He came out of sleep just before dawn to a bouquet of red curls in his face and a lush, warm armful of woman against him, her breasts hugging his side, one of her perfect, dimpled thighs sprawled over both of his. Carefully, he extracted himself, gathered his shirt and the rest of his clothes, and fled to his own room before she could wake.
In the light of day, she might not be able to hide her displeasure from him, what she really felt about what he had done to her in the dark.
He needed to dress, to shave, to erect his usual shields before he would have the courage to face her.
Sixteen
Henrietta woke up alone. But Oliver had been there for most of the night, she was sure of it.
So. That was fornication.
In so many ways, it had been just like a stallion mounting a mare. Just as brief, just as passionless.
It certainly hadn’t been what she had imagined it would be based on her mother’s descriptions. Or based on her own thoughts when she touched herself.
She’d liked the first part. Whispering in the dark. Smelling the whisky on his breath. Him holding her. Her kissing his chest.
The next part? Well, she thought she might like to have that full feeling again, and she’d liked his body being close to hers, but there’d been scarcely any touching. And it was so quick. And he really hadn’t gotten that close to her pleasure spot, had he?
She’d thought of giving herself some relief afterwards, but she didn’t know if it would disturb either him or his seed if she touched herself down there, so she had refrained. And she had promised him she would like anything he did, so it didn’t seem like a good idea to touch herself and demonstrate to him that he had not satisfied her.
Even though he hadn’t. Nowhere near.
Still, she had had the pleasure of the holding before and the sleeping next to him after. And she might get a child from this.
It was a pity the ecstasy he gave her heart was not matched by an ecstasy he gave her body.
Yet.
She touched herself between her legs. Yes, her entrance was sore. She shifted over to look at the sheet under where her bottom had been. Yes, no blood. It had been just as she had guessed—she had had nothing to break and therefore there had been no reason for her to bleed.
Now she was lying where Oliver’s body had been, where he had slept. She turned over and buried her face in the pillow where his head had rested. Oh, the delicious scent of him.
And there face down, she wormed a hand under her belly and rubbed herself, breathing deeply through her nose and thinking about him.
Surrounded by his smell, she had one of the most glorious climaxes of her life.
Oh, Oliver.
If only he had held her longer. Kissed her. Touched her breasts. Touched her between her legs more.
But he was so much older, so much wiser, so much more experienced. There couldn’t possibly be anything she could teach him. He had done this with at least two other women. He must know what he was doing, right?
Right?
That evening, after dinner, she developed a new worry.
“I don’t suppose,” she said, staring into the fire. It was rainy. They were in the drawing room. He was reading his newspaper, but she had not yet taken up her stitchery.
“Mmm?” he said from behind his paper.
“Well,” she said and straightened her skirts. “I don’t suppose—that is, after I am with child, you might continue to come to my bed?”
He moved his paper to the side. His gray eyes flared with a strange heat as he quirked one eyebrow at her. And there was that one lock of hair suspended over his forehead. That gorgeous curl. She’d love to touch it. It looked so soft and thick.
“I would not wish to inconvenience you,” he said.
Inconveniencewas just another word forimpose. But this time, she wouldn’t stay silent. She would make it clear he should come to her.
