He was so close to coming in her mouth before he realized he ought not do that. “Harriet. Harriet, stop. Sorry,” he said, pulling her up and off him.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, it’s only I was about to spend, and I didn’t think you’d want that in your mouth.”
“Why?”
Alexander closed his eyes for a moment; this was too much lust for a man to bear in one evening.
“Some women don’t enjoy it. It’s not particularly … pleasant, I don’t think.”
“But some women do?”
“I think so. Or they’re exquisite actresses. Hard to say.”
Harriet dipped her head back down, as if to continue, but he stayed her. “We can try another time. It’s my turn.”
In one fluid movement, he switched their positions, Harriet beneath him as he knelt over her. He kissed his way down her body, lifting her damned gown to see her perfect, perfect quim. Had he not been as close as he was to coming, he would havetaken more time, perhaps even undressed her entirely. As it was, he hoped that he could last through at least one climax of hers without spending.
He pushed up her skirts and began. She tasted heavenly; he could have lived here in his library between her legs. They could ring for tea and supper when needed. His estates might fall into ruin, and his investments might decline without oversight, but there was enough money for twenty or thirty years.
Harriet was writhing beneath him, clutching at his hair and cursing like a sailor. Smiling against her, he added a finger, pushing into her and stroking in time with what his mouth was doing to her. Harriet grabbed a small pillow from their nest on the floor and screamed into it, coming against his tongue. He almost felt sad it had taken so little time, though he wasn’t sure how much longer he himself could last.
Alexander climbed up and lay down next to her, both of them breathing heavily—her in satisfaction, him with the lack of it.
Harriet came down from her orgasm and he felt her gaze travel down his body, lingering quite audaciously on his abandoned cock. Apparently, she wasn’t the sort to spectate; she reached down and touched him. Her eagerness was so lewd that Alexander’s eyes rolled back, and he gave up any attempt at keeping himself under control. It took an embarrassingly few strokes before he choked out, “I’m going to—” and then he spilled all over her hand and his stomach, yelling out a rather obscene curse as he did so.
As soon as his heart returned to a more normal cadence, he lifted his head to look at Harriet, expecting to find her disgusted or perhaps embarrassed. One did not spill one’s seed into one’s wife’s hands. At least Alexander didn’t think one did.
Instead, he found her beaming with pride.
“That was extremely edifying,” she said, tittering with excitement, as Alexander reached to his discarded breeches for a handkerchief so she could clean herself. She nodded her thanks and wiped her hands. He’d already lain back on the blanket, quite incapable of moving for at least the next seventy-two hours.
“You look pleased with yourself,” he teased a few minutes later, his finger drawing lazy circles on her exposed hip. They were lying on their sides, facing one another, her dress still half hiked up.
“Of course I am. Tonight we discovered the cure to your carriage sickness.”
Alexander let out a loud, deep laugh, one that at first delighted Harriet, and then with its endurance befuddled her. She hadn’t thought the jokequitethat humorous.
One look at her face, and Alexander turned sheepish, which only made him more handsome, unfortunately.
“I fear I must confess something to you,” he said, swallowing thickly. Harriet watched his Adam’s apple, a sight whichalmostdistracted from his forthcoming admission. With her newfound comfort around him, she reached out to trace a line down his throat.
“I am … That is, I don’t … Perhaps you might remove your hand from my neck when I tell you this?” She smiled, confident enough now to know he was teasing her rather than critiquing her.
“We’ll see” was all she answered, trailing her hand to his collarbone, his throat still within reach.
“I don’t get sick in carriages,” he blurted. It happened so fast that she barely registered the words until she replayed them in her mind. Even then, the sentence made no sense. She dropped her hand and sat up, as if that would help ease her confusion.
“You …” Her eyebrows drew together. She felt her head cocking like a dog. “You don’t? But I thought—But you rode out.” He sat up then too, still looking guilty.
“It was only that … well, I simply couldn’t stand to be in a carriage with you”—as Harriet’s jaw dropped in offense, he hurried to finish the sentence—“in that dress any longer.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“That dress you were wearing—the white one?”
“Oh yes, I’m familiar with it. I thought you liked it! You made me a dozen copies of it!”
