Chapter Eight
Ophelia woke updisoriented. Then she felt the heat of another body and looked over to see Julian lying next to her, reading.
“Good morning,” he said, as if she were in the dining room having breakfast, and not naked in his bed.
Her body felt light and... wonderful. There was a pinching feeling near her sex, but the rest of her felt elated. The sheets slid around her naked skin, a decadent sensation. “Good morning.”
“I ordered a tea tray to be delivered to the room, but I didn’t want to arouse suspicion, so there will only be one cup.”
Ophelia nodded, still groggy. She’d never felt this relaxed in her life. Stretching out and flexing her toes was incredible. Julian closed his book and put it on the nightstand, sliding down in bed and capturing her around her middle. It felt strange that his bare palm could skate across her fleshy abdomen so easily, so close, so warm.
Her body flooded with another overwhelming surge of decadence and lazy desire. She tugged him closer and he obeyed. No wonder Eleanor and Tristan didn’t rise until noon. If this was how being in love while married felt, she’d never get a thing done. He fitted himself against her back, and she raised his palm to her mouth and kissed it.
His mouth scraped her shoulder, his stubble zinging along her skin. The sun flooded in the window, despite the curtains. She could feel the chill of the room outside of their blankets, and it somehow made it all the cozier. Her eyes batted shut. Bliss.
She awoke sometime later, Julian dressed but with bare feet, reclining on the bed over the comforter, reading and drinking from the lone teacup. She blinked. “How long did I sleep for?”
“Which time?” Julian asked with a smile.
“I never sleep this long.” She yawned, and noted the room was warmer than it had seemed earlier.
“Then you must need it.” Julian reached out, touching her hair, pulling a lock away from her shoulder. The expression on his face was one Ophelia had never seen before, but it was so welcome. It was close to how her father had looked at her mother. How Tristan looked at Eleanor. How Karl Vogel looked at Justine. Well, that was not quite right. Sometimes Karl looked at Justine with a perplexed sort of frown, as if he couldn’t predict what she would say or do next.
“Would you... be interested in trying that again?” he asked.
His question made her toes curl with the anticipation. “I would.”
He whipped his shirt off and dove for her, causing her no end of giggling. It was faster this time, more pointed. He figured out what made her open, and again he spilled on her thighs.
The drowsy decadence of the morning caused her eyelids to grow heavy. “I suppose this is why they keep this from unmarried women.”
“Keep what?” Julian cleaned her and then himself with a towel before slipping into bed next to her.
“This absolutely sated feeling I have. I’ve heard so many terrible stories about what to expect on my wedding night. Not one had a story that was remotely similar to this.”
“I think there are a thousand reasons for that, but mostly it is considered disrespectful to be so passionate with one’s wife. That touching you, making you cry out, watching you as you find your pleasure, that is not for wives.”
Ophelia thought her eyes might pop out of her head. “What do you mean?”
“It is what one does with a lover, or a woman of a lower class.”
“Then how did you learn?” Ophelia asked, and as the words came out of her mouth, the possibilities spiraled out in her mind. How many lovers had he already engaged with? Was she adequate in comparison? Would he regret this encounter? Was he thinking of someone else when he was with her?
He gave a tight smile. “Men talk about this sort of thing.”
A stab of insecurity pierced her. “How many lovers have you had?”
“Ophelia,” he chastised gently, drawing out the last vowel of her name.
“Please tell me,” she said. Her mind was clicking through so fast she couldn’t keep up. She was full of overwhelming emotion and it unsettled her. Under the covers, she ran her fingers in the familiar pattern, thumb, pointer, middle, ring, pinkie, and back. “I’ve never been with anyone before, and I want to know if I did it right.”
“You did beautifully,” he said, cupping her head to smooth down her hair.
“Better than Lady DeMarius?” Ophelia pressed. The woman’s name caught in her throat.
He sighed. “Ophelia. I’m going to say this one time, and I mean it with all the gentleness I can muster. What I have done in my past, who I have been with, is not really anything I must tell you.”
She pulled herself up, sitting against the pillows and the headboard. “So you’re telling me it’s none of my business.”
