His fingers, which had not been idle a moment since they descended between her legs, chose this moment to flick a most gloriously sensitive spot. Her breath hitched, snagged, and disappeared altogether. He flicked the spot again and she convulsed involuntarily, a fast, juddering slide of pleasure.
On the heel of that, he centered himself between her knees and pushed into her.
It was the most incredible sensation, a splitting open of her person, widening, deepening. But he was so frustratingly slow, as if advancing against an opposing army. At least he sounded as impatient as she felt, his breath catching with each minute movement forward.
The thrust came all of a sudden. One moment he was on the cusp, the next moment he was deeply embedded in her, the two of them locked together by the force of it. He gasped. She gasped, too.
It hurt. But she welcomed the pain—good riddance to her virginity. And the pain was nothing compared to the rightness of it. This was what they should be doing, nightly, daily, hourly.
She raised her hips, wanting more. He held her still with his hand on her abdomen. “Are you not hurt?”
“Not enough to stop,” she answered in complete honesty. “Not even enough to want a reprieve.”
Still he withdrew. Just as she was about to cry out at the unfairness of it, he drove back into her.
How did one describe a sunrise to the blind? Or the sound of rain to the deaf? How could words ever adequately express the pleasure of lovemaking? Each thrust was a voluptuous surge of sensations. Each plunge both compacted her and expanded her.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
She didn’t know whether she was issuing a command or a prayer. But he must not stop, not yet. Not when the pleasure was so new and acute, and she so ravenous.
Six months.
Suddenly she was convulsing, her back arched, her person shaking, her heart in pieces.
They’d barely started. And yet here he was, on the verge.
Don’t stop, she begged.
Everything about her was such pure decadence. Tight, sleek, hungry—an overload of sensations. Her skin was too soft. Her legs, clamped about him, too smooth. Her mouth, which he couldn’t stop kissing, too delicious.
Don’t stop, she begged again.
All those rampant urges threatened to crash upon him. He held back. Slow. Slower. But though he moderated his pace, he couldn’t help taking each stroke to the hilt.
His climax began gathering again, rising toward a point of no return. He didn’t know if he could restrain himself this time: He was too close, too near to being overwhelmed.
She cried out, trembling exclamations.
He lost all control, his release hot, violent, and endless.
Millie touched her husband’s hair—a first time for her, after all these years. It was thick, a little wavy, and just slightly damp at the roots with perspiration. His heart beat fast and hard against hers. His breathing, like her own, remained tattered.
So…this was how one made babies.
No wonder the population was ever increasing.
Her fingers continued their exploration: his ear, his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose. He nuzzled her on her shoulder, her throat, her cheek—and claimed her mouth once more.
The kiss was slow and leisurely. He’d never left her, now he hardened again inside her.
Yes, she thought, more. As much as possible.
He located innumerable obscure nooks and crannies of her body that needed only a caress to reveal themselves superlatively sensitive and starved for attention. Each touch was luxuriant, every nibble unhurried.
But this was lovemaking for people who had years—decades—ahead of them. They did not have that luxury. Each slow brush of his hand reminded her of the ticking clock. Every measured path he kissed only made her that much more aware of the end drawing nigh.
She did not want to remember; she only wanted to forget.
She bit into his shoulder. She touched him most indecently. She writhed against him, pagan, shameless, driving him—and herself—into a renewed frenzy, a dizzying peak of obscene delights.
And then, at last, the next all-obliterating paroxysm.
CHAPTER 15
Consciousness returned with a vengeance. Millie’s eyes flew open. The room was still somber, but it was definitely morning.
She’d best hurry. There were all her amethyst pins to be collected from the carpet, not to mention the buttons she’d ripped off his clothes. And of course the sheets must somehow be made pristine again—baby-making was a messy business.
“Good morning.”
Her head jerked toward the foot of the bed. Fitz, in his riding jacket and breeches, gloriously stylish in the dusky light.
“Morning.” She yanked the blanket higher over her person and thanked God that he could not see her flush. “What time is it?”
She’d given instructions to her maid to wake her at eight—an hour and half later than usual. Fitz typically left for his ride as she was drinking her cocoa in bed. But since they were up quite late, engaged in rather exhausting activities—her face heated again—perhaps it was half past seven rather than half past six.
“Half past nine.”