Page 42 of A Necessary Wife

“May I?”

“Yes, but do it slowly,” he whispered, breathing hard. He lay his head against her shoulder, and she was certain his gaze was on the strings.

Slowly?

Amelia found her fingers almost as useless with him watching her so closely, but she succeeded, and when the garment was loose, Chatham’s fingers were beside hers, teasing the garment away from her breasts and causing her breath to catch.

He stroked her skin, drawing closer to her nipples, which were already pointed from the cold or excitement. When his fingers slid over the points, she moaned out loud.

Chatham sighed as he cupped her bare breast and turned his face toward her throat.

His breath was hot against her skin as he caressed her breast with reverence, even tugged on her nipple, too.

Amelia shuddered and moaned, already out of her depth and climbing out of her skin. If this was a marriage without love, she would be a very satisfied woman indeed.

She teased her fingers into Chatham’s dark hair as he lowered his face and took her nipple into his mouth. Her back arched at the flick of his tongue across the hard point, and she held him there when he sucked.

Her sex throbbed in response, and she gripped her gown at the sides, unsure of what to do with herself but feeling a compulsion to do something scandalous.

Chatham’s hand slapped over hers, and together they raised her gown a few inches higher.

Chatham released her breast and pinched her stocking at her calf. “How high do your stockings go today?”

Her breath shuddered out at the odd question. “They are tied above the knee today.”

“Above the knee? I should like to see all of your leg, with your permission, of course.”

She nodded quickly, nearly breathless with anticipation. His fingers, warm and heavy upon her leg, dragged upward. He stopped where stocking met thigh, lingered there, stroking around the tight ribbon. Then he searched for the ends of it. One tug and it was undone, sliding down her leg with ease.

His fingers returned to skim over the old wound. “Are you certain this is as old as you claim?”

“Yes,” she promised. “I was ten.”

“Ten and there was no one around to protect you,” he complained.

She tugged her gown over her knee again. “Things improved when Reynolds returned home from school.”

“There are other scars.”

She winced. He’d see the worst one eventually. There was no point hiding it. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“My back.”

Chatham pushed her gown out of the way and removed her stocking, his fingers sliding down her limb, but then she was flipped around, her gown shoved aside to expose her back. He outlined the burn her sister had made with wax as if it must still hurt her. His touch was light, gentle, and then his lips brushed her skin there, too. “She did this too. A pox on your sister and your family.”

“It was only wax.”

“Wax hurts.”

Amelia shuddered as his breath warmed the skin on her back. No one had kissed her hurts since her mother. To have a husband do it was a kindness she’d not expected. His arms wrapped around her waist and squeezed. “No one will ever hurt you like this again,” he promised, and then he turned her back to face him.

“I know,” she told him.

He rearranged her to straddle him, pushing her gown aside and sweeping everything she was still wearing over her head, dumping it carelessly on the floor.

His breathing was fast and labored.