“I can’t,” she said softly.
And he knew then that he was hers, for as long as she would have him. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again. The mad urgency was still there in him, but a great tenderness had overcome him. And he wanted not to overwhelm, but to cherish.
She was even more delicious this time—like boiled sweets and treacle rocks, for all the promises she held. A pulse at the top of her neck throbbed against his ring finger, a hot, fast rhythm in synchronicity with his own heartbeat.
He was a fighter, not a lover. He’d always left the particulars of lovemaking to the women who took him to bed. And so he’d feared that he would be clumsy and awkward with her. But tonight he was in grace. As his hands slipped lower to work at the buttons of her blouse, his fingers moved with an unhurried dexterity. Her skirts melted away. Even her stays presented little challenge.
When she was left only in her chemise, he sat her at the edge of the bed and continued to kiss her as he took off his coat and waistcoat. She helped him pull his shirt over his head.
He kissed her throat, her shoulders, her arms. When he bit her slightly at the base of her neck, she emitted a whimper of pleasure, a tiny sound that exploded in his veins—he wanted only to please her, and now she was pleased.
Everything he did seemed to please her. She shivered when he kissed her behind her ears. Nibbles at the inside of her elbows produced little sighs that made him dizzy. And when he licked her breasts through the thin lawn of her chemise, she all but heaved him off the bed.
He pushed up the chemise to worship her unhindered, her strawberry-scented skin, her perfectly round navel, her nipples that were like satin upon his tongue. She yanked off the chemise, wrapped her limbs tightly about him, and with the undulation of her body, let him know that she was ready for him.
It was like the first time. No, it was far better than his first time, during which he was half-drunk, still recovering from his first bout of malaria, and not altogether certain whether he’d have consented to the act if he hadn’t been so inebriated.
She scorched him. He was in torment, the sweetest, purest torment of his entire life. With every thrust he wanted to let blessed release wash over him. With every labored breath he held back, prolonging the pleasure, the tremors at the edge of the eruption.
Then she cried out and shuddered. And he could not have stopped himself had the fate of nations and the lives of millions depended upon it. His climax gripped and struck him. He shook and convulsed from the violent pleasures that tore him apart and tore him apart some more.
He let go, gave in, and fell over the edge.
He was sleepy, but he was also suffused with a splendid sense of well-being, a euphoric elation.
He rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, keeping her close. She was flushed, her hair a messy, unruly tumble, her breaths still short and uneven, like his own.
He stole a quick kiss: She looked too adorable.
“It’s after midnight, Cinderella,” he said. “You are still here.”
She smiled shyly and pulled a sheet up to her clavicle. “The modern-day Cinderella mostly understands that crime is rampant in our fair cities and that it makes no sense to run out of perfectly safe buildings into nighttime streets.”
He caressed the top of her shoulder. Her collarbone was prominent. Without the padding of her clothes she was even thinner than he’d supposed. “I’m glad the modern-day Cinderella is so prudent.”
“The modern-day Cinderella disappears at dawn instead,” she said. “When the trains begin running.”
“Prudent and logistically literate, the modern-day Cinderella is a marvel of womanhood.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips again. “Wait here.”
She had her head propped up when he returned to bed with another plate of cake. “You are hungry?”
“It’s for you,” he said, setting it down next to her. “You need to eat some more.”
Her gaze dropped. “Thank you,” she said. “Nobody thinks to feed me nowadays.”
“That is a crime.” He broke off a piece of cake and offered it to her. “Now eat, young lady.”
“You sound like my old governess.”
“Did you not eat properly as a child?”
“Not at all. I had to be chased and pinned down and threatened with dire consequences to touch my supper.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I didn’t particularly care for food until I left home and meals no longer appeared with tedious predictability on the table.” She accepted another piece of cake from him. “Nothing like hunger to focus the mind on what’s really important.”
“A full stomach?”
“A full stomach.”
He smiled. “What did you think was important before?”
“Clothes.”
“Clothes?”