Oliver was nervous? Even though he had done this before?
“Don’t be nervous. It’s just me, after all.”
Another strange noise came from him. Oh, no. Was he going to flee?
“Please, come in. Won’t you? Please?”
At first, his silhouette did not move. Then there was a step, and the light behind him winked out as the door closed, and they were in the dark together.
She got up on her elbows. “You’ll have to tell me if I do something wrong. I’m not the most clever, as you know, and I don’t want to . . . I mean, I want you to enjoy it.”
“You’re very clever. And I should be the one trying to make sure you enjoy it.”
How sweet he was being. She swallowed. “I’m sure I’ll like anything you do.”
“I am . . . notsure you will.”
“I liked your kiss,” she said boldly.
He said nothing.
“The kiss you gave me? In my father’s study?”
“I remember.”
She waited as long as she could. Many seconds. “So, are you going to come into the bed?”
“Yes.”
Rustling followed, and she cursed the darkness, longing to light a candle. She wanted to watch her husband undress, see those long limbs in all their glory. See his skin. See his member again and find out if he was aroused as he had been when she had seen it before.
The mattress dipped as he slipped in under the sheet and counterpane, carefully keeping to the other side of the bed, not touching her, not even accidentally.
She smelled something familiar.
“I’ve always wondered,” she said.
“What?”
“That kiss . . . your mouth tasted of . . . well, I’ve never had whisky, but I’ve smelled it on my father’s breath before. Had you drunk some whisky that night you kissed me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you drink some tonight?”
“One glass. I thought it might help my nerves.”
“Has it?”
“I think I might still be downstairs if not for the whisky.”
She turned on her side, towards him, wanting to touch him so badly. “Perhaps you should have drunk more than one glass.”
“Whisky can impede . . . performance.”
“Is that true for women?”
“There’s no question of performance for women, is there?”
