But he couldn’t deny his relief that she wanted him as much as he craved her. Helped, he had to admit, by the spectacularly delicate nightgown she was wearing.
“Your gown is delightful,” he murmured into her ear. “Would you mind terribly if I took it off?”
She paused, and he wondered if, as punishment for asking when she had not offered, she would withhold permission. Part of him craved the idea of her riding him, nightdress still intact, forcing him to use his imagination instead. The memory of her using him for her own pleasure made his cock strain against his trousers.
But another part of him needed to see her. A primal, wordless urge to make her his—and, more importantly, to offer himselfwholly to her so she could make him hers. For that, they would both have to be without clothes. Naked, together.
Perhaps she saw that need in his eyes, or perhaps she felt the same way, because she smiled a little.
“Be my guest.” Stepping back, she turned so he might access the ribbons criss-crossing her back.
This was a nightgown designed to be unwrapped. One unmarried ladies did not habitually wear. If Louisa had provided it—
He shut the thought away. The less he thought about Louisa at a time like this, the better.
His mouth went dry as he tugged at the silken ribbons, loosening the nightgown at the back. Soft, freckled skin emerged, and he trailed his fingers down her spine before sliding the material free of her shoulders.
She stepped free and turned, letting him see every inch of her. He nearly groaned; no matter how often he had her, it would never be enough. Need consumed him—she consumed him. Every imperfectly perfect inch of her body. Her small breasts, nipples pink against her skin, already pearled in the evening air. The smooth lines down to her waist, ribs just visible under her skin, and the jut of her hips. Slender—everything about her felt compact, and he adored that although she might have been near his height, her body still felt small compared to his.
And the thatch of hair between her legs. He ached to touch her.
But he didn’t. Instead, he drank her in, waiting for her to come to him.
“Emily,” he said, his voice a trifle hoarse. “I love you.”
Her chin tipped up, and her eyes met his, and in them, he saw something he hadn’t often seen before—wonder.
“I know,” she said.
“Does that scare you?”
A soft smile lit her face. “Not as much as it did.” She slid a hand across her stomach, and the juxtaposition of her overworked, rough skin against the pale softness of her stomach made him throb. By God, she was perfect. Perhaps not by usual standards, but for him.
“Can I touch you?” he asked—near begged.
A smile caught her lips, and she shook her head.
“Not yet. Let me undress you.”
It took effort, but he held still as her hands roamed over his shoulders, gentle with his injured arm and exploratory elsewhere. This, he understood, was a claiming of her own. They had come up against Marlbury, and now she needed to ensure that he, Oliver, was still hers. Marriage was one thing, but there was honesty in vulnerability.
He could not hide his arousal, nor the strength of his need for her. Just as she could not hide the flush that painted her cheeks, or the vividness of her eyes in the candlelight. In this, they were wholly united.
She undressed him with her customary brisk efficiency, though her hands lingered somewhat when she finally encountered bare skin. And when she carefully drew his trousers down over his erection, she made a tiny hum of approval in the back of her throat that made his cock jerk in response.
“Emily,” he said.
She looked up from where she knelt before him, and his heart almost stopped. “Yes?”
“I think I might have died and gone to heaven.”
She smiled then, so beautiful he couldn’t take it, and gently kissed the tip of his erection, licking her lips at the moisture he left there. One hand glided up his thigh to his stomach, and the other wrapped around him.
His legs were sure to give out. The last time she had done this, she had tied him—however ineffectually—to a bedpost, both so he had support and no way of touching her.
Now, she trusted him to ask permission before touching, and relied upon the structural integrity of his knees. A fool’s error. When she took him entirely in her mouth, he prayed to God above that he could hold out. With his one good hand, he reached for something to support him. There was nothing, and so he dragged that hand through his hair. The torment of her tongue overwhelmed everything.
She licked him slowly, as though savouring him, and sent her other hand between her legs. He cursed under his breath. His thigh muscles trembled as they endeavoured to keep him upright. Blood pounded in his head, and pressure tightened at the base of his spine. He ought to look away, but all he could see was her hand delving between the dark hair.
