She quickly divests me of my dress, petticoat, and stays. When she starts to lift my chemise, I pause. “Do I need to be under the covers? In the naughty books, they always—”
“You read naughty books?” Her eyes widen, the spark of interest obvious. “What do youdowhen you read them?”
“Nothing. I feel ... needs, but I don’t know what to ... When I tried having someone fix it, it wasn’t like the books. Sex with him was simply sticky.”
Isabeau looks skyward as if she needs to control her temper or impulses, although she had nothing to drink. “You can be under the covers, but I’d rather you stretch out like a banquet for me.”
I pout at her. “I don’t know what that means, Isa.”
“Recline for me.” She motions to the bed.
As I do so, she removes her boots and stands there in nothing but breeches. She hesitates, but then decides to keep them on, apparently. She stretches out beside me. For a moment, she frowns. “I thought that you had scars on this arm.”
“Things change,” I say. “I’m older now.”
Isabeau pauses, and I don’t want her to guess what’s changed. “More kisses?” I ask.
“Always.” She kisses along the skin just under my ear. Then she whispers, “Do you trust me, love?”
“I do.”
Then she caresses the bare stretch of my arms, clear up to the edge of my chemise. With the hand not propping her up, she strokes me through my chemise. Gentle touches on my belly give way to fleeting touches along my breasts and hips.
In mere moments, I am lost in the way her hand and mouth are both everywhere and not yet scandalous. I relax into her touch, and time slips away. Eventually, when my body is twisting in search of something more, she takes my mouth in a deep kiss that has me parting my legs as if I’m about to have sex with a man.
Embarrassed, I start to close them until she grabs my thigh and says, “Keep them that way.”
“Why?”
She kisses me softly as she strokes inside my thigh with the very tips of her fingers. No one but her has touched me there, and as she does so now, I realize that my body feels ... wet. Her hand trails higher, fingertips sliding across that wet place.
“Isa?”
“Trust me, love.”
“That feels magical,” I whisper. “Is thisit? The sex?”
“The start of it. I can make it feel even better,” she offers. “Let me kiss you.”
I lean toward her, offering her my mouth, and she kisses me as her finger slides inside my body in time with her tongue in my mouth. I let out a surprised noise and pull back.
“Let me kiss you here,” she says, fingers darting across the wet part of my skin. “If you don’t like it, I will stop.”
I whisper, “I feel damp there.”
“That’s a good thing.” She strokes my leg. “I do, too. From touching you like this.”
I nod. “It’s normal?”
She chuckles. “Very, and I want to kiss you there if you’ll trust me. It’s like drinking ambrosia, love.”
“Oh.”
When she slides down the bed, I realize my chemise is bunched up around my hips, and she is facing the place she was touching. Then she leans closer and slides her tongue over my skin.
“Isabeau!That . . .”
She pauses. “Is it ... pleasing?”
