“Oh, yes,” she said in the same low, throaty voice she had used earlier.
He looked up to smile at her. But she was supporting herself with both hands behind her on the bed, and her head was thrown back and her eyes closed. All her glorious hair trailed to the bed behind her and spread over the bottom white sheet.
He removed her other stocking in the same way.
She lay down when he got to his feet in order to remove his own clothes. But she did not close her eyes or turn her head away. She lay with her arms spread loosely to the sides, her head half turned toward him, one leg straight, the other slightly bent with her foot flat on the mattress. It was difficult not to tear off his clothes in order to join her there as quickly as he could. But with slow deliberation he shrugged out of his tight-fitting coat and dropped it to the floor, and then out of his waistcoat. He untied his neckcloth and dropped it to the pile. And then he drew his shirt off over his head and discarded that too.
Her bosom, he could see in the firelight, was rising and falling quite noticeably against her shift. Her lips had parted.
He smiled deliberately at her and crossed to the fire in order to throw on a few more coals before returning to the bed and removing his remaining garments.
He smiled again when she crossed her arms and stripped her shift off over her head before dropping it over the edge of the bed. That answered one question. He had been wondering whether he would allow her to keep that final barrier of modesty at least until both of them were beneath the covers.
It was strange how just yesterday he had thought her thin and unappealing. Tonight her beauty was so perfect in every detail that it quite took his breath away. She reached up her arms to him.
“The bed is rather narrow,” she said.
“But why would we want one that is any wider?” he asked her, lowering himself into her arms and sliding one of his own beneath her before kissing her. “Half of it would be wasted.”
“To echo what you said earlier of the waltz,” she said, threading the long fingers of one hand into his hair, “I must confess that my experience with this sort of activity is severely limited.”
“Or perhaps nonexistent?” He kissed the tip of her nose and looked into her eyes.
“Something like that,” she admitted.
“I had no experience in peeling potatoes,” he said, nuzzling one earlobe.
He felt her shiver.
“But they ended up tasting delicious,” she said.
“Exactly my point.” He blew softly into her ear.
She drew his mouth to hers once more, and the passion that had ended their waltz prematurely and brought them to this moment was instantly rekindled and redoubled in force. He kissed her open-mouthed, reaching deep into the heat of her mouth with his tongue while his hand moved over her, fondling, teasing, arousing. And her slender, long-fingered hands touched him, lightly, tentatively at first, and then boldly, urgently, hungrily.
They made love to each other with hot, fierce, panting foreplay. When his mouth enclosed and suckled a nipple and one of his hands slid between her thighs to find the hot, moist core of her desire, his fingers probing, rubbing, scratching lightly, she rolled onto her back and he came over on top of her, pinning her to the bed with his not inconsiderable weight. She needed no coaxing to spread her legs. They came up, slim and strong-muscled, to hug his hips and twine about his own legs. He slid his hands beneath her, positioned himself, and entered her firmly and as slowly as he could contrive.
But she would not let him make any allowance for her virginity. She pressed up against him so that he ruptured the barrier and embedded himself deeply in her far more forcefully than he had intended. Her hands pressed against his buttocks, straining him to her. She was gasping for air.
She was tight and hot and wet. The blood hammered through his body so that he heard his heart like a drum beating urgently in his ears. He held very still in her and fought for control.
“Easy,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers. “Take it easy. I would give you pleasure, Frances, not go off like a schoolboy on his first outing.”
Surprisingly—and delightfully—she laughed. He could feel the tremors of her amusement shivering through her body, and her inner muscles tightened about him.
“You
He kissed her into silence. But some of the frenzy of their joining had been dissipated for the moment, and he was able to move in her with slow, deliberate strokes while she closed her eyes and tipped back her head and relaxed her muscles. He worked her through several minutes, her passage growing wetter and slicker until sound mingled with sensation and drove him closer and closer to his own limits.
But he would not change the rhythm yet. There was too much pleasure in anticipating pleasure, and she was a gorgeous, responsive, passionate bedmate. After the first minute she had begun to move with him, and her inner muscles had caught and complemented the rhythm of his thrusts. Her hips circled slowly, creating a pleasure so exquisite that it bordered on pain.
He had had experienced courtesans who were less skilled.
And then finally her control slipped, and she moaned softly to each stroke and contracted her muscles convulsively and off-rhythm. He could feel her increased body heat and the slickness of her sweat. He could hear the raggedness of her breathing. Her arms and thighs strained him closer.
He thrust faster and deeper.
It was impossible for a virgin to reach climax the first time. It was rare for a woman to reach climax at all. He had heard both pronouncements—from other men, of course. Frances Allard proved them all wrong.
She came to a sudden and shattering climax, every muscle in her body tensing before she cried out and shuddered in his arms while he stopped moving. It was a strangely wondrous gift, her cresting of the wave of
