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“What you find pleasurable,” he confirmed. “My body isn’t nearly as interesting as yours, but there are points that—” He put a thumb over his own nipple. “This isn’t as beautiful nor useful, but it feels pleasure.”
Her mouth curled in a little smile that affected him much more than his own touch on his body. He moved his hand down, deliberately, slowly, wrapped his fingers around his length. Slid his hand. Took his pleasure from the way she shifted back and forth, as if she was feeling heat between her legs, as if she were remembering the afternoon.
“It looks larger than it did earlier,” she whispered.
His body moved instinctively toward her, passionate to establish a rhythm that would satisfy and daze her, drive her to the pleasure he had felt.
“So when you lose control, what happens?”
The question hung on the air. He cleared his throat. “I eject fluid that contains my contribution to a future child.” And: “I wouldn’t describe it as losing control.” He let his hand fall away from his body.
She put her hand on him, and he instantly shuddered. The fire touched his spine, raced down his legs like a premonition of the future. “If I keep doing this—” she demonstrated—“wouldn’t you lose control?”
“No.” But it was a gasp.
“Because you never lose control?”
“Because that’s not—” he drew in a breath—“an accurate description.”
Her fingers dandled him, stroked him, fired him. “Are you sure that I couldn’t make you lose control?”
“You could give me the greatest pleasure,” he said. “As I will give to you.”
She smiled, lopsided, let her hand fall. “What else feels good?” He blinked. “Only those two parts of your body? That’s it?”
“That’s enough,” he told her.
She was smiling again. “Can I show you now what pleasures me?”
“The night and this place are too dark and cold for a lady,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head. His body was thrumming to a rhythm of its own, madness flaring in his blood.
“I thought our bed, perhaps…”
“But Godfrey is in the sitting room.”
“We shall have to be quiet,” she said, turning to walk out of the courtyard. The moonlight caught her hair, turned it to darkened spun silver, precious liquid light chiseling the curve of her cheek, the plumpness of her bottom lip, the wry wit in her eye.
He was just pulling on his boots when she paused.
“Of course,” she said, “it’s a good thing that all of this doesn’t mean losing control, Simeon, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“Because while I might be worried that I would make some sort of untoward noise and wake young Godfrey, I would never have to worry about you.”
He followed her. Years in the desert had taught him a number of survival lessons.
One of them was never to ignore a gauntlet thrown at your very feet.
Chapter Thirty-five
The Dower House
March 3, 1784
Honeydew greeted them in the entryway to the Dower House, as if disheveled dukes were all in a day’s work. “Your Graces,” he said. “If you would be so kind as to keep your voices down, the young master is asleep.”
Isidore took off her wet pelisse and handed it to him. “My goodness, Honeydew,” she said, “you must take yourself to your bed. It’s begun raining again.”
