“That’s all right, then.” She moaned softly as he suckled flesh. There would be marks on her skin come morning to remind her he had done this thing and she’d let him. Right now she would let him do anything. Her hands slipped under his drawers and drew a line around his waist from back to front. They slid lower and she cupped his balls.
“Yes,” he whispered against her ear. He was hot and heavy in her hands, and when she circled his erection, he caught his breath. “Yes,” he said. “Like that.”
She stroked him, tentatively at first. It required assurance from him that she wasn’t hurting him for her to be firm and deliberate.
“Wait,” he said, gripping her hand. “I can’t... you can’t... I have to...” He sat up suddenly and leaned toward the table. He patted the top, felt around the lamp, knocked Laurel’s spectacles onto the floor, and couldn’t find what he wanted. “What did you do with it?”
“What?” It wasn’t right that he should make her all muzzy-headed and noodle-limbed and then expect her to answer questions. “Oh. That.”
“Yes. That. What did you do with it?”
“Nothing. You had it last. Maybe it fell in the drawer.”
He found the knob, pulled the drawer open, and blindly searched for the French letter packet.
“There are matches in there,” she said helpfully.
“I know. I found them.”
“Maybe you should use one.”
When he grunted something unintelligible, Laurel also sat up and leaned around him so she could reach the table. Her hand joined his in the drawer, but her search was for the matches. She found the packet first and gave it to him then her fingers closed over the matches.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “I have what I need.”
“I want to see.”
“Of course you do,” he said dryly, but then his cock stirred and he admitted to himself that it wasn’t the worst idea in the world. “Well, light the lamp, for God’s sake.”
Laurel smothered her laughter against his shoulder before she inched closer to the edge of the bed so she could use both hands. When she finally lit the lamp and blew out the match, she was still smiling, albeit a little wickedly. “I’m watching,” she said, rising to her knees for a better view. “Show me.”
“Your curiosity is oddly arousing.”
“Huh. Well, that’s good, I think.” She watched him carefully open the packet, remove the French letter, and carefully unfold it. It was so thin as to be almost transparent and so delicate that she feared he would tear it before it served its purpose. Most astonishing, it wasn’t much bigger than his thumb. “That won’t work,” she told him. “It’s too tiny, and you’re enormous.”
“Oddly flattering, too,” he said to himself. “It stretches.”
“Oh. Like a sausage casing.”
“I swear, Laurel, if you don’t shut up, we’re never going to get to it.”
But they did get to it. Neither could help the laughter that bubbled up from time to time. It was release of a different sort and it made them playful and attentive to the needs of the other in a new way. He learned she was ticklish at the back of her knees. She discovered that touching the dimples at the base of his spine made him shiver. His beard was delightfully abrasive against her breasts, andher hair, when it was finally free, made a silky cascade for him to sift with his fingers.
She raised her knees and hugged his hips when he pushed himself into her. She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes, and allowed herself the simple joy of feeling. It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t moving. She looked up at him and saw it was the same for him. That made her smile, not wickedly now, lovingly. Her hands left his arms and cupped his face. She brushed his mouth with her thumb. “I love your mouth,” she whispered. His lips parted and he bit down gently. Her skin quivered and her womb contracted. She arched and he thrust more deeply. It was exactly what she wanted and her small cry of satisfaction told him that.
He was a long time loving her, at least it felt that way. Laurel teetered on the edge of pleasure so often that she no longer knew when or if she could expect to find release, and when it finally happened, when she felt herself falling as though from a great height, she pressed the back of one hand to her mouth to muffle her shout that was both surprise and relief.
He wasn’t very far behind her. It had only taken her stifled shout to toss him to the wind. A few short, shallow strokes and he was joining her. The long muscles in his arms and legs contracted and then rippled as a shudder went through him. With an effort, he lifted himself off Laurel and slipped onto his side.
“Move over,” he said, nudging her. “I’m going to fall off the bed.”
“It would serve you right,” she said when she could catch her breath. “You’re a horrible man.” She slid six inches to her right to make room for him. She frowned when he sat up and put his legs over the side of the bed instead of moving over. “What are you—oh, you’re taking it off, aren’t you?”
“I am.” He was also examining it for tears but he didn’t mention that. After judging that it was still intact, Call returned it to the envelope it came in. Disposing of a Frenchletter wasn’t generally a problem, but here he had Mrs. Lancaster’s keen eye to consider. He thought he might have to bury the damn thing, and he wasn’t sure he was kidding. Standing, he went to the washstand and poured water in the basin. He cleaned himself, aware that Laurel was watching him with her usual unabashed interest. Settling his drawers over his hips again, he returned to the bed and slipped under the covers she held up for him. “Why am I a horrible man?” he asked.
“You tortured me.”
“Did I?”
