“Impatient, love?”
“Yes.”
He laughed softly, and cupped her bottom before easing her dress up her legs. She wore too many layers, but he removed them with ease, and she helped, drawing herself up so he could tug them free. Her hair fell messily around her face when he had done, and she glanced over her shoulder at him, grinning through the tangled red that obscured her vision.
“An enchantress indeed,” he said, a little hoarse as he brushed her hair aside. “You know, it was your hair I noticed first.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” He turned her, sitting her shoulders against the pillow and leaning over her to kiss her mouth softly. Then, as she arched her back against him, longing for the feel ofsomethingagainst her aching breasts and sensitive nipples, he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth, where she met it with hers. He groaned.
“I want your clothes off,” she said as she broke away, almost astounding herself with her boldness.
His smile turned into a smirk. “Be my guest.”
Intriguing. She had never been the one to remove his clothes before—most times, he’d been wearing very little, and had removed it before joining her. How bizarre that four years of marriage had given her no better understanding of men’s clothing. She fumbled with the buttons of his coat and waistcoat, tossing them aside. He helped her remove his shirt, tugging it over his head. Then came his breeches, her work already impeded by the large bulge that distorted the material. More than that, as she unbuttoned his falls, he made a noise that could only be described as a hiss every time her fingers passed over it.
She experimented by doing it again, and he sucked in a breath, the sound coming from his chest almost a rumble. Then, through the material of his breeches, she took hold of his length. Squeezed.
He caught her wrist. “Peace, my love,” he said with a wry smile. “Let’s finish your education in men’s clothing before all your hard work goes to waste.”
She frowned, trying to piece together the meaning of his words, but he merely gestured to the half-finished buttons. She completed them—there were only three—and he helped her remove them.
Then he sat before her, naked as she, and took her hand, toying with her fingers. “I know I am not as young as I was, or asspry,” he said, tenderly, “but I will show you pleasure if you allow me that right.”
Cecily leant in, pressing her mouth against Percy’s, her other hand running down his chest until she encountered the wet tip of his erection. “I always found you handsome,” she said, her breasts brushing his chest. This time, she was the one to suck in a breath. “Even if I could not admit it to myself at the time.”
He urged her closer with a hand to the small of her back, and she obeyed, finding a way of sitting with her legs around his waist, their bodies pressed together with no room between them, her sensitive centre rubbing against his length. Every contact sent a burst of pleasure through her like sparks.
He kissed her, and she relaxed against him, no longer thinking about her figure, and whether he would find its sharp angles appealing. All she thought about was their bodies, and what they could do to one another. What they already did. What shewanted.
He broke away, panting, and she had the impression that even though they were barely moving, barely rocking against one another, he was already close.
And she—yes, she felt the way her body tightened in anticipation of her climax’s arrival. As though he held the reins of her pleasure, and with each flick, he commanded it closer.
“Is this good for you?” she asked, moving against him and matching his rhythm. This position was both heaven and torture; they were so close that she could not move very far, but each tiny motion turned to fire in her veins.
Her hips tilted, and he almost slid inside.
The need to be filled swallowed her whole, and she whimpered in frustration.
He brushed a curl back from her eyes, and she realised he was trembling, too.
“We should discuss children,” he said.
The incongruity of the statement took her entirely by surprise. One did not, she presumed, engage in these kinds of activities and think about children. Or, indeed, or anything other than one’s partner.
He laughed at the expression on her face, and the movement almost slipped him inside her again. With what appeared to be great effort, he shifted, and the rub of his hardness through her slickness made her shudder, thoughts scattering.
“If you do not wish for children yet, then that changes—ah—things.” His words sounded strained now. “How we should go about this.”
“You’ve never asked before.”
“Forgive me.” He kissed one freckled shoulder. “I ought to have done.”
Children. Instinctively, she thought about her mother, and her movements stilled, ardour dampened. She hadn’t considered children, except to assume they would inevitably have some, and then to assume that they would not, given his lack of dedication in that area. This was . . . unexpected.
And yet, when she considered it, her heart thrummed at the thought of bearing Percy’s children. Perhaps she would have a red-haired girl with the soul of a dreamer and her father’s patient eyes—and heavens above, shewantedthat. Wanted it more than she could ever have articulated.
