Page 21 of What Happens in Hedone

“Oh, yes,” Effie breathed. “Yes.”

The music in the room changed to a Beethoven sonata, one of Effie’s favorites, melodic, haunting. She fell into Jay’s kiss as if she were leaping from a cliff to the sea. She pressed herself against him, unable to be close enough, and he leaned on the wall to haul her onto his body and hold her. She was drowning. He was so warm, somehow hard and soft at the same time, and their tongues tangled in a dance of give and receive that she wanted to last for all time. This was the pinnacle of her life, being in Jay’s embrace. If only she could stay here, always.

He lifted his head, catching his breath. His eyes gleamed in the darkness, bright as flint. “Is there a danger your husband might find out about us, and shame you? I would not wish you to have any regrets, after.”

“Will you stop speaking of him?” Effie growled. She wanted only the two of them in this darkness, heat and kisses and this fiery melt, holding the world at bay for one another.

He kissed her and made time disappear. She sank into the rapture, this universe here in his arms, and the rising urgency to have more of him, all of him, if she could.

“What do you want, darling?” he murmured against her mouth, as if he could sense her restlessness.

“You.” She pressed her hips against his. She could be shameless, here. He wanted her; it was clear in the firm coax of his mouth, the weave of his hands over her hair and back, the hard press of his arousal against her thigh. It was a kind of madness, how she wanted to devour him.

“I want to touch you,” she whispered against his cheek.

“You may.”

She loved the low rumble of his voice, his breath catching, saying he was affected by her. He might have had dozens of women, but in this moment, he was hers.

She mapped his chest with her hands, all the fabrics and textures. Her gloves were long gone, back in the Peacock Room with her shoes and modesty. She plucked his cravat pin from the crisp folds and pinned it to her own robe, near the clasp at the shoulder. If she put it anywhere else, it would be lost in the dark, and she’d seen him wear the ruby jewel more than once. She unwound the long length of linen from his throat and then slid her hands around his neck, warm, firm, as strong as the rest of him. He kissed her all the more voraciously, as if he were glad to be in her hands.

She had never touched a man. Never thought about it. In the dark, her hands were her eyes, while the music and his ragged breath filled her ears. He smelled of smoke and sandalwood. She pressed her lips to his throat and reveled in the way he sucked in his breath. He dragged his hands all over her, down her spine and legs, squeezing her buttocks and the backs of her thighs, as if he, too, wanted to touch her everywhere at once.

Effie unbuttoned his coat, then his waistcoat, and pushed the stiff layers of fabric away. He wore no padding. She slid her palms down the front of his shirt, catching her breath in wonder. He was all solid muscle, curves and ridges, like the ancient Greek statues they had sketched in drawing classes at Miss Gregoire’s. Miss Gregoire did not believe it would distress young ladies to know what a man looked like beneath the layers of fashion. Effie wished she could be Psyche and lean with a candle over her love so she might drink in his beauty.

She was being foolish. He was not her love. He was her willing partner in her first sensual encounter, and that was all.

She tugged his shirt free from his trousers and slid her hands inside the hem. He jolted as her palms scraped his skin.

“You are like my cat,” she murmured. Lean, muscular grace, she meant. “Only not as furry.”

She raked her fingertips across his belly, downward, and his manhood surged against her. “My lady.” He moved his mouth to capture her earlobe between his lips. A molten arrow shot down her spine to that place between her legs, fanning the fire.

“I want to call you by your real name,” he whispered.

No. If she were not Effie in his arms then she could not be blamed later for being here, doing this with him. Kissing Jay was not Effie’s doing, not Effie the good girl, her mother’s pride, the most decorous of Sir Porten’s daughters. She was Erato now, a siren risen from the sea, a mermaid who had chosen her human lover and meant to have her way with him.

“You are Hephaestus,” she said. “And I am Erato.”

She pushed up his shirt and lowered to her knees before the bench where he sat so she might bend and kiss his chest. He tasted of mace and salt. She swept her tongue over the curve of his pectorals, across the ridges of his ribs, down his belly. He was broader through the chest than the models they had sketched, more solid, simply more. She wanted all night to map all the slopes and planes of him, the bands of muscle and the places where he was vulnerable, like this line of smooth skin right above the waistband of his trousers. The hard ridge of his arousal strained at the fabric, and she searched for the fastening, eager to discover all of him.

“Erato.” His voice was rough as stones tumbled by the tide. He caught her hand, and while she sensed he stared at her, she was glad he could not read her face in the shadows.

“You should know,” he said, “I hope to be married as well.”

Her fast-beating heart wheeled and then swooped like a swallow falling from the sky. He belonged to another. He was not hers.

“Shall I stop?” she asked, barely managing the words.

“I only—hmm.” He made an odd sound, a small rumble in this throat. “I want to be here. With you. But is it strange I should feel I am betraying her?”

Effie did not feel she was betraying her cousin. He’d entirely faded from her mind.

“Because you want to marry her,” she said, her lips numb. A huge hand reached into her chest, squeezing all her tender organs. He wanted someone else, this unnamed, unknown woman, and what was she, Effie? A slide of shadows, a pair of hands and lips in the dark. This time with him meant everything to her, and he would put it from his memory when they were done.

Unless she ensured he never forgot her.

Jay slid his hands into her coiled hair, fingers pressing her scalp. “You are so remarkable,” he said, his voice low and sultry. “You deserve to be worshipped.”