“Very well.” She walked past him to the bed and lay on her back there, legs splayed. It was the very picture of desire, branded into his being, and he knew he would not forget it as long as he lived. The erotic swell of her breasts, the dip of her stomach, the jut of her hipbones, the creamy softness of her thighs. And between her legs, a glimpse of pink.
He had never been so aroused; he cupped himself, squeezing hard enough to almost hurt, wishing he could ease the ache and never wanting this moment to end. With Louisa, he was nothing but a contradiction.
“I like the way you look at me,” she said, and when he glanced at her again, she smiled. “Honesty.”
“I like the way you look,” he rasped. “Teach me how to touch you.”
She beckoned with two fingers, and he stretched himself on the bed beside her, the urge to put his hands on her like fire in his blood. Taking his hand in hers, she placed it on her stomach. “Women are not the same as men,” she said. “We require something more to prepare us.” Her eyes remained on his as she guided his hand down, lower, to the soft hair between her legs, then lower still, to the slickness between. She tipped her head back on a soft gasp as he touched her.
“So sensitive,” he said in wonder.
“Yes. You made me that way.”
“I did?”
“Yes. I’m . . . ready because I’m already aroused.” She spoke with no shame, comfortable and confident with the reality of her body and what it meant. He loved that confidence, even as some part of him still wished they could have experienced this together.
She had offered it. He had been the one too foolish to accept.
“Is this good?” he asked.
She took his hand, guiding it to where she wanted him, and he did his best to copy her movements. Touching her brought its own pleasure; knowing that he was pleasing her pleased him, too. He was a man drowning, certain he would never come up for air again. Content in the knowledge that if he must be lost in someone, then at least it was her.
Eyes on him, she brought his other hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles, then licked them lightly. He twitched, the friction from his trousers alone almost enough to undo him.
“These hands,” she said, lips moving against his skin. “I have thought a great deal about these hands.”
He slid a finger inside her and her back arched. “Do they pass muster?”
“They will . . . suffice.” The heaviness of her breathing belied her words, but before he could become too complacent in the pleasure he was offering her, she opened her mouth and sucked his index finger into its wet heat. There was tenderness there, too, the way she wrapped her slim fingers around his wrist, the way she held his gaze, open and unafraid, letting him into this most sacred part of her life.
She did not do it lightly, he knew.
“How I have wanted you,” he said, the words dark, possessing, and her eyes glazed. She squeezed around his finger, and the sharp stab of need was almost unbearable. He shifted, pressing his aching cock against the bed as her tongue flicked up the length of his finger, and the pressure at the base of his balls tightened. His groan was low and desperate.
“Henry,” she said, and reached for him, running her fingers along the bulge of his breeches before he could stay her hand. She traced the shape of him, and the friction was wonderful, unbearable, so impossibly good. Too much, too far, too close.
He wanted to be inside her. Needed it.
“Kiss me.” Her voice was breathy, a half gasp, a command he would have obeyed if his body had not betrayed him. His body locked, he strained to hold himself back, but to no avail: he tumbled over the edge he had been straddling for so long. White-hot pleasure licked down his spine, and he garbled something—a far cry from the control he had spent so many years mastering. Then again, she had always been the one to brush past the walls he had built; it was no surprise that she had taken over his body, too. Release was mindless, and he lost himself in the feel of her body against his as he spent himself.
His last fractured, foolish thought was that if he could just endeavour to keep her satisfied here with him, she might never leave.
Chapter Twenty
Louisa had never known him to be so gentle.
This was, perhaps, her fault; she did not expect tenderness from her lovers. They were there to achieve a specific aim, and once it was over, there was no need for either of them to linger. There was no moment to hold on to, no emotion to address delicately.
She had been friends with them all, and had coached them on how to best pleasure her, just as she had learnt from them. Bodies were each different, and she had enjoyed the challenge and satisfaction of finding the correct key for each lock, and turning it in her own time.
Henry’s blue eyes fluttered open, dazed and soft, and he leant forward, pressing a kiss against her jaw, his fingers regaining the rhythm they had maintained before his release. The hot ball of tension in her belly tightened. Having him not so much as question whether she wanted him to continue his ministrations was arousing in itself, and she bit her lip.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, but she shook her head.
“I liked it.”
“Honesty?”
