“And so I will.” He slid his fingers down to hers, just grazing the tip of her folds, the wetness there making his stomach clench. “Here,” he murmured, trying to keep his composure, though every instinct screamed at him to plunge inside her. “Draw small circles. Find what pleasures you the most. Explore yourself.” He removed his hand so he might watch her better. “And then you can instruct me on how best to touch you.”
Chapter Ten
Evelyn had felt nervous about a great many things in her life. Most events came with a healthy dose of anxiety, and she never doubted herself more than when she wanted to please another person. That was, unless the person in question was Charles.
Even now, with his hand covering hers over her most private of areas, the only thing she felt was a tightening sensation of anticipation low in her belly. Pleasure bloomed under even the inexpert movement of her fingers. And yet something held her back.
“Is this not wrong?” she asked. “To touch myself in this way?”
“Does it feel wrong?”
No, it most certainly did not. But she had always been taught that a woman exploring her own body was . . . Well,sinful.
Everything you are doing here is arguably sinful in the eyes of God, Evelyn. Is that going to stop you?
It had not stopped her so far.
His gaze probed hers, as though he could peel away all her layers and read her thoughts. “Would you like to stop?” he asked gently.
“No.”
“Good.” His hand guided hers in gentle circles, and the bursts of pleasure, like sparks from a fire, that erupted from the sensation nearly shocked her speechless. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”
“I—” It required more concentration than she could have imagined to produce even words. “No, not uncomfortable.”
“Then are you happy to proceed?”
“Yes,” she gasped.
He smiled, his mouth ghosting along the curve of her neck. “Very well.” He removed his hand from hers and placed it across her stomach once more. “Then keep going. Listen to your body and what it is teaching you. Pleasure is an art-form. Let it speak to you.”
She had never heard laconic, drawling, indolent Charles speak in such a way, and so earnestly, as though he believed in nothing more than what he told her. About pleasure being art—as though it was not just gratification, but a thing of beauty.
She moved her hand on herself. Without his guidance, she felt less certain. And yet, though intellectually she did not know what to do, she found her body provided the instructions that she lacked. Though clumsy, her fingers found a place where her pleasure peaked. She caressed herself with a sense of dawning wonder, both that this was possible, and that she had never thought to attempt such a thing before.
“That’s right,” he murmured, the fingers on her stomach tightening a little, digging into her flesh in a way that might once have made her self-conscious, if she had not heard so much suppressed desire in his voice. “You are perfection.”
She heard the words and knew them, fundamentally, to be untrue. Yet the sound of them spurred her on, as did the low catch in his breathing as he watched her. She felt the hot, heavy rod of his arousal against her thigh. Proof that he wanted her. The thought made her own pleasure spike higher.
“Charles,” she said, hearing the whine in her voice but unable to prevent it. With him, she had become someone she did not recognise.
“Yes, my darling?”
Her body moved restlessly under her fingers, slick and wanting. Everything inside her appeared to be growing in a crescendo, but she had no idea what to do now.
“Charles,” sherepeated, pitiful this time.
“May I touch you?” His voice sounded gravelly to her ears.
“Yes!” She pounced on the idea eagerly, legs spreading at the idea. “Please. I think—you must know what you are doing better than I. Teach me all that I am missing. What comes next? What can I—”
“Peace.” He kissed her shoulder as his hand crept up to cup her breast. “Surrender yourself to it. I’m here.” His fingers found her nipple, stroking slow circles around it the same way she had been drawing circles on herself. When he pinched it, she felt the shock, the burst of sensation travel straight through her to the burgeoning heat in her lower abdomen. “Nothing bad will happen. I promise.”
She sucked in a long, deep breath, and resumed her ministrations with her fingers, closing her eyes. Charles’s mouth travelled down her chest to the swell of her breast, the hot pressure of his tongue exploring her lazily. She felt wound tighter than a spring, the pressure building inside her new and almost frightening, and yet she craved more. She moved her hand faster, chasing the feeling, attempting to make it bloom inside her.
Charles rose onto his elbows, and she opened her eyes to find his gaze on hers, steady as a heartbeat. So present, just as he had promised. Her relief at the sight felt mind-altering, as though the world had shifted slightly on its axis.
“You are approaching your climax,” he said, informing her of this as though she ought to know precisely what he meant. And somehow, she did. A climax. The word sounded appropriate for what felt as though it was coming, a train thundering closer. “The agony of bliss. Let it come, sweet.”
