Chapter 17

… Such ardent desires, such ungovernable longings…

—from Selina's private copy of FANNY HILL , underlined

Her skin was on fire. His fingers trailed flames as they swept, back and forth and back again, along the line of cloth-of-gold that made up the bodice of her wedding dress. Selina breathed in Peter's warm, clean scent and felt the swells of her breasts push up, seeking the pressure of his fingers.

His breathing was ragged. She could tell, could hear the shudder-stop in his chest, and yet he didn't hurry.

He touched, traced, then bent his head and tasted.

She was shaking, she realized, as she gazed down at the dark head bent over her body, at her fingers threaded into his curls. Each whisper of his breath seemed to pass over her nipples, drawing them tight. Each small bright bite of his teeth sent a pulse between her legs.

And he had barely touched her! She was still fully dressed. Bloody hell, she had read every volume she could get her hands on from Belvoir's these last days. She was ready. She was prepared to consummate their union.

Both of his hands framed her rib cage, then pressed up, cupping her breasts, pushing them upward. His thumbs found her nipples, his touch softened by layers of fabric and not nearly enough.

"P-Peter," she stuttered, shocked by the sound of her voice, breathy and pleading. "Peter, I need you."

"God." He didn't look up, but first one hand, then both abandoned her aching nipples to spring free the fastenings of her gown. "The things you say. I'm already half out of my mind."

And then her dress sagged down her body, and his long, tapered fingers slipped beneath the filmy white of her chemise to find her skin. There was the rough callused touch of his fingertips on her breasts—this skin that had felt no touch but her own. And there was his mouth, coming down to suckle her hard and fast, and there was the insistent demand of his erection, her hips swiveling against his, her mind emptying of anything but need and want.

She clutched at the back of his head, the thick softness of hair cropped close at the nape of his neck. "Peter—" It was a moan, almost a cry.

His voice was dark. "I have you. I have what you need."

Her head tipped back, resting against the wall of the alcove. She sought the line of his shirt, traced the shifting muscles at his shoulders, and tried to tug at the soft lawn. She wanted to feel his naked skin, wanted to press her bared breasts against his chest. She wanted to see him, the golden skin she'd glimpsed at the neck of his shirt and imagined tasting.

But instead he dropped to his knees before her.

She blinked down at him. His face was fierce, as if in turmoil, as he worked his hands under her skirts, circling her ankle.

"To hell with it," he said. "To hell with the bedroom." And then he looked up and met her gaze, his eyes dazed and wild, his mouth curving into a grin. "Lean back. I've got you."

Bemused, a little dizzied, Selina leaned against the wall. His warm hand around her ankle pulled her foot from the ground and she gasped, off balance. His other hand steadied her hip even as he lifted her foot higher, stroked her calf, then set her knee around his shoulder.

His face—his mouth was—

"Don't worry," he said. "I won't let you fall."

His busy hands pressed back the yards of fabric around her hips, satin crumpling in a rush. She felt the sharp nip of his teeth again at the edge of her stocking, a pleasure-pain that traveled up, up her thighs like a wick caught fire. He settled one hand onto her buttock, kneading, and groaned softly. "Lovely, luscious. Sweet Selina."

A sudden panic bolted through her. She had thought to do this under the covers. She had seen the engravings in her Belvoir's books—the heavy breasts that balanced the swell of hips, the sinuous dip of a woman's waist. She didn't look like an engraving. Her breasts were small, her hips wide, her thighs inelegantly dimpled. She hadn't meant for him to be close enough to see .

"Peter," she whispered. "Perhaps we should—"

And then her thoughts scattered like dandelion seeds, because he pressed his lips directly to the curls that guarded her sex.

He murmured inarticulately, and the vibration traveled right through her, humming deep into her body, settling in her lips, her nipples, her belly. With her leg around his shoulder, she was open to him, shaking and vulnerable and needy. She felt the wet heat of his mouth, firm lashes of his tongue against her.

She gasped out his name. The strokes were slow, deliberate, as unhurried as he'd been when he'd tasted the skin at her collarbone. He licked into her and she whimpered at the gentle intrusion, moaned when his fingers chased where his tongue had been. Her hips rolled, unbidden, as his fingers filled her. His mouth roved, quick licks and sucks, and she heard a needy sob that she knew to be her own. He was so slow, so easy, and yet still she felt the pressure of her climax mounting, quick and violent within her.

She felt her thighs start to tremble and tightened her knee over his shoulder. So close, she was—

He paused, pulled his head back, and blew a cool stream of air against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex. Her rising orgasm retreated, and she gasped for air.

Peter made a little hum of approval between her legs. His free hand stroked along the cleft between her buttocks and then his fingers curled around the soft flesh of her thigh. "Lovely," he murmured, and licked her again, harder this time, quicker, his fingers moving inside her. Again, again—the pressure built, the sweet hot pulse riding the backs of her thighs, tightening in her belly.

Again he stopped.

Her head pushed back hard into the unforgiving plaster. "Peter," she choked out. "What are you doing?"

He lifted his head. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded. "Pleasing my wife, I hope."

"You—you're doing it wrong!"

His lips curved and curved until he laughed. "God," he said. "God, I'm mad for you." His gaze swept down her body, fixed again at her sex bared to him. "Hold fast. And then we'll see who's wrong."

Once more he lowered his head. Once more his fingers moved, curling deep inside her. Once more he suckled her clitoris, softly at first and then harder. She was filled by his fingers, a thick delicious fullness, and she had never felt this, not when she'd explored her own body, not even when she'd touched herself and thought of him.

This time when her climax arced up, higher and higher, he didn't stop. He kept on, merciless and unrelenting, as her hips bucked, her heel digging into his back, her eyes going blind as pleasure burst through her, wave after wave of senseless, incomprehensible bliss.

Finally, slowly, he pulled his head away. Gently he resettled her foot on the ground. She'd lost her slipper, she thought dazedly, as her foot came into contact with the marble floor, cool through her stocking. Somehow even that felt erotic—the chill of the stone contrasting with the heat of Peter's body as he eased himself up and surrounded her.

He was talking to her, and the sounds slowly resolved into words she understood. Lovely and beautiful and good .

Her mind was clearing. "All right," she whispered, sliding her hands around his waist. "You weren't wrong."

His eyes were still dark, even though his expression was easy, undemanding. "I'll take your forfeit, then," he said, and took only her mouth.

He was gentle. So gentle, his lips so soft, and she—she tasted herself on his lips. She'd read of that, the taste of a woman's wetness, of a man's seed. She hadn't expected the dark pleasure it would set off in her. She licked at his lips, wanting more, and his mouth came open, his fingers fisting in her hair.

She felt, rather than heard, him groan. She swallowed the soft exhalation of his breath and felt herself suddenly freed by it.

He was mad for her. That's what he had said. She caught up his shirt, drawing it from his breeches and thanking his entirely irregular valet for letting him wander the house in nothing but his shirtsleeves and silk wedding breeches. His skin was shockingly hot under her palms, and she slid her hands wonderingly up the lean, muscular planes of his back, the wings of his shoulder blades, then down, inside the band of his breeches and around the tense curve of his buttock.

His hands tightened in her hair, and she felt him draw her head back. "Selina," he said slowly. "Let me take you to our bedroom."

Almost she said yes. She could picture it—Peter bracing himself above her as she lay on her back in his bed.

But here was the recklessness. She had it inside her, she had always had it, and he made her feel right just as she was.

"No," she said instead. "Here." Then she brought one palm forward to cup his shaft.

His eyes went black, his face almost pained. "Selina—"

She brought her other hand around, slowly, as he had, letting her nails glide along his skin. He shuddered, the muscles of his belly tightening, and she felt a matching pull at her center.

She wanted her fingers around him. She had seen the pictures, could imagine how his cock would rise between her hands as she stroked him up and down.

But—blast! No book had mentioned how to unfasten his breeches. She fought with his falls.

"Stupid," she muttered. "Odious garment." She tugged harder, her fingers brushing clumsily against his shaft. Buttons, fabric, and then somehow another set of hidden buttons beneath.

He buried his head in the curve of her neck and laughed.

"Don't you dare—"

"Selina," he mumbled, his face pressed against her skin. "I am thanking Providence for this delay, so that I might not spend in my smalls."

"Oh." That, she understood, was considered a shameful thing. And yet the idea of him so completely undone…

His breeches were loosened. Her fingers were inside his smallclothes. His shaft was hard as the marble beneath her feet, but hot, curving against her palm. She curled both hands around his length, and he gave a muffled cry into her shoulder.

Curiously, she traced the broad head with her thumb, gathering the moisture that beaded at the tip, spreading it in a circle.

"Now," he said hoarsely, "we should go upstairs."

"No."

"The… door is open."

"Then it is a good thing you have no staff."

He took her face in his hands then, looked hard into her eyes. "You want this—here?"

"I want you here."

He muffled a curse with a kiss, vehement and sudden, before breaking away. "Slow," he said, as if to himself, as he looked down at her small, high breasts, at his cock caught in her hands. "I will take you so slowly." He pressed her back into the wall, lifting her leg around his waist. "I will make you ready for me. Wet and desperate and greedy for my cock."

She wasn't shocked by the frank speech—she had read those words and more, much more, much coarser. But she was shocked by how his words thrilled her. Her nipples tightened beneath his gaze; heat and moisture slicked her sex. His palm cupped her mound.

"Do you like that?" His breath was hot in her ear. "When I tell you what I'm going to do to you?"

"Yes," she gasped. Her fingers tightened on his shaft, as if to draw him closer, and he hissed.

Not in pain. She was certain of that. She stroked him again, a little clumsy, a little rough.

He answered her in kind, the heel of his hand firm against her clitoris as he worked two fingers inside her. She rocked against him helplessly, seeking more and somehow more.

"Yes," he said. "That's right. Take what you need."

She didn't know how she could be so close to climax again, yet she could feel it building already. She tossed her head, almost frantic. It hurt , didn't he understand—she needed —

And then, suddenly, she felt the pressure of his cock at her entrance, firm and insistent, and she whimpered with relief. He was talking again— wet and sweet and good —but she was well beyond hearing. She tightened her leg around his waist, trying to urge him on, push him faster and deeper into her body.

More words— fuck yes please —and then he was easing into her, pressing her harder against the wall, canting her hips up as he worked in and out, stretching her body to receive him.

She had read about virginity, about the maidenhead, but she felt no such barrier as he moved patiently inside her. Only a hint of burning as she strained to take him, a pressure-pain so deep inside her she thought she might break apart.

She was clinging to his shoulders, and she felt his muscles work as he slid a hand between their bodies and found the sensitive nerves just above where he entered her. His fingers were deft and sure, stroking in time to the beat of her pulse. His other hand braced against the wall beside her head, holding them both steady as he withdrew. Slowly. Then entered her again. Less slow. Less steady this time.

Undone. They were both coming undone.

It was—she had never expected this. The throb of her heartbeat, the thrust of his cock inside her body, the rhythmic working of his fingers that sent her shuddering and gasping into a bright nowhere.

His hand withdrew after her climax broke, then fastened on her hips, lifting her onto her toes as he thrust into her again, faster now. His breath sawed out unevenly, and still he held her, pinned against the wall and tilted up for his access, his pleasure.

Only one word now, her name, again and again, wild and uncertain, until finally he withdrew, shuddering, and spilled his seed against her thigh.

He dropped his head again into the curve of her neck, his fingers loosening their hold on her buttocks. A bead of sweat slipped down between her breasts. A cool whisper against her heated skin.

Peter lifted his head and then blinked. "Oh hell."

She angled her head to see what he was looking at, but couldn't quite make sense of it. "What is it?"

"Seems I've put my hand through Great-uncle Francis."

" What? "

She wriggled away, twisting to see—

His hand, which she'd thought had been braced on the wall beside her head, had gone straight through a tightly wrapped oil portrait. A man's dour face drooped pathetically next to Peter's thumb.

"Oh, Peter! That was a Lawrence —it should have been in the Academy!"

He grinned down at her, curls spilling over his brow. Something uncoiled, loose and warm in her belly.

"Somehow," he said, "I don't regret it."