Chapter Thirteen

"W e.. . damn. Florence, we cannot be having this conversation!"

Florence heard the pain in John's voice, but also the longing. The desire, a desire which she had seen bubbling away in him, just under the surface. Never to be permitted out.

Until now.

Florence knew there was a chance she would regret this conversation in the morning. When the light of day returned. When the storm had gone, and all the passion it evoked in her had died.

But there was also a chance she wouldn't.

Her gaze flickered over the man before her. Handsome, yes. Charming, yes. But also vulnerable. Open, with her. Kind and thoughtful and caring.

A man she wanted.

Florence hesitated, but only for a moment. "But I want to. Not have this conversation, I mean—but be touched by you. Make... make love to me, John."

She hadn't precisely intended those words. They were far more scandalous, far more exposing than she had planned. A part of Florence could hardly believe she had said them.

But this was right, she knew it was. After what had happened—or rather, not happened—two years ago, when she had been so certain John would propose matrimony, this was their second chance. She wasn't going to lose it just because of propriety.

"John?" Florence murmured into the silence.

He was still looking. Staring at her, as though he had never seen her before. As though he had never seen a woman before. As though language had ceased to function, his tongue mute, his mind utterly lost in the shock of what she had said.

Heat fluttered up Florence's neck, but for the first time in her life, she ignored it.

Shame would come, perhaps. But not now. Not while she looked at this man.

John Chance may be a marquess, but he was also a man—and he brought something out of her that Florence had never known before. A hunger, a desire, a passion. A need to be close to someone, to discover what delights could be shared between two people who...

Florence swallowed.

Words of love would come soon, she was certain. Words of affection, of admiration, words she could not quite bring herself to say. Not quite.

And they were going to be married, weren't they? In just a few short weeks, she would be Florence Chance, Marchioness of Aylesbury. That thought alone was sufficient to send a thrill of anticipation rushing up her spine.

Well, what did the difference of a few weeks make, really? Why not discover the delights of the marriage bed now, while they had this opportunity? While the rain fell and the wind blew, the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared...

And John looked at her like that.

Finally, he broke the silence of the drawing room. "I would never ask you to do something you would regret."

It was not a no. That was something Florence had to hold onto. It was not a no.

Strange. A smile crept over her face at the thought. If someone had told her, even a month ago, that she would be attempting to persuade John Chance to bed her, she'd have thought them mad.

"I care about you," Florence said quietly. "And I wouldn't regret it."

"I care about you, too," John said, with such ferocity that Florence's eyes widened. "But—"

"John Chance," she interrupted, remembering something he had said only days ago, "you are being an idiot."

"Remind me, the next time I do something like that, that I am a complete idiot."

In the gloom of the room, lit now by only a few nearly guttering candles, she saw John's face, a picture of astonishment.

Then his features relaxed and he grinned. "I thought you'd never do that."

"I-I am surprised I d-did it myself," Florence admitted, her shyness threatening to return. "But it's true. I... John, I..."

Her voice trailed away, her courage not quite managing to stick.

Because once it was said, it was said. There was no taking that sort of statement back. She would not be able to convince John to forget it, pretend it was a spontaneous remark that meant nothing.

No, once these words left her lips, there would be nothing else she could hide behind. Florence would have no recourse, no retreat, no opportunity to step away from this man who made her feel... who looked at her like...

Florence swallowed. She had hesitated before, but this was the moment. She had to be brave—not because she was not shy, but because shyness would not rule her. Not when it came to moments like this.

"John, I . . . I love you."

The words echoed around the room. Or perhaps that was just her mind, echoing with the syllables that had been dancing on the tip of her tongue for weeks now.

She loved him.

Who could not love him? That was the trouble with John Chance, he was entirely too loveable. Florence would not be surprised if there had been others before her who had said such things. Meant such things. Wished John could reciprocate, could return the affection that so easily poured in his direction. And she wondered whether her admission had been too dull, too insipid to inspire anything—

He was kissing her.

Florence was so astonished at the sudden change that she hardly knew how it had happened. She had no memory of John moving toward her, nor of her own feet taking her closer to him. There did not seem to have been any process toward the kiss—merely that they had not been kissing, and now they were.

And all rational thought ceased.

How could it continue, with John kissing her like this? As though he had never kissed anyone else in his life. As though he were starving for affection, hungry for her in a way Florence could never have dreamed.

His lips roughly parted hers, eagerly taking possession of her. Florence welcomed him in, her tongue reaching out for his, and she did not know whether it was herself or John who moaned in that moment of connection.

His hands were not idle. Florence gasped in his mouth as John's fingers tightened around her buttocks, drawing them tight into his hips where something—

Where something she was almost certain was his manhood was straining against his breeches.

Florence gave herself to the kiss. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him nearer, her whole body aching to get closer to him. Time could have ceased and she would not have cared.

She was being soundly kissed by John Chance.

John's lips left her own but she could hardly complain. He remained busy as the rain poured down the windows, trapping them in this room where no other person existed in London. There was nothing else in the whole world.

"John," Florence murmured.

It was not a remonstrance. It was encouragement, encouragement in the only way she knew how—to utter his name. John's left hand remained cupping her buttocks but his right had moved to the ties of her gown, feverishly attempting to pull them apart.

And Florence laughed, her body aflame with his touch and the moment seemingly so ridiculous.

What, they were going to be thwarted by a mere ribbon?

"Here," Florence breathed, her hand moving to join his own.

Somehow in the tangle of fingers and kisses, they managed it. The tie unwound, her gown immediately loosening, and—

"John!" she gasped in wonder.

For it was wonderful. Wondrous. Beyond wonder.

As John's lips pressed against her neck, lowering to her collarbone, his fingers had moved confidently and assuredly under her gown's bodice to her corset. A corset he had swiftly forced down by a few inches.

A few inches was all it needed. Her breasts, no longer trapped beneath the whalebone and fabric, were free—but not for long.

Florence arched her back and whimpered. "J-John."

At least, that was what she had attempted to whimper, but there was hardly any air left in her lungs as John's finger scraped across her nipple. The unexpected contact did unexpected things.

Things like shooting sensuality through Florence's body as though a bolt of lightning from the storm outside had struck inside the room.

Things like make her legs weak.

Things like her mouth opening and uttering, "D-Do that again."

The swift look she had of John's face told her that he liked her being so forward. It was a strange thought—one Florence promised herself she would dedicate more time to.

After . . . after this.

John's thumb circled around her nipple, achingly close, before rubbing over it again as he plunged his head to—

Florence moaned, unable to help herself. How could anyone remain silent when John's mouth was upon their breast, his tongue licking around the peaking areola, sweeping over her nipple—

Suckling.

Sparks of decadent pleasure were cascading through Florence, making it difficult to stand. Not that it seemed to matter. John's strong arm around her, his hand cupping her buttocks, ensured she did not fall. Fall over, at any rate.

If she had not been in love with him before, she certainly was now.

How could anyone defend themselves from such an onslaught of hedonistic pleasure?

"J-John," Florence managed after a few heart-stopping minutes of him worshipping her breasts, a tugging ache pulling down from her nipples to her core.

He instantly raised his head, concern on his face. "Florence? I-I can stop, I—at least, I think I can stop. Dear God, you are so beautiful—"

Florence raised a hand and placed it on his lips, panting heavily at the wet sensation. He was so handsome, so charming... and he knew precisely what to do to please her.

A giddy combination.

"I need you to take me upstairs," she said.

And for some reason disappointment clouded John's eyes. "Of... of course. You wish to sleep, I have exhausted you beyond—you are my guest, and I will—"

Florence almost laughed, it was too amusing. The poor man had completely misunderstood her, and it would be cruel to let him to continue under that misunderstanding.

Wouldn't it?

"Here, let me—ah, I seem to have made rather a mess of your gown," John said awkwardly, trying to pull it and her corset up over her shoulders once more.

Trying to ignore the fluttering sensation as his fingers brushed against her skin, Florence said, "John, I actually meant—"

"Come on, upstairs with you, you must be exhausted," he said briskly, as though attempting to dampen all enthusiasm for what they had just so recently been enjoying together. "Come on."

Helpless against the propelling force that was John Chance, Florence clutched her gown about her and hoped to goodness they wouldn't run into anyone as they stepped into—

"Ah, my lord, Miss Bailey," said the butler as they entered the hallway. "I wondered if you—ah. Oh dear."

"Miss... Miss Bailey has suffered an accident," said John helplessly as he glanced at Florence with a red face. "An accident with her gown. Ahem."

"Ah," repeated the butler just as helplessly.

Mortification swept through Florence, as she had known it would, as she stood before the two men with her gown clutched to her.

And yet . . .

Yet it did not feel the same as the mortification that she had previously known. Oh, it was just as hot, scalding through her veins as though determined to burn them up. It was just as all encompassing, her whole body lost to the sensation.

But this was . . . pleasant.

Pleasant was not the right word. As the servant and John hastily muttered quickly about getting a guest bedchamber prepared, and the terrible storm, and how awful it would be for them to let Miss Bailey out into it, Florence tried to slow her breathing and understand what precisely it was that she was feeling.

When she discovered a word for it, the warmth in her cheeks only increased.

Because she was . . . titillated .

Titillated. By the idea that the butler knew precisely what she and John had been doing. What they had been sharing. What John had been doing to her. And there was nothing the world could do to take that from her.

Florence could hardly believe it of herself. She was aroused merely by the knowledge that she and John had been caught.

What was wrong with her?

"—already prepared," the butler was saying, gaze averted. "Good evening, Miss Bailey."

"Th-Thank you," Florence managed to say, her mind whirling. "I app-preciate—"

But the butler had already gone, evidently so embarrassed by the discovery of his master and his future mistress that he had departed through the servants' corridor to the kitchens.

Florence and John walked up the staircase in silence. Somehow she had become disentangled from him, and she hated the distance that had crept up between them. A whole three inches.

How was such a thing to be borne?

John walked her along the upstairs passage, finally halting at a door right at the end of the corridor. "Here it is."

Florence glanced at the door. "Wh-What is?"

"The guest bedchamber," he murmured.

Leaning forward, he turned the handle, pushed open the door, and revealed...

Florence swallowed. An unimaginably large bed.

"You are very flushed." John sounded apologetic. "I hope—I know it was not ideal, running into Humphreys like that, but—"

"I liked it."

Florence clasped her hands over her mouth in shock at what she had revealed. What on earth had she been thinking? Or rather, had she even being thinking at all? What would John think of her—a harlot, no doubt, who found pleasure in the most perverse of ways!

His brow had furrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's nothing," Florence said hastily, wishing to goodness he would be a gentleman and forget what she had said. "What a p-pleasant bedchamber it is—"

"Florence."

She met his gaze and knew she could keep nothing back from him. She had been about to offer him her very self, her body to worship and bring to climax, something she knew the whole of Society would consider completely indecent. Was she truly going to attempt to keep her innermost thoughts from the man she loved?

Swallowing hard, and wishing to goodness she weren't the first person in the world to feel this way, Florence pushed her hair behind her ears.

And only then realized that most of it was mussed and out of its pins.

Dear Lord, she must have looked a sight!

"I said, I liked it," Florence said in a small voice, hardly able to meet John's eyes. "I... oh, it was most strange, but someone knowing we had... that you had kissed me, and most likely disrobed me... it was exciting."

John's jaw tightened. "Exciting?"

She had never felt more wretched. Was it possible she was about to lose everything, just as she had been about to discover the exquisite hedonism two people could share? But she owed him this. She owed him honesty. She nodded.

John let out a ragged breath, as though attempting to get a hold of himself. Then—

"You are the most perfect woman who ever lived," he said, tilting his head as he examined her with a roguish grin. "I've never wanted to bed anyone more in my life."

Florence's lips parted in astonishment.

John groaned. "Particularly when you do that."

Her tongue darted out, wetting her bottom lip as she thought what to say, and—

This time he reached for her. "Are you attempting to seduce me?"

Florence's eyes widened. "No! No, I—"

"Because you are doing an excellent job of making it impossible for me to leave you here alone," John growled, pulling her tight into his embrace but apparently not wishing to kiss her. Not yet. "This is it, Florence."

She blinked, her pulse throbbing in her ears, between her legs. "It... it is?"

John nodded, his expression possessive as it swept over her. "Your last chance to retain your virtue. If you wish to leave this house in the morning still an innocent, then you need to—"

Florence did not care what she would need to do for such a thing. Leaning up on her toes, she kissed John as passionately as she was able. Did he not understand—could he not feel how much she desired him? Her lips parted his, her head turning to deepen the kiss, and her hand moved to—

John pulled away with a sudden gasp. "Florence!"

"I want you," she whispered, her heartbeat thundering along with the storm outside as she nervously stroked along the thick, heavy rod within his breeches. "Wh-What... what do I have to do to convince you, John?"

He moaned, his head falling onto her shoulder as though he could barely lift it. "You... Christ, you're doing an excellent job of it now."

Florence was surprised. All she was doing was stroking along his length, her fingers light and unsure of themselves. This was good for him? Was it truly that easy?

Her thumb twisted, brushing accidently on the tip of the hardness, and John shuddered. His hand scrabbled against the doorframe, holding onto it as though for dear life.

"You—I want—"

Florence smiled with delight as she increased the pressure ever so slightly of her fingers, and saw with gratified pleasure John shudder again.

Oh, to give pleasure like this—it was exquisite! She could do this every day, would like to.

She would also like to have John kiss her breasts again, now she came to think about it.

"Enough," John rasped, pulling back, but not away. He had stepped into the guest bedchamber and now pulled her through, closing the door behind them with a snap, making it quite clear what was about to happen.

Florence shivered. What she hoped would happen.

John was looking at her with a mixture of astonishment and delight. "I... I want you to take charge, Florence. Tell me what you want."

Her, in charge? "But I don't know—"

"Yes, you do," said John with a dry expression. "Far more than I could ever have predicted, I'll tell you that. I once said to you that I'd taken this off the table. And now it's back on, as it were, but I can't be the one to rush you. You need to ask."

Ask?

Florence glanced about the bedchamber as she attempted to collect her thoughts. It was not a large room, the majority of the space being taken up by the bed.

The bed.

Though there was naught but a candle in there, it was unlit. But that did not matter. Her eyes had already adjusted to the darkness, and she could see John clearly.

More clearly than she had ever seen him before.

"I-I want..." Florence swallowed, steadied herself. "I want to take off our clothes."

John's eyes gleamed. "Excellent."

It did not take long. They did not rush, but their evident hunger for each other enabled swift fingers to make light work of the layers keeping them apart from each other.

When Florence permitted her final undershift to fall, she quivered. Not from cold. The room was remarkably warm—that, or she was remarkably warm. Though her shyness surfaced, it did not overwhelm her. It was right to feel some apprehension when standing before one's lover entirely nude, wasn't it?

She looked up and saw—

Her breath caught in her throat. "Oh, John."

He was beautiful. Beautiful was not a word typically used for men, Florence knew, but it felt right. John had the sort of Greek profile that would have made Michelangelo weep. Strength and muscles, taut with the effort of not touching her, Florence thought with a thrill.

It was only a guess. But she had a feeling she was correct.

John was looking at her with much the same hunger that she felt herself.

"We should have done this before," Florence said as she stepped forward, her curious fingers reaching out to brush over his chest.

John chuckled, and she felt it as well as heard it. "What, months ago?"

"Many months ago," she quipped. "The first time we met."

His laughter returned. "I wasn't ready for you then. I wasn't worthy."

His fingers were mirroring her own. Florence arched her back as his thumb brushed over a nipple, then sighed with delight as his hands moved down her chest, curving over hips, not quite reaching—

"What makes you think you're worthy now?" Florence teased.

Every time she was worried that she had gone too far, John grinned and proved it was not far enough. "I suppose I deserved that."

"No," Florence said, her heart thumping but knowing she wanted this. "This is what you deserve."

There was a confused look on John's face as she said those words, and his confusion only increased as Florence slowly, slowly, lowered until she was kneeling before him. Before her eyes were the level of—

John gasped. "Florence!"

She would have replied if she had not parted her lips and taken in just an inch of his manhood into her mouth. As it was, her tongue was too busy tasting, shyly exploring him.

He hissed as his hand rested on her head. "You don't have to—oh, God, please don't stop..."

Florence placed her hands on his hips to steady herself, slowly taking in more and more of his throbbing flesh into her mouth. It was delightful, to taste him, the salty need of him, to feel the aching flex as he shuddered.

To give him pleasure... to share in this with him. That was all she wanted.

"Oh, God, yes," John groaned as Florence's lips finally met the base of his shaft. "Florence..."

Hearing her name moaned like that only caused the tugging ache in Florence to increase—and the determination to keep going.

So, what was she supposed to do now?

Drawing back, but not releasing his very tip, Florence starting to suckle, moving her head to pull more of him in, then less. More, then less. The rhythm felt natural, obvious, then—

She gasped as John pulled away, out of her reach. She blinked in the sudden shock of his absence. "J-John?"

"Damn," he breathed. "I've got to—I need—will you let me—"

"Yes," Florence whispered, still kneeling before him on the floor, looking up at him with devotion. "Yes."

There was a rumble in John's throat that she did not understand, but she did not need to. Reaching down to her and pulling her up, John tugged her toward the bed and encouraged her to lie back.

"I just need to make sure you are ready," he said. "I—Florence!"

Florence looked in alarm as John carefully drew a finger across her softness between her legs. "What is wrong?"

Nothing felt wrong. Everything felt right. The moment his finger had slid over her damp crease, an explosion of bliss had threatened to make her fall back.

She met John's gaze, which was filled with something she did not recognize.

"You . . . you're wet. So quickly."

Florence squirmed against the bed. "Is... is that wrong?"

John cursed under his breath. "Wrong? It's... it's the highest compliment you could ever give me."

She blinked. "It is?"

But she did not have the chance to ask any further questions. Before she could speak, before she could hope to understand what was happening, John had slowly parted her folds and slid his manhood within her.

Florence fell back on the bed, her lungs constricting, her whole body shaking. How could it not, when she was being so invaded, so—

And then pressure, the tightness, disappeared. It was replaced with...

Florence whimpered. "Oh, yes."

John cursed again, leaning on an elbow over her, teeth gritted as he slowly continued pushing into her. "You feel—

"Yes," she moaned, unable to help herself, her hips tilting to take him deeper.

Because that was all she wanted. John, deep inside her, making her complete. As though an emptiness she'd always known was there, though she'd never been able to name it, was now somehow gone.

When John was sheathed to the hilt, he brushed away her hair from her eyes. "Are you—"

"More," Florence panted, hating that the sensations were fading as he remained still. "There... there must be more, isn't there?"

A look of devilish delight passed across John's face. "Oh, there's more."

All she could do was cling to him. Allow the pleasure to build as his rhythm built, as John started to move into her gently, then harder, harder, until he was pounding into her, every moment sending a new wave of sweet delight through Florence's body.

Every inch of her craved more, and as John leaned down his head to suckle at her breast, his free hand moved to touch the tip of her wetness just above his manhood.

And she exploded.

Florence could think of no other words—at least, afterward, when she could think. The frantic aching was excruciating, and she wanted more of it. It pulsed through her body, sharp like lightning, rolling like thunder, making it impossible to breathe as she came apart.

And John thrust heavily, crying out her name as he poured himself into her.

They clung to each other, tingling in the aftermath of their lovemaking. As John swept Florence up into his arms, holding her close, she knew that she would never feel this safe, this loved, this adored again.

Until , she thought with a teasing smile, her legs tangled in his. Until next time.