He slid his hands over her buttocks, around her hips, sliding ever upward until he reached her breasts. He caressed them, their weight sweet and ripe in his hands. She gasped as he trailed his knuckles over her aching hard nipples. She shuddered under the featherlight touch, thrusting herself against him. “Again,” she gasped, “again,” her words fuel to his flame.
He bent and took a rosy nipple in his mouth, laving it with his tongue, teasing and sucking. She gripped his hair in damp frantic fingers, holding him to her, half collapsed against him. In one swift movement he gripped the hem of the chemise and pulled it up over her head. He dropped it on the floor and stared at her, this lush, ripe beauty, his bride. Her hands came up to cover herself in a move as old as Venus—and as enticing.
“No, don’t,” he rasped, catching her hands. “Don’t hide from me. You’re beautiful.”
Her face quivered with some emotion. He swept her up in his arms and in three steps had her on the bed. He stood back, feasting his eyes on her, breathing like a drowning man.
She moistened her lips and gazed up at him, her eyes huge and liquid. She held her arms out to him; her thighs trembled, then parted a little, and he could wait no longer.
He ripped open his breeches, parted her legs and entered her with one slow thrust. She arched beneath him and stiffened, and he fought for the last shred of control, holding himself still while her untried body struggled to adjust to him.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face contorted in a grimace that cut him to the soul.
Cursing himself, barely able to think for the battle he was waging to slow his body, to hold back until she was ready, he slipped his hand between them and caressed her gently, seeking the little nubbin he ought to have attended to much earlier.
Her stiffness gradually softened. His fingers stroked and teased, and he felt her gasp and quiver in response. Faint shudders began deep within her and he could hold back no more. He began to move, thrusting deep and hard, again and again as the primeval rhythm took hold. The waves swallowed him and he was lost.
The last thing he remembered was his shout as he climaxed, and collapsed on top of her, oblivious.
Chapter Fifteen
The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.
—MADAME DE STAËL
Slowly Ned came to himself. He had no idea how much time had passed. Lily lay still and silent under him, breathing softly, her eyes closed. He was still deeply embedded in her. He carefully withdrew and rolled off her. And realized to his mortification that he was still fully clothed, still wearing his boots and coat, with only his breeches undone and his manhood shamefully exposed.
And that she lay, naked, but for her white silk stockings. Looking wholly enticing—and he should not be thinking such a thing, not when he’d just ravished her like a brute.
But she was flushed and rosy, all curves and female lusciousness, and those white stockings that ended halfway up her plump thighs framed a sweet temptation.
Her eyes fluttered open and he averted his gaze. He sat up, turned away and buttoned his breeches. “Are you all right?” His back was still turned. He wasn’t ready to face her.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, thank you.” She sounded vague, abstracted.
He rose and walked across to where the cord hung down for the servants’ bell. He pulled it and, bracing himself, turned to face her. She was sitting up in bed, her knees bent and the covers pulled up around her. A froth of lace and peach silk peeped out. She must have pulled her nightgown on in the few seconds he’d had his back turned.
Her arms were locked around her knees and her chin rested on them. She was watching him, her expression thoughtful.
“What are you thinking?”
She blinked, as if he’d woken her. “Oh, nothing much. Just . . . thinking.”
“About what?” As if he didn’t know. But he needed to get it out in the open. Find out just how much damage he’d done. He’d been so taken up with his own pleasure, he couldn’t even recall what he’d done—if anything—to ensure hers. Unforgivable carelessness with any virgin, let alone his bride.
“About . . .” A blush crept over her skin. “I didn’t know—well, I suppose you can’t really, until—” She broke off and took a steadying breath. “It’s nothing, really, just—”
“I fear I was a bit hasty,” he began stiffly.
But she wasn’t listening. “It was . . . extraordinary.”
Extraordinary good or extraordinary bad? Ned wanted to ask, but he’d never been the kind of coxcomb who elicited—let alone demanded—praise from his lovers.
If a man couldn’t tell whether he’d satisfied a woman . . . He’d never had any difficulty knowing before. But today . . .
He swallowed. Time to be a man. “We’re going to be doing this often, and if you are to, to enjoy it, you need to tell me how you feel about what we do. We’ll get it right, eventually.” The women he’d lain with in the past had no hesitation in telling him what they preferred. He didn’t see why his wife couldn’t learn do the same.
“Oh.” Her face flamed and she pressed her palms against her cheeks as if to cool them. “Very well, I’ll try.” She thought for a minute, and her brow furrowed. “It’s hard to know, you see—being my first time—and how to explain—I don’t even know what words to use—sorry.” She broke off and took a deep steadying breath. “Aunt Agatha warned me it was an unpleasantness to be endured—but Emm—she’s my sister-in-law—said though it might hurt the first time—it did, but not very much—she said with practice it could be bliss.”
“And?” He had to know which it was.
She hesitated and gave him a half-embarrassed,
