Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

M artin was so determined to see her climax again that he nearly didn’t pull out in time. As he reached for the damp cloth he’d put ready, and cleaned them both up, he thanked whatever powers looked after careless lovers.

Perhaps he had a condom in his luggage, but he didn’t think so. He was past the age of carrying them “just in case,” since his encounters were all planned—until this one. Perhaps Porritt had supplied some.

If not, he was going to have to draw on his reserves of discipline. That is, if Jessica wanted to more. She had only asked for him to help her to find her pleasure, and he had. Perhaps she was finished with him.

He hoped not.

With the towel tossed to one side, he pulled the covers over them, then wrapped her in his arms, making sure not to trap her hair, which lay around her in a glorious carpet, even longer than he had deduced. He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you,” he said. “That was amazing.” Which was an understatement. He had an unsettling feeling that intimacy with Jessica Lady Colyton was life changing. That, however, was a worry for another day.

For now, he had her in his arms, and once they had had a short rest, he hoped to be able to persuade her into another round.

* * *

M artin and Jessica spent the rest of the day making love, sharing the necessary chores, playing chess and talking. Laughing, too, which in Martin’s opinion was one of the great delights of a love affair. Lovers who did not laugh at the same things were doomed to misunderstanding and early separation, but he and Jessica shared the same kind of humour.

They also had similar attitudes to most social and political issues of the day, and when they disagreed, she was willing to listen to his opinion and argue her own. What an amazing countess she must have made. Colyton was mad not to have valued her.

The bread was delicious with the last of the stew. “We shall not starve, though, Martin,” Jessica said, as they sopped up the last of the gravy. “Even if supplies don’t arrive for several more days. We have bread, and can make more. We have a huge wheel of cheese. Also, plentiful supplies of root vegetables and onions.”

“Something for all of my appetites,” Martin joked, and Jessica blushed, but responded with a question that had him instantly hard. “Martin, can I do what you did? I mean, do women kiss men—you know, down there? Like you did to me?”

“Yes,” he said, doing his best to sound calm. “Shall we leave the dishes until later, and try it in the parlour?”

“The parlour, not the bedroom?” She sounded more intrigued than scandalised, so Martin didn’t bother with a full answer, but merely nodded.

She was a quick study, and afterwards he pleasured her again, on the rug in front of the fire. Then they did the dishes and made mulled cider, which they brought through to the parlour.

“More chess?” Martin asked.

“Can we just talk?” Jessica asked.

“Of course.” Women always wanted to talk, but somehow, with Jessica, he didn’t mind. No. That wasn’t strong enough. He liked it. He liked talking to her, working alongside her, kissing her. Yes, and all the rest, too. When this interlude was over, he was going to miss her. He pushed the thought away. “What did you wish to talk about, Jessica?”

“I have questions,” she said, and then was silent, those two little vertical lines appearing again between her eyebrows.

“I will answer if I can,” he said, to nudge her into speaking again.

She blushed bright scarlet, and stammered when she tried to explain. “When you… and then, you know, I… The flying thing. Is that normal? With the wetness, and everything?”

“When you come?” he asked. He chose his words carefully. “It is normal. Humans are made to enjoy copulation, and to achieve a peak of pleasure. For men, the pleasure grows and grows, and when we reach the peak, we release our seed and come down the other side. For women, it is a little more complicated, for a thoughtless man can come while his partner has not begun to feel pleasure at all. A woman’s bower becomes wet when she is looking forward to congress.”

“Bower,” she murmured to herself, as if memorising the word, and then addressed him again. “That is why you do not…” she blushed again, and her words were mumbled towards the general direction of her knees. “…put your…” she waved vaguely towards his groin… “into my bower until I am wet?”

Apparently, her ladyship lacked the vocabulary for any part of the festivities. “My shaft?” Martin said, choosing one of the milder terms from the rich supply.

It was the right thing to do. Her blush faded slightly, and she repeated the term, her voice trying out the word. “Your shaft.”

“Yes, in answer to your question. Both because I do not want to come too quickly, and because I am told it can hurt a woman to put a shaft into her bower when it is not ready.”

Jessica nodded. “It does,” she said, thoughtfully.

Martin clenched his fist and his jaw. The one to punch Colyton, who was fortunately dead and could no longer torment his poor wife. The other to keep a few choice angry words behind his teeth.

“Thank you,” Jessica said. “I have no one else I cared to ask. Indeed, until today, I had no idea… I have heard other women talk, of course, but not about such details.”

There were those two adorable lines again. “I think, perhaps, that only a few men are thoughtful,” she said. “I have the impression that most women endure intimacy, rather than enjoying it.”

Was that true? Certainly, to hear other men talk, they were all stallions in the sack, never leaving their women unsatisfied. But, of course, Martin had not spoken to the women. “You will know in future not to put up with such obnoxious behaviour,” he said, and then was sorry he had spoken. The thought of her with another lover set his teeth on edge, though he didn’t know why. They had agreed to a brief liaison during the snowstorm, and he had no other claim on her.

She shrugged. “I doubt the circumstance will arise. Martin, I think I shall go up to bed early.” She chuckled. “Perhaps the unexpected exercise has tired me out. Will you excuse me?”

“Not at all. I am tired, too,” Martin said, truthfully. Then his reluctance for the day to end had him adding, “Shall we sleep in your bed or mine?” Why had he said that? He never spent the night with a lover.

“Sleep together?” Jessica sounded more intrigued than repulsed.

He stuffed his own doubts to the bottom of his mind and bent himself to persuade her. “Just sleep. We are both tired. But if we both wake in a different frame of mind… well…” It was his turn to shrug. It was all true, but he had to admit, if only to himself, that he feared to let her out of his reach, lest this whole day turned into a mirage and faded away.

“My bed is, I think, a trifle bigger,” she commented.

Martin’s heart bounded. She had agreed! “I shall change for bed in my room and knock on your door when I am ready,” he said. Now to see if his valet had packed a nightshirt!