“I don’t think he would have been distressed. He watches Simon and I eat animal flesh at dinner and remains unaffected.”
“What if hewereaffected? Would you stop?”
“Of course.”
Once again: evidence of extraordinary devotion.
She shook her head, wanting to exit this conversation, though she was the one who’d instigated it. “Well, perhaps I shall have another chance to catch my own dinner.”
She would not, though. It had been a daft thing to say. She was leaving the day after tomorrow. She would never fish again. Or ride again. Or sea-bathe again.
Or lounge in bed with Effie talking about editorial strategy.
This was why it was better not to know what one was missing.
You can’t miss what you don’t let yourself want.
Her old adage wasn’t rolling off the tongue like it used to.
* * *
Effie did apply himself to making Julianna’s heart beat fast that evening. Once again, she left the gentlemen to their port after dinner and retired to her bedchamber. Once again, he came to her after midnight, tapping on her door lightly before letting himself in.
Were two nights enough to constitute a pattern? If so, this was quite an enjoyable one. She very much looked forward to another night with Effie, exploring each other’s bodies and talking about the magazine. And if she followed her own directive to remain in the now, she would be able to abandon herself equally to both endeavors.
Effie broke the pattern, though. Instead of being his usual charming, talkative self, he began shedding his clothing the moment the door closed behind him. There was no “Hello, my dearest,” no earnest confessions, just theswishof silk against linen as he shed his waistcoat, a relatively staid—for him—yellow silk embroidered with tiny white daisies. Then thethudof boots hitting the carpet.
This was . . . unsettling. She eyed him, not sure what to make of this silent, determined version of Effie. Soon, he had disrobed entirely, and as he stood in front of her—she was in bed, reclined against her headboard wearing only her shift—she could not read his expression.
She sat up straight, a little alarmed. Not knowing what Effie was thinking, feeling—she didn’t like it. Inscrutability didn’t suit him, at least when it came to her.
But then he smiled.
Those perfectly mismatched eyes lit up, almost, it seemed, in spite of himself.
He still did not speak, but that was all right. The smile, the light in his eyes, reassured her. As she had done last night, she extinguished half the candles on her night table. She had the vague notion that many ladies preferred carnal activities to occur in the dark, but not Julianna. She wanted tosee.
She began working her shift off, struggling with the fabric as it tangled with her arms over her head. She thought he would assist, but he did not.
When she freed herself, he was still standing at the edge of the bed staring at her, seemingly unaware of his own state of arousal, or at least unaffected by such. She might have thought him simple if she didn’t already know him to be the wittiest of men.
The loveliest, too. He was tall and lean, his skin uniformly pale. The flickering of the candles cast his features, which appeared somehow sharper with his short hair, in a warm glow.
A wicked idea took root. He had surprised her by being so silent. Perhaps she could surprise him, too. She eyed his prick. Charles had always enjoyed this.
Before she could think too much on the matter, she shimmied to the far side of the bed and took him in her mouth.
“Dear God!” he shouted, and she smiled around his length. Finally, she had gotten him to speak.
“Julianna!” he exclaimed, and she smiled again at the scandalized tone. Just for a moment, though, before applying herself to the task at hand—the task at mouth.
She wrapped her hands around him, kneading his arse as she worked him over. She wasn’t taking him particularly deep—she and Charles had only done this a few times, and she wasn’t sure how . . . rigorous she was meant to be.
Her inexperience didn’t seem to matter, judging by the noises Effie was making—he sounded dismayed, but she knew better because she knewhim. Charles hadn’t made those sorts of noises. He hadn’t madeanynoises. There was something about this sort of response, so honest and insistent, that made her own desire spiral up and up. She almost thought she might find her release without Effie touching her. Without touching herself.
“Oh, God!” Effie cried, and he took a deep breath in and held it. Pushed her gently off him and spent.
She smiled as his release coated her neck—even as he began apologizing.
