Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

T here was nothing more futile than telling someone not to be nervous. Jessica desired Martin—he might not be the rogue that idiot Port was, but he was experienced enough to know the signs of physical arousal in a woman. But the signs of fear were there, too. She was as skittish as the horse he had once rescued from the mishandling of a brute who blamed the horse for his own poor horsemanship, and sought to school the poor filly with a whip.

Her nervousness told Martin more than he wanted to know about Colyton. He should have guessed, of course. According to rumour, the Duke of Haverford had scooped her up from Colyton’s house and defied Colyton when the man wanted to retrieve her.

Haverford seemed to believe the rules of man were for his benefit but did not apply to him, and he respected few people apart from his mother and the wife he adored. Martin hadn’t thought about it when the story was just distant gossip. But now it occurred to him that the law was altogether on Colyton’s side, and even Haverford would not have interfered between man and wife on a whim.

Jessica needed distraction. “Shall we check on the dough?” he suggested.

She shot up as if on a spring. “Oh! The bread! How long has it been?” She was hurrying through to the kitchen even as she spoke. Martin smiled as he followed her.

The dough had risen to the top of the bowl, and she sprinkled some flour onto the table and tipped it out.

“I can knead the dough,” he offered.

“You do that while I prepare the tins,” said Jessica.

He put his back into the kneading, relieving some of his tension. Would it be better to back off and leave the poor lady alone, to continue his slow and steady assault on her senses, or to take the plunge and get past her fears by showing her what intimacy could be. Should be.

Actually, it was not his decision to make. “Jessica,” he said. “I have been making love to you all morning. Kissing you, too, and you have, I think, enjoyed it. True?”

She blushed. In some ways, she was a complete innocent, odd though that was for a widow. “Yes, I have.” She pressed her lips together into a tight line, then said, “I suppose you have had enough. Colyton always said—”

He stopped her with a finger to her lips and a shake of his head. “No, I have not had enough. Furthermore, though I have no right to govern what you say, I would rather not hear what Colyton thinks when I am trying to arrange to bed the wife he neglected and failed to please. Colyton is dead and gone, and—though I daresay it is uncivilised of me to say so—a good thing, too. For he has made you doubt yourself and never, as far as I can see, bothered to teach you how wonderful pleasure can be between a man and a woman. If he wasn’t dead, I might have to kill him for that alone.”

“Oh,” she said.

Oh, indeed . Martin had not realised how indignant he was until he started talking. Time to take a deep breath and start again. “Stopping is one option for the afternoon,” he said. “But it will have to be your choice. It is not something I want, but I will do it if you ask me.”

He saw her frown and added, “And I won’t blame you for it, either. You owe me nothing, Jessica. I am grateful for the gifts you have already given me.”

And would make a private trip upstairs to his bedroom alone, if necessary, to deal with the consequence of any denial. He had nothing but scorn for men who blamed women for their own lust, as if women existed only to give them pleasure.

“What are the other options?” Jessica asked, warily.

“We can continue as we have been, slowly becoming more adventurous,” he suggested. “That would be option two. I am concerned this is giving you too much time to think and to become nervous. If you can tell me what makes you anxious, perhaps I can ease your worries?”

Her brow crinkled when she frowned, her eyebrows drawing together so two little vertical lines formed. “Is there another option?” she asked.

“Option three: We can go upstairs as soon as you put the bread to rise again,” he said. “We can take off our clothes, get into bed, and consummate our desire. Then you will know the worst that can happen, and after that, we can decide if, when and how often to do it again without any anxiety. That is, assuming it is the thought of congress that makes you anxious.”

“Congress? Is that what it is called? When a man and woman join?”

“One of its names,” he told her. “One of the more polite ones. Swiving is a less formal term, but not precisely rude.” A few of the even less polite ones wafted through his mind while he watched her face, trying to interpret the thoughts behind her changing expressions. He remained silent and let her think.

“My decision,” she said, in a tone that made the words not quite a question.

He answered it, anyway. “Your decision, my lady.”

“I will put the bread a little further from the fire so it rises more slowly this second time,” she said, and suited action to words. “There. Take me to bed, my lord. Show me I do not need to be afraid.”

* * *

F rom the moment she made her demand, Martin would not let her tense up. Every time she began to second guess her own reactions, he either slowed down to explain what he was doing—and what he was about to do—or speeded up to overwhelm her anxiety in pure sensation.

The process he had outlined in a sentence had three parts, and she had only feared the third. Had consoled herself that the consummation of desire would be over within a few minutes.

But Martin had a different view of things, right from the first step, taking off their clothes.

He made that part of the act, converting it into a sensual game, asking her to undress him while he undressed her, not missing a single opportunity to touch and fondle as he unbuttoned, untied, and unlaced her fastenings.

And he took down her hair, running it through his fingers and using a skein of it to brush across her breasts. Colyton had always demanded a tight plait… No. Martin had said he did not want Colyton between them and he was quite right.

She had never been fully naked in front of a man before, nor had she seen a man naked, but he was so comfortable in his own skin and so worshipful of hers that she ignored her embarrassment and then forgot all about it, as she waited for the order to get onto the bed, the second step in his process.

Again, he confounded her expectations. He had dropped to his knees to remove her stockings, which had put his head level with a part of her for which she did not have a name. Instead of rising and demanding—or, to be fair, since Martin was always polite, requesting—her to position herself on the bed, he remained where he was, looking up to meet her eyes.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

Having agreed, Jessica was astounded to discover where he intended to kiss her. Was this really permitted? We are lovers , she reminded herself. I am already breaking the rules . Soon, she felt too good to worry about such things. Before long, she was on the bed, and not alone, with Marton still kissing her in that unexpected place, and also using clever fingers in concert with his mouth. Inside her! She had never imagined such a thing. The craving, the urgency, returned. It grew greater and greater, centering where he touched her, forcing her to move in response.

She seized his hair in her hands, vaguely intending to pull him away but finding herself holding him in place. Her hips began to lift in concert with his fingers, and he didn’t pull away and slap her to remind her to lie still.

And when she couldn’t keep from moaning, instead of roaring insults at her, he murmured, “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me know I am pleasing you.” And he lowered his mouth and redoubled his efforts.

His approval set her free to fly, and she did, soaring into the heart of pleasure, screaming his name. And he didn’t stop his ministrations, but drove her to fly higher and higher. At last—it might have been minutes later—she began to glide down the other side, returning, or so it seemed, to a body sated with delight, all her muscles limp.

Martin crawled up over her body and kissed her, open mouthed. She could taste herself on his tongue, and was surprised once again, this time at the satisfaction it gave her to savour her essence and his combined.

Then she felt something blunt at the entrance to her body. This was the moment she had feared, but she was too replete with satisfaction to react, and when he fitted himself to her and thrust, she did not stiffen up.

He slid home, and it was good. And then it got better, and her second peak was higher than the first.