He got her on the bed and was about to take her, to plunge into her, to rut with—
And she told him to stop.
Christ almighty, she was the one who had suggested a fuck!
And then he saw her face. Anger, the beginning of tears. So like the look she had had when that villain had been touching her in the coach.
But todayhewas the villain.
Five leagues backward, indeed.
She hated him now like every other woman in the world. He sat on the edge of his bed and cursed himself, his cock, the animal who lived inside him.
A truth bubbled up and he let it out. “I would like to please you.”
“Why?”
He couldn’t answer that.
“Do you want to please me because I’m your teacher? Or are you a selfish pig-widgeon and you think pleasing me will get you what you want?”
“I’m a selfish pig-widgeon. But I don’t want to be.” He gulped. “With you.”
Then her boots landed on the floor and she nestled next to him and touched his chest and laughed and he held her hand and somehow he knew everything would be all right between them.
And that rightness was more important than any so-called amorous congress.
He stared into her beautiful eyes. “Will you tell me what to do?”
“Of course, I will.”
She laughed again and he laughed with her. Because she was laughing and she didn’t hate him and because she still wanted him.
Laughing felt almost as good as her arse had in his hands.
“All right,” she said, sitting up. “Let’s have a chat first.”
He looked up at her.
“As you know, I’m illegitimate. And while I adore my brother and don’t think too badly of myself, I cannot bring another bastard into the world. So we have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
His mind raced. “I could, I mean, we could not fuck— We could do other things.” He had heard of men bringing women to climax with their hands or mouths. He, the selfish arseh—uh, pig-wigeon—had never done it himself, but Franny had promised to tell him what to do.
Was that a flicker of disappointment he saw on Franny’s face?
An alternative. “Or, or, or I could spill outside of you.Coitus interruptus.”
“Yes,” she said. “Or do you have a French letter, Kit?”
“No. But I could go buy one.”
“Or two.” She smiled. Did that mean what he thought it meant?
“Or three. Or a baker’s dozen.” He started to get up, but she laughed and put her hand on his chest again and he relaxed back.
“Oh, Kit. I’m delighted you’re so vigorous. But if you think you can control yourself, you can spill outside of me.”
“I can control myself. I have a lot of practice controlling myself.”
