Chapter Nineteen

PRESENT DAY

April 1815

So this was what he had been denying himself all these years.

Louisa's mouth opened under his, welcoming his tongue, and he gave himself to her wet heat. Desire kicked through his body, unnervingly potent. After so many years of denial, he had become an expert in frustrated lust; he had thought he knew all there was to know about wanting.

He had been mistaken.

It was almost embarrassing how quickly he hardened at the feel of her lips on his. The longer he kissed her, the longer he wondered why he had ever resisted for this long.

After their first kiss, when he had been terrifyingly close to pushing up her skirts and taking her against the wall, he had known in precise terms what he had been denying himself. But he had been certain, or as certain as a man could be, that she would become his wife.

Then, after that became an impossibility, he had denied himself out of mistaken pride. The very concept of those boundaries, however artificial, had been a relief. A crutch of sorts. His vows had become a demonstration of his control in a life that had been subject to so little of it.

In reality, his restraint had never truly been tested by another woman. Still, he had found relief in the iron rigidity of his vows, as though it was proof of his worth.

And yet some part of him had always known that he would break his vows for her. Not as some twisted form of gratitude, or repayment, but because she wanted this—wanted him—as heartily and unashamedly as he wanted her.

Nothing that felt so right could be wrong.

The nape of her neck was soft against his fingers as he placed his hand there, tilting her face up to his. She made a small noise in the back of her throat, a sound of appreciation that made him twitch helplessly.

Their kiss had not begun gently, but somehow it deepened further still, the urgency of her mouth matching his. Her teeth scraped his bottom lip, and he groaned. He had known how good they would feel together, but he had not known quite how well they would fit. Her curves against his body, her mouth against his, her hands exploring the breadth of his shoulders.

She took his hand and brought it to her breast. The soft weight of it, the hard nub of her nipple. As he swiped his thumb across it, she arched back into his touch. He did it again, and she gasped into his mouth.

Aware of his inexperience, he experimented with how she liked to be touched. Gently or more forcefully, stroking and cupping and squeezing. It was the purest form of heaven to have her in his arms like this; it was the greatest torment.

It was everything he had dreamt about so avidly these past nine years, torturing himself at night while during the day he pretended indifference.

What folly.

He was beyond pretence now. His hips bucked into her of their own accord, and she laughed, a breathy, desperate sound. They moved together, bodies tangled, his leg moving between hers, her hands on his shoulders, holding him to her as she licked his lips. There was still too much space between them, though they were pressed flush.

He had never experienced such hunger.

The back of his knees knocked against the bed and he sat on instinct. Immediately, she was on his lap, hitching her dress up around her legs and inching forward so her breasts pressed against his chest. The air left his body in a rush.

Here, like this, she seemed tiny in his arms. Fragile. So easily breakable—and had he not already broken her? He had not been born to softness, and although when they were young, she had coaxed it from him, he had spent the time apart coating those tenderer feelings in iron and steel. If he was not careful, he might break her again.

If he was not careful, she would shatter him like a brittle sword.

"Louisa," he said, her name sweet on his tongue like honey.

"No talking." Her arms wrapped around his neck and she pressed the apex of her thighs against his erection, rocking against him in a way that made his entire body tighten. Then her mouth was back on his and there was no space in his mind for anything but this.

Soft curves. Layers of clothing between them. Her hands skating across his shoulders and down, touching him with a surety that told him she was not unfamiliar with the male form. All things he had known, and that were in many ways a relief to him. Now he would not have to guide her with ignorance; she could lead the way and he would follow, he would gladly learn from her if only it would give her pleasure.

And the final piece of his heart, the part of himself he had saved, would be hers.

Her head lolled back as she broke the kiss, her face glazed with pleasure as she moved against him. Even through his breeches, he could feel the heat and dampness of her arousal. He throbbed, ached, the friction almost unbearable.

This alone would be enough to make him climax. Her tongue was hot and slick, and she was making tiny breathy moans into his mouth, and he was so ludicrously sensitive that it would take very little to bring him to the edge.

"Wait," he said hoarsely, catching her hips and stilling her. "We should . . ."

Her lips ghosted along his jaw, and she pressed a kiss to the hollow of his ear. It was not a place he would ever have thought to touch, but the sensation sent a shudder through him. "Would you like me to stop?" she whispered.

Yes.

No .

He twitched helplessly against her. The answer was most definitely not—he was on the very edge of a precipice and if they went any further, there would be no turning back.

He wanted her.

But he had never been one to merely accept a night. The revelation that he still loved her had rocked him; this evidence of her desire for him had knocked him still further, and he was half out of his mind for her. He did not just want this once—he wanted everything.

"We should talk about this," he said, but his hands were at her hips, and she was moving against him again. A needy, urgent noise escaped him.

"There's nothing to say."

"On the contrary." He raised his hand to her breast, the nipple erect even through the layers of fabric. She was so lush and soft and here, and he had wanted her so badly for so long. "Louisa, I—"

"Do you want me?"

He groaned. "I think you know what I want."

"Then let me." She arched into his touch. "Not as a transaction, Henry, but as a gift. Because I want to, and so do you." The rest of the words, unsaid, hung in the air.

Because I love you .

"This was always what I wanted," she said, and kissed him again. His hands were at her waist, and he could have pushed her away, but he didn't. Instead, he drew her closer. Closer, closer, until there was no space left between them. He buried his face in her neck and kissed the soft skin there, letting his teeth graze across her throat. She sighed, fingers digging into his hair. Their bodies moved in tandem, seeking friction, relief, their pleasure communicated in gasps and moans.

Eventually he stopped, leaning back so he could look at her. She bore every evidence of a liaison: reddened lips, bright eyes, flushed cheeks. Even her hair had become partially unpinned, although he had no recollection of doing that.

"We should slow down," he said. His voice was not his own.

Her eyes were soft and green, a frown pinching at them, pushing aside some of the hazy desire. "Why? Have you changed your mind?"

It was too late for that now. "So I don't embarrass myself," he said. She tipped her head back and gave a low, throaty laugh. He pinched her hip. "Try not to look so pleased. You well know what you do to me."

"I do not know," she said, a seriousness entering her voice. She reached between them to stroke his aching cock through his breeches, her slender fingers curving around him. "This is my first opportunity to find out."

He twitched against her caress and rested his forehead against hers. "Is that not evidence enough?"

"It is a start," she acknowledged, and slid back, off his lap. She turned, offering him the laced back of her dress, her intent clear. If ever there was a moment to regain his self-control and stop this madness, this was it. But he didn't hesitate a moment before unlacing her. They had gone too far, and he had committed too much.

The material slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the floor by her feet, and with that gone, she made quick work of her remaining layers. Chemise, stays, drawers, stockings. She wore no petticoats, to his relief.

Then she was naked before him, and nothing could have prepared him. Sunlight streamed in through the window, bathing her in warmth and light, highlighting the jewelled red tones in her hair and casting her eyes into deep pools of green.

His gaze travelled downwards, taking in every curve, every inch of skin. Her breasts were small enough that he fancied he could fit them perfectly in his palm, rounded and heavy with a dusky nipple. Below, there was the generous flare of her hips. Shapely thighs. And between them, the thatch of dark hair that drew all his attention.

Perhaps he had not been born with softness, but he knew something of loyalty and devotion, of worship. If she gave him the chance, he would show her how much he worshipped her.

"Well?" she asked, but there was a light in her eyes that told him she knew a fraction of what he was thinking.

"I could have endured a thousand years and never lived until this moment."

"Ah," she said, stepping closer, so her breasts brushed against his shirt. He had not known it would be so erotic, to have her naked body against his clothed one. "So you are a poet, after all."

"That wasn't poetry," he said. "Merely truth."

"Poetry is art," she whispered, leaning closer until her mouth was on his once more. "And art is truth."

Their next kiss was slow and deep. There was no more caution, no more uncertainty. Her lips demanded from him, and he yielded. It was the kind of kiss that could last forever, and in his more whimsical moments, he wondered if he could exist here for the rest of time. Let the world continue without him.

Let the world burn, so long as he could have her.

His hands found her waist. Soft, smooth skin. He was more animal than man in the way he touched her, possessive and needy, learning her lines, her curves, her edges. A woman's body held so much softness, and he set about to make that familiar.

"What is your truth?" he asked, and looked down at her. "Honesty, Louisa."

A smile quirked the corners of her mouth. "Is that what we are? Honest with one another?"

"There is nothing more honest than this."

"Very well." She walked past him to the bed and lay on her back there, legs splayed. It was the very picture of desire, branded into his being, and he knew he would not forget it as long as he lived. The erotic swell of her breasts, the dip of her stomach, the jut of her hipbones, the creamy softness of her thighs. And between her legs, a glimpse of pink.

He had never been so aroused; he cupped himself, squeezing hard enough to almost hurt, wishing he could ease the ache and never wanting this moment to end. With Louisa, he was nothing but a contradiction.

"I like the way you look at me," she said, and when he glanced at her again, she smiled. "Honesty."

"I like the way you look," he rasped. "Teach me how to touch you."

She beckoned with two fingers, and he stretched himself on the bed beside her, the urge to put his hands on her like fire in his blood. Taking his hand in hers, she placed it on her stomach. "Women are not the same as men," she said. "We require something more to prepare us." Her eyes remained on his as she guided his hand down, lower, to the soft hair between her legs, then lower still, to the slickness between. She tipped her head back on a soft gasp as he touched her.

"So sensitive," he said in wonder.

"Yes. You made me that way."

"I did?"

"Yes. I'm . . . ready because I'm already aroused." She spoke with no shame, comfortable and confident with the reality of her body and what it meant. He loved that confidence, even as some part of him still wished they could have experienced this together.

She had offered it. He had been the one too foolish to accept.

"Is this good?" he asked.

She took his hand, guiding it to where she wanted him, and he did his best to copy her movements. Touching her brought its own pleasure; knowing that he was pleasing her pleased him, too. He was a man drowning, certain he would never come up for air again. Content in the knowledge that if he must be lost in someone, then at least it was her.

Eyes on him, she brought his other hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles, then licked them lightly. He twitched, the friction from his trousers alone almost enough to undo him.

"These hands," she said, lips moving against his skin. "I have thought a great deal about these hands."

He slid a finger inside her and her back arched. "Do they pass muster?"

"They will . . . suffice." The heaviness of her breathing belied her words, but before he could become too complacent in the pleasure he was offering her, she opened her mouth and sucked his index finger into its wet heat. There was tenderness there, too, the way she wrapped her slim fingers around his wrist, the way she held his gaze, open and unafraid, letting him into this most sacred part of her life.

She did not do it lightly, he knew.

"How I have wanted you," he said, the words dark, possessing, and her eyes glazed. She squeezed around his finger, and the sharp stab of need was almost unbearable. He shifted, pressing his aching cock against the bed as her tongue flicked up the length of his finger, and the pressure at the base of his balls tightened. His groan was low and desperate.

"Henry," she said, and reached for him, running her fingers along the bulge of his breeches before he could stay her hand. She traced the shape of him, and the friction was wonderful, unbearable, so impossibly good. Too much, too far, too close.

He wanted to be inside her. Needed it.

"Kiss me." Her voice was breathy, a half gasp, a command he would have obeyed if his body had not betrayed him. His body locked, he strained to hold himself back, but to no avail: he tumbled over the edge he had been straddling for so long. White-hot pleasure licked down his spine, and he garbled something—a far cry from the control he had spent so many years mastering. Then again, she had always been the one to brush past the walls he had built; it was no surprise that she had taken over his body, too. Release was mindless, and he lost himself in the feel of her body against his as he spent himself.

His last fractured, foolish thought was that if he could just endeavour to keep her satisfied here with him, she might never leave.