Still, she quivered beneath his touch.
“I don’t think that’s the spot,” he said, idly drawing circles on her skin. “I think you were speaking of somewhere a little lower.”
She made a sound. It might have been his name.
He flattened his palm against her abdomen, and with purposeful slowness inched his way down until his fingers met the soft thatch of hair that guarded her womanhood. He felt her grow very still, as if she wasn’t sure what to do, and he could only smile as he listened to the frenzied rasps of air of passing over her lips.
Tenderly he parted her, his fingers flicking over her nub until some of the rigidity left her body, and she fell more fully open to him. “Do you like that?” he whispered, even though he knew she did. But when she nodded he still felt like king of the world. The mere act of pleasuring her seemed to be enough to make his heart swell with pride.
He continued to tease her, drawing her closer and closer to her peak, even though his own body was crying out for satisfaction. He had not intended to see to her completion first, but once he touched her, felt her body singing beneath his fingers, he knew what he had to do. He wanted her to fall apart, to utterly shatter and think there was no greater pleasure.
And then he wanted to show her that there was.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, but he thought the question might be rhetorical. Her eyes were closed, and her head was thrown back, and as her body arched, thrusting those perfect breasts to the sky, he thought he’d never seen anything so lovely and erotic.
“I’m making love to you,” he said.
Her eyes opened. “But—”
He brought a finger to her lips. “Don’t interrupt me.” She was a clever girl; she obviously knew what happened between a man and a woman, and she knew that something much larger than his fingers was meant to find its way inside of her. But clearly no one had told her about all the delicious things that could happen along the way.
“Have you heard of la petite mort?” he asked her.
Her eyes clouded with confusion as she shook her head. “The little death?”
“It’s what the French call it. A metaphor, I assure you. I have always thought it more an affirmation of life.” He leaned down and drew her nipple into his mouth. “Or perhaps a reason for living.”
And then, with all the wicked promise he felt in his soul, he looked up at her through his lashes and murmured, “Shall I show you?”
Chapter 14
I miss the days when you were in London and we could write back and forth like a conversation. I suppose we are now at the mercy of the tides. Our letters must cross each other on the ocean. Mrs. Pentwhistle said she thought it was a charming thought, that they had little hands and were waving at each other across the water. I think Mrs. Pentwhistle drank too much of Reverend Pentwhistle’s Communion wine.
Please tell Captain Rokesby that the little purple flower he pressed arrived in perfect condition. Isn’t it remarkable that such a little sprig is strong enough to journey from Massachusetts to Derbyshire? I am sure I will never have the opportunity to thank him in person for it. Please do assure him that I will treasure it always. It is so very special to have a small piece of your world.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas
The little death.
Surely the French had been onto something when they came up with that phrase. Because the tightness that was coiling in Cecilia’s body . . . the pulsing, inexorable need for something she did not even understand . . . It all felt like it was leading toward something she could not possibly survive.
“Edward,” she gasped. “I can’t . . .”
“You can,” he assured her, but it was not his words that sank into her, it was his voice, pressed up against her skin as his wicked lips made lazy discovery of her breasts.
He had touched her—kissed her—in places she herself had not dared to explore. She was bewitched. No, she was awakened. She’d lived twenty-two years in this body and was only just now learning its purpose.
“Relax,” Edward whispered.
Was he mad? There was nothing relaxing about this, nothing that made her want to relax. She wanted to grab and claw and yes, scream as she fought her way to the edge.
Except she did not know what that edge was, or what might be on the other side.
“Please,” she begged, and it didn’t even seem to matter that she had no idea what she was begging for. Because he did. Dear God, she hoped he did. If he didn’t, she was going to kill him.
With his mouth and his fingers, he brought her to the peak of desire. And then, when her hips rose up, silently begging him for more, he dipped one finger inside of her and flicked his tongue across her breast.
She came apart.
She cried his name as her hips lifted from the bed. Every muscle clenched in unison. It was like a symphony made of only one taut note. Then, after her body had grown tight as a board, she finally drew breath and collapsed onto the mattress.
Edward withdrew his finger and lay on his side next to her, propped up on his elbow. When she found the energy to open her eyes, she saw that he was smiling like a cat in cream.
“What was that?” she said, her words more breath than voice.
He brushed a damp tendril of hair from her forehead, then leaned forward to kiss her brow. “La petite mort,” he murmured.
“Oh.” There was a world of wonder in that single syllable. “That’s what I thought.”
This seemed to amuse him, but in that lovely way that made Cecilia flush with pleasure. She was making him smile. She was making him happy. Surely when she reached her final reckoning that would count for something.
But they had not yet consummated the marriage.
She closed her eyes. She had to stop thinking that way. There was no marriage. This was not a consummation, it was—
“What’s wrong?”
She looked up. Edward was staring down at her, his eyes so bright and blue, even in the fading light of evening.
“Cecilia?” He did not sound concerned, exactly, but he knew something had changed.
“I’m just . . .” She fought for something to say, something she could say that would actually be true. And so she said, “. . . overwhelmed.”
He smiled, just a little, but it was enough to change the shape of her heart forever. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
She nodded as best as she could. It was a good thing, at least right now. As for next week, or next month, when her life would surely fall apart . . .
She would deal with that when she had to.
His knuckles brushed her cheek in a tender caress, and still, he stared down at her like he could read her soul. “What are you thinking, I wonder.”