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Her hands slid down his back and onto his bottom, curved over warm muscles, slipped between his legs. “You—” His voice was pained. He arched his back. “Oh God, Isidore, that feels so good.”

She started laughing and his mouth came down on hers with desperation. And then he pressed against her. It was extremely odd. Like a door opening, Isidore thought. First there was only herself, and then somehow there was room enough for him as well.

He made a rough sound, low in his throat and pressed deeper. Isidore waited for the pain that was supposed to come, but nothing happened.

Well, that was good.

He pulled back and then thrust forward again.

It felt good. It did. Well, perhaps it didn’t feel that good. There was a little pulling feeling that she didn’t care for all that much. Isidore tried to push away that disloyal thought. He was supposed to do whatever, and she could just do what she wished. And what she wished was to touch him.

Stroking his back felt like nothing she’d experienced before. It was all rippling muscle, ridges and curves that moved under her fingers as he—

He did that thrusting thing.

The truth was, she didn’t really care for it all that much.

But he did. That was the wonderful thing about it—there wasn’t an ounce of composure about Simeon now, nothing of the controlled man. His face was alive with pleasure. She ran her hands over his cheekbones and he thrust forward so hard that she actually gasped and raised her knees.

Which felt better, for some reason.

He made another sound in his throat, as if he were dying, and that made her smile. “Isidore,” he said. “Are you—are you—”

“Yes?” she said helpfully.

“I can’t control myself much longer.” His voice sound dark and anguished.

No wonder women love bedroom activities. “That’s just as it ought to be,” she cooed. Every time she moved, he gasped, so she arched her back again. It felt better that way for her as well. If she moved, he lost control. Which was exactly what she wanted, Isidore thought. He pulled back and gripped her hips so hard that it was going to leave bruises, pulled her up and toward him. He was definitely out of control.

Simeon’s head was roaring, his body rejoicing in a rhythm that he felt as if he’d known for years. It was like a glorious race. It was pure physical joy. Isidore’s body was soft, warm, wet—

He couldn’t wait much longer. And yet it was like seeing the finish line and not wanting to reach it. He didn’t want to come.

He didn’t want—

Pleasure was roaring in his legs, and Isidore was meeting him now, raising her hips in a way that made him want to bite her on the collarbone, act like a rampaging beast.

His vision was almost black by the time he let himself go, wild and fierce. He thrust forward, dimly hearing the bed frame pound the cottage wall, dimly sensing Isidore’s little laugh, dimly—

He was outside himself. The smell of Isidore and her curvy little body, her laugh, the sound of her voice, the way she touched him without fear and without shame, took him to another place.

He threw his head back and roared like a man who was never quiet, like a lion claiming his mate.

Chapter Thirty-three

The Dower House

March 3, 1784

Simeon came back into his body very slowly. Valamksepa used to talk about a noncorporeal experience that fasting monks experienced. Simeon never thought it sounded like an appealing prospect, but he might have to rethink that naïve supposition.

He was covered with sweat, panting as if he’d had a long run, and happier than he’d been in years. Isidore had her eyes closed, so he drank her in: the slightly exotic tilt of her eyes, her little nose, her creamy skin. She was exquisite. She was his. She was impulsive and infuriating and all too emotional, but she was his fate.

There are exquisite aspects to surrendering to one’s fate.

“Did it hurt, Isidore?” he asked, suddenly remembering that she too had been a virgin, and rolling off her body.

She opened her eyes. “No, not at all. Did it hurt for you?”