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But when his mouth descended on her breast, she lost her logical faculties. His rough suckling made her feel whimpery, and soft, and unable to move. And the longer he stayed there, the more weak she became, until her legs and middle section were liquid, and she could hardly breathe. She was quivering in the most embarrassing way.

The result was that when he ducked out from her gown and began to pull it up, inch by inch, running a strong hand up her legs, she didn’t even protest. She let him expose her legs to the air because she was too busy trying to grapple with the rising fire in her belly, with the shameful impulses that crowded on her. Far from wanting to recite laundry lists, she wanted to—to touch him. Worse, to put her mouth to him, to lick his golden skin.

It took all her fortitude not to descend in the very depths of depravity. To hold her hands at her sides although she positively longed to—

“They look exactly the same, don’t they?” he said. Henrietta raised her head and discovered that her nightgown was gone, over her head and tossed away. Her husband was on his knees over her, muscled brown legs straddling her white legs. He was caressing her right hip with his fingers, soothing it as if to make any pain go away. Fool for Love

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She couldn’t seem to think clearly. His fingers were brushing her skin over and over, which was a simple enough action except that it created a gaping sense of openness between her legs. A melting, languid inability to move. So she just lay and let him . . . well, do the things he did. Touch her shoulder, and then press kisses into her ribs, and trail his tongue over her belly. Run a hand inquiringly up her leg and even in her dazed state she knew exactly what he was asking, because she’d been longing to do it.

She let her legs fall open to his hand, and barely registered his murmured, “Good girl,” because he was touching her—

there—and it felt so good that she found herself arching toward his hand, panting and moaning out loud, deep in her throat.

But he left . . . he left. He seemed to be fascinated by her hair. He was using it to caress her breasts, dragging a few locks across her nipples until she shivered all over and cried out for a firmer touch. He left her breast with one last rough stroke.

“You can’t—” she managed, shocked, but he already had. The sensation was rough, and soft, and unbearably exciting between her legs, especially when he suddenly bent his head and he was licking her and then rubbing—

She had her knees up now, where he’d pushed them, and she didn’t even think about whether her hip hurt (it didn’t), just stayed exactly where he bid her.

“Simon,” she moaned, not even realizing it was the first time she used his first name. “Simon, please, please . . .”

There was an aching emptiness between her legs, and his kisses were stoking that fire, not curing it. In fact the hunger was so great she opened her eyes and wound her arms around his neck. He was braced on his hands, leaning over her, and she was just able to notice that he didn’t look composed—

not at all. His hair was standing straight off his head, and his eyes looked wild.

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“My wife,” he said hoarsely. She didn’t listen because she was too busy rubbing against him, again and again, like a cat, trying to cure some itch she never knew she had.

“Henrietta, ask me,” he said, and the ache in his voice sank through to her.

She took her hands off his chest, and said, “Yes?” It didn’t even sound like her own voice.

“Ask me, Henrietta!” His eyes were black, and he drove forward just slightly. She clutched his arms and arched forward, following the sensation.

“Please,” she said hopelessly, “Oh God, please.”

“Please what?”

Henrietta Maclellan had considerable courage. She faced the world with her injured hip every day of her life. She had faced down scornful ladies and once, a drunken man in the village. But nothing compared to the moment when she removed her hands from their fierce grip around her husband’s neck and reached down between his legs. “Bring me this, Simon,” she said, and her voice broke with longing. He throbbed, hot and smooth in her small hand. She kissed his chin and the edge of his shoulder and arched up against him.

“Bring me yourself.”

Her hand slipped away and Darby lowered his head for one last agonizingly sweet kiss. Then, when she was quivering all over, he entered with one long, smooth stroke, praying for control. But she was a virgin, all right. He hit a barrier and stopped.

He bent down and kissed that sweet mouth, all swollen from his kisses. “This part is going to hurt,” he whispered. She whimpered in response, but it wasn’t from pain. She was clutching his forearms so hard that he’d likely have bruises.

“How does it feel, Henrietta?” he whispered. He’d never cared much how any of his other partners felt, as long as they seemed appropriately gratified, but he couldn’t stop watch-Fool for Love 287

ing Henrietta’s face: the way she looked at him with sheer longing. When it came to his wife, he wanted to know everything about her. She opened her eyes and what he saw there drenched him with lust. He drove forward without waiting for an answer, caught her cry with his mouth, answered it with a groan of his own.

There was a momentary pause in their conversation, if you could call it that, while Darby tried to adjust to the sweetest, tightest experience of his entire life.

“Oh God, Henrietta, you feel so good,” he said thickly.