“You should have a proper bed,” he murmured, “with proper sheets and proper pillows…”
But she just shook her head, clasping her fingers behind his neck to pull him down for a kiss. “I don’t want to be proper right now,” she said, whispering the words into his ear. “I only want you.”
It had been inevitable. He’d known that for some time now, since the moment she’d slyly asked him if he planned to propose. But even so, something seemed to tip at that moment, sending him over the edge of restraint, transforming this from a seduction to sheer madness.
He set her down on her back and immediately covered her body with his. The touch was electric. They were skin to skin, pressed up against each other with breathtaking intimacy. And he wanted so much just to bury himself inside her, to have her, to know her, but he could not allow himself to rush. He did not know if he could bring her to completion; he’d never made love to a virgin before, and he had no idea if it was even possible. But by God, he would make this good for her. When they were through, she would know that she had been worshipped.
She would know that she was loved.
“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, kissing her on the lips before moving to her throat.
He heard her breath, raspy, excited, and perhaps a little confused. “What do you mean?”
He cupped her breast with his hand. “Do you like this?”
He heard the swift intake of her breath.
“Do you?” he asked softly, trailing his lips down to the base of her neck.
She nodded, quick frantic movements. “Yes.”
“Tell me what you like,” he said again, and his mouth found the tip of her breast. He blew a little air on it, then circled the edge with his tongue before finally capturing her with his lips.
“I like that,” she gasped.
So do I, he thought, and he moved to the other side, telling himself it was for balance. But really it was for him, and for her, and because he couldn’t bear to leave one inch of her untouched.
She arched beneath him, pressing up against his mouth, and he slid one of his hands down, wrapping around her bottom. He squeezed, then moved, his fingers finding the soft skin of her inner thigh. And when he squeezed again, his fingers were close, so close to the very center of her, so close that he could feel her heat.
His mouth moved back to hers just as his fingers found her, stroked her, entered her.
“Harry!” she cried out, surprised, but not, he thought, upset.
“Tell me what you like,” he said again.
“That,” she managed to get out. “But I don’t…”
He moved deeper, in and out, her wetness making him burn with need for her. “You don’t what?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He smiled. “You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know what I don’t know,” she practically snapped.
He bit back a laugh, and his fingers stilled for a moment.
“Don’t stop!” she cried.
And so he didn’t. He didn’t stop when she moaned his name, and he didn’t stop when she grabbed his shoulders so hard he was sure he’d be bruised. And he absolutely did not stop when she convulsed around him, so fast and so hard that she nearly pushed him out of her.
A gentleman might have stopped then. She had climaxed, and she was still a virgin, and he was probably a beast for wanting to make love to her fully, but he simply couldn’t…not.
She was his.
But not, he was coming to realize, quite as much as he was hers.
Before she came down from her climax, before she could collapse from the power of it, he pulled his fingers out and positioned himself at her opening. “I love you,” he said, his voice husky and hoarse with emotion. “I have to tell you. I need you to know. Right now I need you to know.”
He pushed forward then, expecting resistance. But she was so excited, so well loved, that he slid inside with ease. He shuddered at the pleasure of it, of the exquisite joining of their bodies. It was as if he’d never done this before-his desire took over and he lost all control. And then, in what would have been shameful speed had he not just pleasured her, he cried out and stiffened, and then, finally, collapsed.
Chapter Twenty-one
Olivia left first.
She wasn’t sure how long they had lain there on the divan, trying to regain their sanity, and then, once they were able to breathe normally, it had taken some time to right their appearances. Harry couldn’t get his tie folded with the same crisp precision as his valet had done, and Olivia had found that one handkerchief was not up to the task of…
Good heavens, she couldn’t even think the words. She did not regret what she had done. She could never; it was the most wonderful, amazing, spectacular experience of her life. But now she was…sticky.
Their departure was also delayed by several stolen kisses, at least two lustful glances that had threatened to send them right back to the divan, and one extremely mischievous pinch on the behind.
Olivia was still congratulating herself on that one.
But eventually they managed to look respectable enough to rejoin polite society, and it was decided that Olivia would depart first. Harry would follow five minutes later.
“Are you certain my hair looks presentable?” she asked as she placed her hand on the doorknob.
“No,” he admitted.
She felt her eyes widen with alarm.
“It does not look bad,” he said, with a man’s typical inability to accurately describe coiffure, “but I don’t think it looks precisely the same as it did when you arrived.” He smiled weakly, clearly aware of his shortcomings in this regard.
She rushed back over to the room’s lone mirror, but it was over the mantel, and even on her tiptoes she couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of her entire face. “I can’t see a thing,” she grumbled. “I am going to have to find a washroom.”
And so their plans changed. Olivia would leave, find a washroom, and then remain there for at least ten minutes, so that Harry could leave five minutes after she departed and arrive back at the ballroom five minutes before she arrived.
Olivia found the subterfuge exhausting. How did people manage such things, sneaking about like thieves? She would make a terrible spy.
Her frustration must have shown on her face, because Harry came over and kissed her once, softly, on the cheek. “We shall be married soon,” he promised, “and we will never have to do this again.”
She opened her mouth to point out that her mother would insist upon a three-month engagement at the very least, but he held up a hand and said, “Don’t worry, that’s not your proposal. When I propose, you’ll know it. I promise.”
She smiled to herself and murmured her farewell, peeking out the door first to make sure no one was coming, then slipping out into the quiet, moonlit gallery.
She knew the location of the washroom; she’d been there once already that evening. She tried to walk at precisely the correct speed. Not too fast; she did not want to look as if she was rushing. Not too slowly, either; it was always best to appear as if one had a purpose.
She encountered no one on her way to the washroom, for which she was grateful. When she opened the door, however, and stepped into the outer chamber, where ladies could wash their hands and check their appearances, she was met with:
“Olivia!”
Olivia nearly jumped out of her skin. Mary Cadogan was standing at the mirror, pinching her cheeks.
“Good heavens, Mary,” Olivia said, trying to catch her breath. “You gave me a start.” She desperately did not want to get caught up into a conversation with Mary Cadogan, but on the other hand, if she had to run into someone, she was grateful it was a friend. Mary might wonder at Olivia’s mussed appearance, but she would never suspect the truth.