Page 25 of Truly, Madly, Daring

He pulled back, a questioning look in his eyes. “How was that?”

“Lovely,” she said dreamily. “Do it again.”

He grinned at her, looking so pleased her chest felt tight. Oh, this man was dangerous to her equilibrium and there was nothing she could do about it. She didn’t want to do anything about it. If he was dangerous, then she was running headfirst into the melee.

He leant in again and this time she dared to put her hands on him, the feel of his skin beneath her palms both silky smooth and burning hot, making her giddy with longing. Gently, he encouraged her to lie back against the pillows and followed her down, the kiss changing by degrees as he nipped and teased at her mouth, seeking entry. She let him in, delighting in the confident slide of his tongue against hers, teasing and beguiling her, and felt the change in him. This was the Wrexham women whispered about behind fans, the one that had kept the print shops busy illustrating his shocking exploits.

The hand that had caressed her cheek so tenderly slid lower as her heart hammered and she gave a startled gasp as he cupped her breast, squeezing gently. He broke the kiss, toying with her nipple through the thin cotton of her nightgown.

“Are you well, pet?”

She nodded and then rolled her eyes. “I am. Well… that is, I am well. Yes, v-very well.”

Emmeline groaned inwardly and wondered if she would always lose her wits if he touched her.

“You don’t want me to stop?”

“No!” she exclaimed, rather too quickly. “No. Thank you.”

He chuckled, a low, wicked sound that made her toes curl with anticipation. “Thank goodness for that, and how polite you are, pet.”

“Good manners are important no matter the circumstances,” she replied primly, for the sole purpose of making him laugh. She had her reward, though he was quickly distracted. Emmeline watched as he closed his eyes, his hand still caressing her breast. He’s savouring it, she thought, savouring me, and she was suddenly wild to feel his hands upon her skin.

“Shall I take it off now?” she asked. “The nightgown.”

His head tilted. “Do you want to?”

Emmeline hesitated, aware that most men would not want their wives to look eager for the marriage bed. Wives were supposed to endure, to allow, not enjoy; certainly not to show anything resembling desire or enthusiasm.

Her anxiety must have conveyed itself to him, for he seemed to know what troubled her without her saying a word.

“Emmeline, I would ask nothing of you. Not when you’ve already given up so much, but in this I must have honesty. Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear, for you do us both a disservice.”

“Yes,” she said in a rush, already struggling to grab hold of the fabric. “Yes, I want to take it off. I want you to touch me.”

He moved away to give her room, his expression carefully blank. Emmeline threw the discarded nightgown to the floor and shivered, uncertain now. “D-Do you want…?”

She did not finish the sentence, the next moment finding herself flat on her back, her vision filled with the sight of her husband braced over her. His mouth drifted over her cheek to her ear, where he nipped at the lobe and pressed a kiss to the delicate skin beneath, nuzzling gently. She shivered with pleasure, arching into his touch as his hand returned to her breast. His mouth continued on its journey until he reached the place where his hand caressed her, the hot, wet sensation engulfing her nipple, making her cry out in surprise.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, his voice husky as he lifted his head.

“No,” she said frankly. “It feels dreadfully wicked. Don’t stop.”

He laughed, and she felt a burst of triumph at having achieved such a thing, for surely he was used to all manner of sophisticated lovers who knew what they were about.

“Ah, little love, if you think that’s wicked, you have some surprises coming.”

“I would be disappointed if that wasn’t the case. Romantic poetry has a lot to answer for, and novels. I have very high expectations, I’ll have you know. For surely people wouldn’t get themselves in such trouble over love affairs if the feelings weren’t spectacular?”

“Spectacular?” he repeated, one golden eyebrow quirking. “Is that what we’re aiming for here?”

“I should certainly hope so. I mean, I cannot offer much in the way of experience, but I am enthusiastic,” she said, emboldened by the flush cresting his cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“Are you?” he asked, and there was that glimmer of vulnerability beneath the beautiful, sophisticated exterior that had got her into this situation in the first place.

“Yes,” she breathed, and tugged his head back to her breast. “Yes, I am.”

She gasped as he resumed his attentions.