She shook her head, tossing her hair against him again.
How did he ask his wife if she would couple with him again? There was nothing in his journal addressing the situation.
He was hot and hard and heavy, breathing with great difficulty as if the room were an oven and not the chilly place it was. He wanted to be inside her, and surrounding her, keeping her warm and loving her. He wanted it all, all the feelings of her, the smells, the silkiness of her skin, the sighs she gave when her body pleased her.
In the most carnal and atavistic way, he wanted to mate with her, place her legs over his shoulders and bury himself in her.
He walked into the bedroom and halted at the side of the bed. He turned his back to the bed and pulled her into his arms. Not to kiss her; kissing Sarah was an occupation in itself. No, right now he needed to rid her of all those clothes.
He began unbuttoning the buttons of her black dress. Should he tell her that she looked beautiful in her mourning, or would that be considered loutish behavior?
“Why are you even wearing a corset?” he asked, annoyed with the laces that stood between him and her skin.
“Would you have me act the harlot?” she asked breathlessly. “Dear heavens, I am, aren’t I?”
He raised his head. By the lamplight her eyes were bright, her hair tumbled, color suffusing her cheeks and a smile curving her lips. She had never looked lovelier. His wife, waiting to be ravished.
“If you are, then I’m…” He hesitated. “What is the male equivalent of harlot?” he asked.
“Pan?” she suggested.
He didn’t know who or what Pan was, and made a mental note to write the name down in his journal and learn about it later. For now, he concentrated on unlacing her corset.
“Why do women wear these infernal things?” he asked, fumbling with the long cords.
“To produce the right curves of the female frame,” she said.
He stared down at her upturned face. “You have to be jesting. You have the perfect form.”
Her color deepened.
She bent her head, removing first one sleeve, then the other. Finally, she pulled off the bodice of her dress and her unlaced corset, tossing both to the bench at the end of the bed. She was left with a shift, he thought it was called, and her skirt, round and plumped by more confusing womanly garments.
“It’s a hoop,” she said, brushing away his impatient hands so she could untie the tapes herself.
“I know nothing of fashion,” he said.
“A hoop is to shield the female frame.”
“The same one the corset is trying to form?”
She laughed, one of the first times he’d ever heard her laugh so freely.
He stilled, his hands on his hips, feeling his heart turn over.
“I know well enough where all your parts are,” he said softly. “Do you not realize I think about you all the time, Sarah? Or that my hands can feel the shape of you even when you’re not around?”
She didn’t speak, concentrating on untying the tapes, both hands at the task. But her face was flaming red, and her fingers trembled. Finally, the tapes were untied,and the hoops dropped to the floor, along with the skirt, leaving her attired in her shift and the cutest ruffled garment he’d ever seen.
He realized he’d never before seen her undress. She’d always been in her nightgown, or had disrobed behind a screen.
“There’s a lot to this getting you naked, Sarah,” he said, smiling.
She looked as if she wanted to admonish him, but she smiled instead, slowly dropping the lacy drawers to the floor.
“Could we extinguish the lamp?” she asked softly. She was still dressed in her shift, but the garment was so sheer that he could see enticing shadows and her breasts pressing against the thin linen.
Darkness would ease her, even though it would strip him of the pleasure of looking at her. He walked to the bedside table and extinguished the lamp, then returned to her side.
