One Forbidden Evening. Jo Goodman
a pillow for her head, then he bore her down on it.
Her tunic fell to her thighs when he raised her knees and settled himself between them. Neither of them moved at first, becoming acquainted with this new intimacy. Of necessity there were adjustments to be made. Her head bumped the lip of an upper step. His knee caught the lip of a lower one. The landing afforded them not much more space than an armoire, and they turned and twisted until they had an arrangement that suited them both.
“Aren’t you pleased I talked you out of the cupboard?” he asked.
“You cannot imagine.” She raised her head just enough to brush his lips with hers. The tip of her tongue wet his lower lip. “Shall I help you with your flies?”
If the mask had made her bold before, darkness made her bolder. “I can manage. Do you need help with your shift?”
“I can manage.”
There was no mistaking that he was ready for her, but Ferrin was not as certain the reverse was true. Reckless and impassioned they might be, he reasoned there was time enough yet to lay siege to all of her senses. To that end, he began in precisely the same place he had stopped when they had slid to the floor. The hollow of her throat was still damp from his last kiss. Her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.
He moved lower, finding the edge of her tunic with his teeth and tugging. He used his fingers to slip it over one of her shoulders, then traced the line of her collarbone. He retraced it with his lips. She arched a little under him, raising her breasts. He pulled the tunic lower until it was her flesh he felt under his palm and the sweet thorny point of her nipple against his thumb.
She filled his hand. He bent his head and suckled her. She cried out, and he was forced to stop. He placed his mouth near her own and whispered that she must accept quietly what was done to her, else they would arouse the curiosity of the housemaids and footmen. He felt her nod and smiled because she would not for anything risk a single word in reply.
This time when he took her nipple in his mouth she merely whimpered. The sound of that tight little gasp made his blood surge again. He was achingly hard. He ground his hips against her, and he rolled the tip of her breast between his lips, touching her ever so lightly with the ridge of his teeth. He felt the hand she’d laid on his shoulder lift, then heard her muffled cry and knew she’d jammed her fist against her mouth.
When she shifted under him he realized she meant for him to show the same delicate attention to her other breast. He did. She was so responsive to his touch that he found himself holding back, gentling her as though she might break apart in his hands. She would have none of it, or none of it for long. When his reserve became too much for her, the fragile foreplay a torture in itself, she caught his face between her hands and kissed him hard enough to bruise their lips.
As an invitation it could not have been clearer. Ferrin released his erection from his breeches, then slipped his hands under her bottom and lifted. He felt her draw her knees higher, opening for him, then clasping him. He did not go gently now but thrust forward so that she reared up and for a moment seemed as if she would stop him. The fists that he thought might pummel him when they pressed against his shoulders slowly uncurled. Her fingers fluttered, then were still.
He waited her out, another adjustment to be made as her body stretched to accommodate his entry. Her breathing was quick and shallow, the response to a heart racing so hard it threatened to burst her chest. He was quiet, patient. That would change, but for now he could be patient.
“Please,” she whispered. “I want…” But she did not say what she wanted. “Please,” she said again instead.
They fit so tightly that the cramped space they occupied was without consequence. He moved slowly at first, long, sure strokes that helped her find his rhythm and take him so deeply he thought he might die with the pleasure of it. He didn’t, but he would not have minded if he had.
He set about making certain that she felt the very same. Releasing her abruptly, he turned her over and folded her forward on her knees. Her forearms braced on one of the steps above; the curve of her bottom was raised toward him. He palmed her buttocks, finding her cleft, then entered her again, this time from behind. He sensed her ducking her head and realized she was protecting her nose and chin from a collision with one of the upper steps. He swore softly, in way of apology, then leaned forward and kissed her shoulder to punctuate it.
“All is well?” he asked.
“Yes.” He began to move in her again. “Oh, yes,” she said.
One of his hands left her hip and sought the wet, slippery folds of flesh beneath her mons. He ran a finger between them, flicking the hooded bud with the tip of his nail. Her entire body quivered. The cadence of her breathing changed again, this time coming more irregularly as she caught, then held, a sip of air at the back of her throat.
In the ballroom a waltz was being played. The lilting three-quarter time insinuated itself into the dark passage. The vibration of so many dancers taking to the floor could be felt in the stairwell. Occasionally a servant moved below and then they would quiet, only the harshness of their breathing hinting at the mixture of anticipation and excitement they held at bay. Each brief respite served to heighten pleasure already spiraling in a dizzying arc.
He didn’t know what she did to keep from screaming, but when she shuddered violently in his arms he had little doubt it was what she had wanted to do. His own climax came as hard: short, shallow strokes followed by one that buried him so deeply that he touched her womb.
They could not linger in the aftermath, of course. Neither of them tried. They separated, though not too quickly as to be unseemly. He helped her turn and get her knees under her but did not hold her in his arms. When he tried to assist her with righting her tunic, she gently pushed his hands away.
“Will you permit me to light one of the lamps?” he asked. It seemed unlikely that she would and, indeed, she firmly turned him down. He addressed the sorry condition of his own clothes. His tricornered hat was crushed, forcing him to beat it against his knee and press each side to return it to some semblance of its former shape. It was not so important that his stock was loosened. That was in no way out of keeping with his costume. He touched the eye patch to make certain it was still in place and refastened his breeches, waistcoat, and frock coat, then ran one hand down the front to judge his success with matching the buttons to the proper hole.
She was already standing when he got to his feet. “Have you your cloak?” he asked, brushing himself off. “The brooch? Do you require help with it?”
“No help, thank you. I have done the thing myself.”
He never doubted that she was that most thorny of all females to manipulate: independent and managing. He set his hat on his head, adjusted the angle, and inquired if she had her mask.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then will you want to return first to the ballroom or should I?”
“I’d like to go.”
“As you wish.”
She hesitated. “You will not…that is…you will not…”
He waited. Even on short acquaintance he knew it was not her way to leave a thought unfinished. When it was clear to him that she would not, could not, complete her sentence, he rescued her. “No, I will not. Whatever it is that you hope I will not do, know that I will not do it.”
“Thank you.”
“Shall I escort you down the stairs?”
“That will not be necessary.”
“Have a care, then; they’re steep.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Very well, Boudicca.”
There was an awkward silence—at least Ferrin found it so—then he felt her brush past him and begin her descent. He waited there on the landing for what he calculated was the better part of ten minutes, a decent enough interval for her to rejoin the party and