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He withdrew slightly, sank back in, and she welcomed him, and when he thrust an awkward hand between them, she rocked against him, squeezing him, finding her rhythm, taking her pleasure. She knew now what she wanted; she was discovering how to get it.
“Take it,” he murmured in her ear. “Take your pleasure on me. Use me. Have me. Take it all, love, take it. Take me. Take everything you want.”
He pleasured her breasts, gave her his cock, and watched her, awed, like he was viewing a miracle: Her head was thrown back, a flush stained her throat, and then she froze, her eyes widened, and he felt the soft cry build inside her. He captured her orgasm with his mouth as the pleasure shuddered through her and through him and he felt more pleased with himself and the world than he remembered feeling in years.
She reared up, locking strong thighs around him, her hands searing his skin—he could forgive the miles of blasted fabric in their way so long as he felt her hands on his skin—and he took his pleasure, feeling every inch of her with every inch of him, over and over and over, enveloped in her generous heat, in her limbs, in her. In all of her and only her. And when he came, deep inside her, he buried his face in her neck and surrendered to the waves of pure bliss.
Even after he relieved her of his weight, he stayed deep inside her. He had nothing else to do, and nowhere better to be.
His heart still pounded and, yes, hers did too. He felt the cool sheen of sweat over his back where her hands still caressed him, and he was still inside her, softer now, warm and content. Contentment was all he found in his heart, too, when he searched it. He raised his head and looked at her: her eyes closed, lashes dark on her cheeks, the flush mottling her throat, so warm, so beautiful, bathed in daylight.
Daylight.
Gradually, he became aware of other things. Small things. Approximately six miles of fabric was bunched up between them, what with her gown and his shirt, and his buckskins dug into his thighs and his boots—Bloody hell, he still wore his boots! She deserved better, and surely even he had more finesse than that!
And slowly he became aware of the rattling of carriages, yells from the street, servants exchanging a word in the hallway, footsteps pounding overhead.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
Her eyes opened, a mesmerizing amber-green.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“Oh. I forgot.” Her soft laugh stirred as she lay and listened to the noises of the world they had left. Her face fell. “Oh no,” she said. “I made noise. What noise did I make? I forgot. How could I forget? What if they heard? What if they know that we…Oh.”
She was so adorable, as she tried reconciling her public self with her private self, and he was inordinately pleased with himself for finding this part of her. Grinning, he pulled out of her and off her, let her legs fall. He stroked her hair, kissed her. He picked up her scent on his fingers and his body stirred again.
“We’re married,” he reminded her. “It’s all quite proper.”
“Proper!” she repeated. “Oh you fiend!”
She slapped him lightly, so he kissed her, long and slow, and reveled in the way she kissed him back.
“That was rather inelegant,” he said. “I should have made love to you properly last night.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to. I…”
He had no words and she did not push him. “That was not like our wedding night,” she said instead. “I worried but it was…lovely.”
He said nothing. There was no point wondering if anything might ever have been different.
From somewhere came a laugh,thatlaugh, and a singsong call of “Mother Cassandra!” and another voice, Newell perhaps, moving the speaker along.
“Oh heavens,” Cassandra said. “I completely forgot she was here.”
And he felt proud of himself for that, at least.
* * *
They helpedeach other tidy up and dress. Cassandra went through the motions, and was grateful to have motions to go through. How comforting to have something sensible and practical to do. The world felt strange, yet normal. Her body felt unfamiliar, yet natural. And to dress with a man felt completely new and ages old.
Yet somewhere amid this new familiarity, awkwardness sprouted and grew.
The letters, of course.
