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She unfastened the button of his shirt, and it fell open. She laid her palm against his neck and slid it down over the skin bared, over the hard contours of his chest. While her hand rested on his chest, she bent her head, and laid her cheek against his. She remained there for a moment and let herself feel her face touching his while she breathed in the scent of him, the scent of a man, this man, warm and as heady as hot cognac.
Then she stepped back and untied her shoes and stepped out of them. She reached behind and untied the corset string. She quickly drew it through the eyelets, until it was loosened enough to slide down over her hips. Her chemise, released from the corset, slid down from her shoulders, baring one breast. She heard him suck in air. She shed the corset and tossed it aside. She untied her petticoats and let them slide down her legs. She reached under the chemise and untied her drawers and let them fall. She stepped out of them.
She stood now in chemise and stockings. She let him look, let herself enjoy his looking, the heat in his eyes, the pleasure at the sight of her, the excitement.
“You’re killing me,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re killing me.”
“You’ll die beautifully,” she said.
She set her foot on the edge of the bed, near his thigh. She threw back the hem of the chemise, baring her knee. He made a choked sound.
She untied her garter and dropped it on the rug. Then she rolled her stocking down, slowly, over her knee, down her calf to her ankle and down over her instep, and tugged it off. She heard his breath hitch. She dropped the stocking, but she left her leg as it was for a moment. She let him look and let herself watch him look while she planted in her memory the expression on his beautiful face.
Then she drew her leg down and removed the other stocking in the same way. By this time, the chemise had slid nearly to her waist. Only the sleeves, caught in the crook of her elbows, kept it on.
She let her arms relax at her sides and gave a little shake. The chemise slithered down and off her and made a little puddle of muslin on the floor.
That left her with nothing at all, not a stitch.
His breathing was harsh now, his face taut.
“Come here, you wicked girl,” he said.
She moved close again, and he groaned and reached for her. Then his mouth was on her, moving over her breasts. When he took her nipple in his mouth, she gave a little cry, and caught her fingers in his hair, grasping his head, and holding him to her. She bent her head and kissed the top of his, and she ached, the flesh-ache of desire, the heart-ache of loving.
She let herself suffer, and she let herself enjoy while he suckled her. But when he started to pull her to him, she pulled back. “I’m not done,” she said.
“I hope not,” he said.
She pushed his hands out of the way, and unbuttoned his trousers, and tugged his shirt free. “Lift your arms,” she said.
He closed his eyes and did as she said.
She pulled his shirt over his head. She grasped the waist of his trousers and pulled, and he leaned back and lifted his hips so that she could pull them down and off. Then, more quickly, came his drawers.
Freed, his cock sprang up from its dark nest, and she couldn’t keep herself from clasping it, so warm in her hand, so thick and long and well shaped—like the rest of him.
“Christ, Marcelline,” he said.
She smiled and kissed the velvety tip, and he swore.
She would have done more. She could have done more. She wanted to, but she wanted to make this last as long as she could. She released him, and slid her hands down his legs and tugged off his stockings.
She wasn’t so steady as before and her pace was not as leisurely. His hands and mouth had set her on fire. He roused her so easily, the way he’d done in Paris, and in her shop—she, who was always in control, who knew all there was to know about men, and felt as though she’d been born knowing it. She went up like tissue paper touched by a flame.
She climbed onto the bed and straddled him. She looked down, and he was reaching up. He set his palms along the sides of her face. For a long moment that was all he did. He held her and looked up at her. She thought he’d say something, but he didn’t. Then he brought her mouth to his, and kissed her.
Tender, so tender.
And hungry, deepening in an instant.
She was hungry, too. She kissed him back with all the yearning she’d locked away for weeks and all the dreams and fantasies that had made a turmoil of her nights and all the passion she’d always kept for her work, her great love.
But now there was this man, who’d beat all the odds and made her love him.
He kissed her, and it was deep. His tongue hunted every secret of her mouth and caressed it, and drew her deeper with each caress. His taste and scent were everywhere, a warm sea in which she was floating, sinking, drowning.
She moved her hands over him, over his big shoulders and down over his back. She let herself wallow in skin touch, and in the heady power of feeling his muscles tense under her hands. She stroked over his arms, her palms curving to find the shape of him and imprint it upon her senses, to be conjured again when she wanted him and he wouldn’t be there. She moved restlessly, learning every inch of his big, hard chest.
