The atmosphere hummed with a strange tension. She was embarrassingly aware of the little sounds she made as she ate. And achingly aware of his fingers, brushing her lips as she nibbled the asparagus to the end.
Why wasn’t he eating? Didn’t he like asparagus? Some people didn’t.
“Enough?” he said when he’d fed her three more juicy spears, and she nodded. She lifted her napkin to blot her mouth, but in a surprise move he caught her hand in his, leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers, letting his tongue linger, cleaning the sauce from her lips.
Sensations shivered through her, pooling in her middle.
He sat back, seemingly unaffected by an almost-kiss that had her practically dissolving into the bedclothes. “Now, ready for some sweet dishes? Trifle, or berries—no, don’t tell me—both!” His smile erased any sting she might have found in the comment.
He piled a bowl with rich creamy trifle and added berries and a large dollop of cream. Heavens, if this was the way he was going to feed her she was going to be enormous by the time they got back to London. But he presented her with a spoonful of the delicious combination, saying, “Open,” with such a look in his eyes that any willpower she might have had evaporated. She opened her mouth and again let him feed her, mouthful by mouthful, like a baby.
Only no baby ever felt the way Lily felt as he slipped each slow, luscious spoonful between her lips, his winter-green eyes dark and burning into her.
She finished the bowl, and as the last spoonful slipped down, he asked, “Enough?”
“Mmm, more than enough. That was delicious.” She sighed and leaned back against the pillows. “That was the most perfect feast,” she managed to say, and felt quite proud of herself for being able to speak even though her mind—and body—was halfway to mush.
He rose and rang for the servants, who must have been waiting outside, for they appeared immediately, swiftly removing all remnants of the feast. Lily watched sleepily from the bed, feeling full, perfectly replete and content.
Once they were alone again, Edward moved to the bed and looked down at her with an expression she could not read.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” she asked. She needed to do some exercise to wake herself up. It was only just after dusk.
“No. We haven’t had dessert yet.”
“Dessert? You mean pudding? But I just—” She broke off. He was undoing the fastenings of his banyan.
Her mouth dried as little by little the banyan slipped open, revealing smooth, firm, masculine skin. He was naked underneath. Had she realized that earlier, she would never have been able to eat a mouthful.
He tossed the banyan aside and stood there, stark naked, apparently unconcerned and unembarrassed, letting her look her fill. And look she did. She couldn’t drag her eyes off him.
He was sleek and smoothly muscular—not like a stevedore or a farm laborer, which were the only men she’d ever seen even halfway unclothed—but lean and hard, a masculine kind of beauty, leashed power and grace. A broad, firm, flat chest, lightly sprinkled with dark hair, narrow hips and long muscular legs—horseman’s legs.
Like a marble statue she’d seen once, only she couldn’t imagine a fig leaf big enough to cover that. He was warm, and alive—and he was her husband.
Taking her hand, he drew her from the bed and undid the fastenings of her wrapper, murmuring, “A pretty thing, but we don’t need it now.” He slipped it off her shoulders, and smiled when he saw what she was wearing underneath. His eyes devoured her. “My compliments to whoever came up with this delightful little piece of nonsense.” His voice was deep and slightly husky.
“It’s from Miss Chance of the . . . H-House of . . . the House . . .” Words became gasps as he caressed her through the layers of silk and lace, the friction delicious against her skin. With one tug, the bow of the ribbon tie holding the front together unraveled and the bed jacket slid down her arms.
His eyes darkened, burning into her, as with one swift movement he whisked the frail nightgown over her head and tossed it aside. He drew her by the waist, his hands big and warm, and pulled her against him, skin to skin, her softness molding deliciously against his hard angled planes.
His hands slipped over her hips, caressingly, and cupped her bottom, lifting her so she was pressed against his hard, thrusting manhood. He stood, rocking her silently against him. Was this how he’d take her? Standing up? The heat of his body soaked into hers.
He released her with a sigh, cupped her breasts, then bent to kiss them, one by one. She shivered, barely able to stand as hot spears of pleasure spiked through her. She ought to do something, caress him back, but she could only stand—barely stand, her legs were like jelly—and hang on to him, while he lavished pleasure on her. Pleasure? She was unraveling.
His mouth wrought exquisite, delicious havoc as he tasted, teased, plundered . . . and teased again. He feathered kisses along her jawline, her eyelids, sucked gently on her earlobe, sending shivers through her whole body. His long, clever fingers stroked, and pinched and tantalized just to the edge . . . of what? . . . and then moved on, arousing her to a fever of blind, aching need.
She clung to him dizzily, her blood pounding, her whole awareness narrowed to each place on her body he touched. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
And then somehow they were on the bed, and he was nibbling at her breasts, her full and aching breasts, unbearably sensitive, laving them with his tongue, nibbling, as she trembled and shivered beneath him in uncontrollable pleasure. He sucked hard and a spear of pleasure-pain arced through her, and she shrieked as her body spasmed beneath him and almost came off the bed.
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