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‘No. I won’t move from lying here beside you. Just let me touch you.’
He could feel the effort it took her to trust him, to let him brush the nest of curls, to ease one finger between the soft, damp folds. He found what he sought and stroked, just there, as her hips came off the bed with the shock of it.
‘Ashe!’ Phyllida had expected discomfort. Whatever a man did there, however gentle, would hurt, surely? But the shaft of sudden, shocking pleasure lanced through her as if a lightning flash had run from his fingertip to her womb, to her breasts, to every quivering nerve in her body.
‘Priya,’ he said, his voice husky. ‘Sweetheart. Just let go, allow yourself pleasure.’
Allow? She twisted, frantic with not knowing how to deal with the onslaught of delight when she had expected pain, out of control in a way she had never imagined, overcome by her own body’s reactions, not his strength. She was aching and needing only the heat of Ashe’s body next to her, his arm holding her safe, his wicked, wicked fingers driving her insane.
‘I don’t know how,’ she gasped.
‘Let go,’ he repeated. ‘Your body knows.’ And he kissed her and suddenly the pleasure peaked into an almost-pain that made her cry out against his mouth, arch her body hard into his hand to make it last for ever and then she lost herself, utterly, as she clung to him, knowing she was dying, not caring.
‘Phyllida?’ Ashe’s voice, soft and dark as the caress of black velvet, as sensual as sin, as gentle as… the man I love.
‘What happen
ed?’ She was still lying beside him on the daybed. In his embrace, still dressed, although her clothing was disordered. Her body thrummed with a deep, sensual relaxation and quivered with tiny aftershocks of pleasure.
‘That was an orgasm.’
She blushed. She knew the word, had even looked it up in a dictionary. ‘But that is something men experience.’
‘Both partners in lovemaking can experience it.’ He pulled her close, shifting her position so her cheek rested comfortably on his chest.
‘But you did not.’
‘No. I can wait.’
Phyllida looked down his body. He was clearly aroused. It hurt men to be in that condition and frustrated, she had heard that somewhere. ‘Can you?’ She put her hand on the hard ridge, the thought of which had so frightened her, and he gasped. She had the power to make Ashe groan, to arch into her hand as though begging her. If he could give her pleasure with a touch, could she do the same for him?
‘Let me.’ Before Ashe could protest she tugged at the ties of his trousers, slid her hand inside. She had expected the hardness, the heat. She had not realised the skin would be soft, that it would be so sensitive that it seemed to grow as she closed her fingers around it.
She was clumsy, she knew that. Clumsy and shy, but not afraid of him, or of what she was doing. After a moment of resistance Ashe fell back on the bed and let her have her way with him. He moved into her hand, showing her the rhythm he needed, giving her the confidence that she was not hurting him and she could be firmer, bolder. He gasped, his body arched, he thrust hard into her circling fingers and then fell back on the bed as the heat flooded over her fingers.
Phyllida curled into his body, loving the total relaxation, the musky scent, the way the feel of him changed in her hand as his body calmed. After a minute his arm tightened around her and he pulled her close so he could kiss her. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, that must have shocked you,’ he murmured.
‘I liked it,’ she mumbled into his shirt front, too shy to meet his eyes. ‘Ashe, I think it might be all right after all. When we do it properly, I mean.’
‘That was properly,’ he said and sat up. ‘There are all kinds of ways to make love—think of a banquet, lots of dishes. Some great solid roasts, some sweet fluffy concoctions, some rather sinfully sweet, others dangerously spicy.’
He was on his feet, investigating behind a screen. ‘Is there water in this ewer? Yes, rather dusty, very cold, but it will do. And a towel.’ There was the sound of splashing behind the screen. Phyllida sat up and pulled the coverlet over her bare toes.
‘Ashe, do you want to do it again?’ That had been wonderful beyond words and the relief of knowing that she could lie in a man’s arms, be intimate with him and enjoy the experience, was huge. But whatever Ashe said, sooner or later sex would involve the same act that had taken place in the tawdry room in the Wapping brothel, the act that had taken her virginity. The act she had been paid for by Harry Buck.
Chapter Nineteen
What she had done would brand Phyllida a whore. Any man would say so, she knew that. She had allowed Ashe to think she had been forced, when in fact she had taken money, removed her clothes, lain on that bed and had done nothing to resist. The fact that if she had not then she would have starved, that she needed the money to find her father, to make him come back, or give her enough money to get food and medicine for her mother, food and shelter for all of them, did not alter the fact of the transaction that had removed her claim to be a woman of honour.
It made her angry, that double standard, but that was the way things were. And if she had to do it again, if someone’s life depended on it, if Gregory was in trouble and it was the only way to save him, then she would sell herself again without hesitation. Her screams, she had learned in the course of that one bitter night, would only fuel the excitement of the man taking her.
‘I only used half the water.’ Ashe emerged from behind the screen. ‘Do it again? I would like to very much, but not tonight. And the next time, then we will talk about what other dishes on the menu you would like to sample. You choose what we do, when we do it. The control is yours. There is no need to rush anything.’
She shot him a look of gratitude as she passed him, then went to tidy herself. No wonder she loved him. His past had not, she guessed, been blameless—she recalled the amusement with which he had told her he was not a virgin—but he was a decent, honourable man and she was thinking about deceiving him about something he would believe touched on that honour.
Phyllida wrestled with her conscience. She had not meant to make love when she had asked him here, only to confess that she was not a virgin. Ashe’s closeness, his response, had overset all her scruples, swept away everything but the desire to be in his arms.
Now she knew how wrong, how weak, that had been. Ashe wanted to marry her out of honour. There were many reasons why she was the wrong bride for him and Ashe believed he knew them all and could make it work despite them. He admitted he was attracted to her. He even knew now that she was not a virgin. His parents and sister seemed to like her and were prepared to welcome her into their family. The benefits to her and to Gregory were too numerous to name.
