Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

T homas had not had the wild youth that his brother had been granted, but his father had thought it important for him to know the bedchamber secrets. While other young men had been taken to brothels or had been set loose on the Continent for a grand tour, Thomas had read, most diligently, allowing his imagination to fill in the blanks of what wasn’t written in detail.

And there was one thing he had always wanted to try. One thing he had thought of doing since that night in the library. One thing that Sophia, half-naked and panting in front of him, made him want to try.

I should send you away. I should tell you to wear whatever you like or whatever you are told, but… you have intoxicated me, Sophia.

He sank down to his knees, sliding her legs over his shoulders, savoring the thought of what was to come. He had barely eaten at dinner, and now he was ravenous for a delicacy that would undoubtedly leave him hungry for more. A risk he was willing to take, for nothing but her say-so would stop him from tasting her.

At the first brush of his tongue, her body froze as if in shock.

He paused, and when she made no move to kick him or hop off the desk, he tasted her again—a forbidden feast that would undoubtedly doom him and damn him, and he could not have cared less. The only thing that existed at that moment was her pleasure, and making her buckle and tremble and submit to his touch. It was a far sweeter authority than any he had known.

She relaxed, dropping her elbows to the desk and leaning back as he rolled his tongue over that swollen bud. Soon enough, he was graced with the sounds he had longed for, her breaths coming in ragged sighs, her legs shaking on his shoulders.

Are these the only moments where we won’t hate each other?

He shoved the thought aside, emboldened by her pleasure. Sliding his fingertips through the warm, wet heat of her, he paused at her entrance, waiting for a tortuous few seconds.

Her hips tilted ever so slightly, and as he curled his tongue around her bud and sucked gently, he eased his fingertip inside her.

“Yes, Thomas!” she gasped, bucking against his tongue. “Oh, yes!”

He slid another finger inside her, letting her grow accustomed to the sensation while his mind ran rampant, imagining what it would feel like to claim her. It had been almost a week since they should have had their wedding night—perhaps the delay would make it all the more satisfying.

Slowly moving his fingers in teasing thrusts, he savored her to his heart’s content, relishing the music of her bliss-struck breaths and moans, listening for the notes of what she liked best. From that, a rhythm appeared, his tongue and fingers working in harmony, driving her towards a rousing conclusion.

She was close; he could feel it.

Sophia couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t think at all, not beyond anything that was taking place in that study, with him. If she had known that this would be the reward for her sacrifice, she would have done it much sooner.

“Yes, Thomas,” she gasped, overwhelmed with sensation. Too much and not enough—a strange dichotomy.

“ Husband ,” he paused to correct, leaving her on the precipice of untold ecstasy.

The absence of his tongue, teasing that bundle of nerves into a frenzy, was the most tortuous trick. She would have said anything to feel it again, paired with the slow, expert thrusts of his fingers.

“Yes, husband,” she urged. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

As his tongue tasted her again, it was as if all of that anticipation had built up in the pause, with nowhere to go, growing more potent. The first stroke was pure electricity that seized the reins of her entire being, her back arching off the mahogany desk, her thighs trembling uncontrollably on his shoulders.

It did not take long for that rising, swelling feeling inside her to reach its peak, and though she now knew what to expect, she still wasn’t prepared. It was different from before. The prelude was already more dramatic, more intense, which could only mean one thing…

“Oh… Oh God… Oh!” Her voice caught in her throat. “Yes, husband! Yes!”

Her eyes closed as pure pleasure, raw and otherworldly, surged through her every nerve, every vein, every limb, every part of her. Her arms shook as they held her up, her lungs struggling for breath, her head swimming as if she were in the middle of her wildest dreams, conjured by falling asleep with a saucy book in hand.

Thomas’s tongue slowed, his fingers stilling, that unexpected lack of movement almost reverent, like he was enjoying her pleasure and didn’t want to miss a moment.

She cried out, whimpering, moaning, gasping down feverish breaths, willing the powerful wave of euphoria to keep rushing and cresting within her. She never wanted it to end and cursed the fact that no one—not even her married friends—had ever told her about this.

Did they not know? Surely that couldn’t be right.

Unless this is what happens when hate turns into… something else.

She pushed away the thought, content to savor the last of those pulsing, sparking sensations. They were already beginning to ebb, and she was already eager to feel this way again.

She collapsed onto the desk at last, giving her aching arms a respite, and stared up at the ceiling with a grin on her face. The softest gasp was coaxed out of her throat as Thomas slowly withdrew his fingers and ceased those strange, wonderful caresses on her hidden pearl, turning his head slightly to kiss the inside of her thigh.

She sighed afresh, her body so relaxed she could have slept for a week.

Thomas pressed one final kiss to the swell of her hip and got to his feet, letting her skirts fall back to her knees. But he did not go too far from her, hovering between her thighs and bracing his hands on either side of her waist, bending over her.

She peered up at him.

“Are we agreed on the new wardrobe?” he asked with the ghost of a sly smile.

She tried to muster a scowl, but she had no idea if she was successful. “Let’s just say that you made your argument well. I should draw the right kind of attention, and a new wardrobe might help with that.” She hesitated as clarity returned to her. “But that doesn’t mean I will change at all.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he replied. “All I need is to maintain the image that you and I are sickeningly besotted and so happy that we are enviable. A husband so utterly enamored with his wife would assuredly buy her the very best gowns and jewelry. If I didn’t, our ruse would fall apart… like this awful dress.”

He touched the frayed edges of the seams he had torn, that faint smile playing on his lips again. Sophia observed that slight curve for a moment, her fingertips itching to touch his mouth to see if it might be coaxed into a true smile.

Instead, she lifted herself until her face was barely a kiss away from his. “Just don’t tear any more before I have my new wardrobe. I doubt we’d maintain much of an image of respectability if I had to wander around in naught but my underthings.”

She could have sworn she heard the rumble of a laugh in the back of his throat.

He pushed away from the desk. “Well, now that I know you have some grace, we ought to add dancing lessons to your list of transformative endeavors.”

“Good luck with that ,” she said with a snort. “I told you, I don’t intend to change anything about myself but my attire, and I wear my utter inability to dance as a badge of honor.”

He smirked. “If you wear it, then it must be considered attire. Ergo, it is going to change.”

She cursed and silently applauded his quick wit, folding her arms across her chest. “Oh? And who will be instructing me? Is it going to be you? Will you punish me for every mistake I make?”

“No. You will be provided with an instructor,” he said firmly as he turned and headed for the door.

For a moment, she thought he was just going to leave as if what he did to her had never occurred. She should have known better; a Pratt could never resist having the last word.

He turned at the threshold, his lupine eyes sultry with something akin to mischief. “Before you complain, I thought it best to get some assistance so that the next time we dance, my feet remain intact.” He took a good look at her, his teeth grazing his lower lip. “Besides, if I did instruct you in the art of dancing, you would not have time to learn a single step. None that would be fit for public observation, anyway.”

He left, closing the door behind him, leaving her alone in his study with a torn dress, a racing heart, and a wave of confusion crashing into her.

Firstly, how was she supposed to make it back to her bedchamber in such a state of undress? Secondly, how was she supposed to concentrate on any dancing lessons at all, now that he had just said that, putting notions in her head? Thirdly, what on earth was happening to her? Why didn’t she hate him quite as much as before?

I always thought a Pratt would be the death of me.

What she had not known was that it could be done without raising a weapon in a duel or shedding a single drop of blood.