“I am amenable, Stoker.” She slid her leg over the top of his, tracing his calf with the arch of her foot. It was an unbelievable luxury. She should have gotten into bed with him weeks ago.
“I have given it hours of thought,” he said, “and I am going to endeavor to approach it from a less raw, more measured sort of way.”
“Oh,” she said, her foot going still. This did not sound like any fun at all.
“I think I shall feel less conflicted about it, if I try to be... refined.”
Sabine tried to think of any “refined” element of Stoker’s character that she found explicitly arousing. He was very well spoken and well-read, which she liked. He looked rather adorable in the spectacles. He had been handsome in the suit he’d worn to the ball, although she far preferred it when his jacket was on the floor and his trousers had been around his hips.
She cleared her throat. He was awaiting some response. Already, this disappointed her. It was less exciting for him to wait.
“Whatever you wish,” she whispered.
He moved in to kiss her then, one slow, soft kiss. He pulled back and looked down at her expectantly.Survived it!she wanted to say, but he descended again. Another slow soft kiss. This melded into more kisses, still slow but less soft, and she had the thought that this might be rather nice. It was nice in the way that plum-bolster pudding was nice after spicy soup. Or a rainy day when you were too tired to go out.
She reached for him, hoping to recapture some of the ardor of the ball, but he caught her hands and pressed them to his chest, holding them there as if she was taking his pulse.
And then he touched her. His free hand descended onto her face in the way a widow may grievingly touch a corpse in a casket one final time.
Sabine blinked and jerked her head, trying to keep his fingers out of her eye and ear. Finally, reverently, he moved his hand to her shoulder.
Now he will touch me,she thought, and he did touch her, but it was a slow, soft glancing sort ofdragdown her arm through the sleeve of her gown. He touched her the way a concerned mother might touch a child’s bruise. Not so much a caress as a gentle assessment.
Sabine tried to wiggle her hands free, to reach for him, but he held them firm against his chest. This spiked her irritation, and she jerked away, opening and closing her hands, wiggling fingers. She settled her hands on his shoulders, determined to knead the way around his neck, but it felt strange and out of balance for her to frantically paw at his body when he continued the glacial, measured smear of his hands up and down one fully explored arm.
She let her hands go limp around his neck and tried to focus on kissing him, but now she had begun to itch. Her hair was itching, and she could not seem to find the correct spot. Now her wrist itched. Her leg.
Next her foot fell asleep. Now she was hot, kicking off covers, and then cold, scrambling beneath them. Stoker bore it all patiently—although, was he sweating?—and she finally forced herself to flop onto her back and simply allow him to rub and mush-mouth kiss and devote considerable energy to holding any body part below his chestawayfrom her.
When at last he moved to lift the hem of her gown and settle over her, she welcomed the weight of him, because at least it was strong and heavy and she could trace the muscles of his back with her hands, which she had fantasized about repeating since their very first kiss.
He entered her with the slow press of a dull spade digging into dry earth. Sabine winced, but accepted him, wondering how this could be satisfying for him in any way. It wasn’t unpleasant so much as a waste of their time in the bed. They could be tearing at each other’s bodies as they’d done in Denby House, burning with pleasure—they could be sleeping, for that matter—instead, they wererefined.
When finally, he finished, rolling off her to breathe deeply at the ceiling, his hand sought out hers beneath the covers. It was, for Sabine, the high point. She had the idle thought that she would not mind asking for a piece of jewelry in trade for this experience. Or perhaps a new drafting kit. Or—
She drifted off to sleep before her wish list was complete and dreamt of their first time.
