Closer, closer, until there was no space left between them. He buried his face in her neck and kissed the soft skin there, letting his teeth graze across her throat. She sighed, fingers digging into his hair. Their bodies moved in tandem, seeking friction, relief, their pleasure communicated in gasps and moans.
Eventually he stopped, leaning back so he could look at her. She bore every evidence of a liaison: reddened lips, bright eyes, flushed cheeks. Even her hair had become partially unpinned, although he had no recollection of doing that.
“We should slow down,” he said. His voice was not his own.
Her eyes were soft and green, a frown pinching at them, pushing aside some of the hazy desire. “Why? Have you changed your mind?”
It was too late for that now. “So I don’t embarrass myself,” he said. She tipped her head back and gave a low, throaty laugh. He pinched her hip. “Try not to look so pleased. You well know what you do to me.”
“I do not know,” she said, a seriousness entering her voice. She reached between them to stroke his aching cock through hisbreeches, her slender fingers curving around him. “This is my first opportunity to find out.”
He twitched against her caress and rested his forehead against hers. “Is that not evidence enough?”
“It is a start,” she acknowledged, and slid back, off his lap. She turned, offering him the laced back of her dress, her intent clear. If ever there was a moment to regain his self-control and stop this madness, this was it. But he didn’t hesitate a moment before unlacing her. They had gone too far, and he had committed too much.
The material slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the floor by her feet, and with that gone, she made quick work of her remaining layers. Chemise, stays, drawers, stockings. She wore no petticoats, to his relief.
Then she was naked before him, and nothing could have prepared him. Sunlight streamed in through the window, bathing her in warmth and light, highlighting the jewelled red tones in her hair and casting her eyes into deep pools of green.
His gaze travelled downwards, taking in every curve, every inch of skin. Her breasts were small enough that he fancied he could fit them perfectly in his palm, rounded and heavy with a dusky nipple. Below, there was the generous flare of her hips. Shapely thighs. And between them, the thatch of dark hair that drew all his attention.
Perhaps he had not been born with softness, but he knew something of loyalty and devotion, of worship. If she gave him the chance, he would show her how much he worshipped her.
“Well?” she asked, but there was a light in her eyes that told him she knew a fraction of what he was thinking.
“I could have endured a thousand years and never lived until this moment.”
“Ah,” she said, stepping closer, so her breasts brushed against his shirt. He had not known it would be so erotic, to have her naked body against his clothed one. “So you are a poet, after all.”
“That wasn’t poetry,” he said. “Merely truth.”
“Poetry is art,” she whispered, leaning closer until her mouth was on his once more. “And art is truth.”
Their next kiss was slow and deep. There was no more caution, no more uncertainty. Her lips demanded from him, and he yielded. It was the kind of kiss that could last forever, and in his more whimsical moments, he wondered if he could exist here for the rest of time. Let the world continue without him.
Let the world burn, so long as he could have her.
His hands found her waist. Soft, smooth skin. He was more animal than man in the way he touched her, possessive and needy, learning her lines, her curves, her edges. A woman’s body held so much softness, and he set about to make that familiar.
“What is your truth?” he asked, and looked down at her. “Honesty, Louisa.”
A smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “Is that what we are? Honest with one another?”
“There is nothing more honest than this.”
