Chapter 16

Sixteen

H enrietta woke up alone. But Oliver had been there for most of the night, she was sure of it.

So. That was fornication.

In so many ways, it had been just like a stallion mounting a mare. Just as brief, just as passionless.

It certainly hadn't been what she had imagined it would be based on her mother's descriptions. Or based on her own thoughts when she touched herself.

She'd liked the first part. Whispering in the dark. Smelling the whisky on his breath. Him holding her. Her kissing his chest.

The next part? Well, she thought she might like to have that full feeling again, and she'd liked his body being close to hers, but there'd been scarcely any touching. And it was so quick. And he really hadn't gotten that close to her pleasure spot, had he?

She'd thought of giving herself some relief afterwards, but she didn't know if it would disturb either him or his seed if she touched herself down there, so she had refrained. And she had promised him she would like anything he did, so it didn't seem like a good idea to touch herself and demonstrate to him that he had not satisfied her.

Even though he hadn't. Nowhere near.

Still, she had had the pleasure of the holding before and the sleeping next to him after. And she might get a child from this.

It was a pity the ecstasy he gave her heart was not matched by an ecstasy he gave her body.

Yet.

She touched herself between her legs. Yes, her entrance was sore. She shifted over to look at the sheet under where her bottom had been. Yes, no blood. It had been just as she had guessed—she had had nothing to break and therefore there had been no reason for her to bleed.

Now she was lying where Oliver's body had been, where he had slept. She turned over and buried her face in the pillow where his head had rested. Oh, the delicious scent of him.

And there face down, she wormed a hand under her belly and rubbed herself, breathing deeply through her nose and thinking about him.

Surrounded by his smell, she had one of the most glorious climaxes of her life.

Oh, Oliver .

If only he had held her longer. Kissed her. Touched her breasts. Touched her between her legs more.

But he was so much older, so much wiser, so much more experienced. There couldn't possibly be anything she could teach him. He had done this with at least two other women. He must know what he was doing, right?

Right?

That evening, after dinner, she developed a new worry.

"I don't suppose," she said, staring into the fire. It was rainy. They were in the drawing room. He was reading his newspaper, but she had not yet taken up her stitchery.

"Mmm?" he said from behind his paper.

"Well," she said and straightened her skirts. "I don't suppose—that is, after I am with child, you might continue to come to my bed?"

He moved his paper to the side. His gray eyes flared with a strange heat as he quirked one eyebrow at her. And there was that one lock of hair suspended over his forehead. That gorgeous curl. She'd love to touch it. It looked so soft and thick.

"I would not wish to inconvenience you," he said.

Inconvenience was just another word for impose . But this time, she wouldn't stay silent. She would make it clear he should come to her.

"You wouldn't inconvenience me. I mean, there's a bit of a mess, isn't there? But that's easily cleaned up. And it would be warm and cozy in the winter. So very pleasant."

Even if there would be no ecstasy for her in her marital duty, there would be physical closeness and, she hoped, some pleasure for her husband. And although he had not been effusive about that pleasure—when was he ever effusive about anything?—she had liked giving it to him.

She wanted to be the one to give it to him.

He cleared his throat. "I see. Yes, it would be warm."

"But not too warm. Just right. Even in the summer," she said, thinking ahead for once. She didn't want him not to come to her in the hotter months.

Now it was his turn to stare into the fire. "I take it you did not enjoy the act."

"Yes, yes, I did." She felt herself blush. "What made you say that?"

"Your choice of words. Warm and cozy and pleasant ."

"Those are good words," she said indignantly.

"Yes, they are." He went back to reading his paper.

"You didn't answer my question."

"I'm thinking."

She dearly wished she could see his face behind the newspaper. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Oh."

He folded his paper down. "It's too soon to know if you are with child. So, the question doesn't need an answer yet."

"Yes, it's far too soon."

But when would she know? She counted on her fingers. At least she had the assurance he would come to her bed—oh, at least ten more times. Her courses were very regular and as soon as she missed a day—well, their time in bed together might end.

Until she wanted another child.

He watched her touch her own fingers in some mysterious dance and wondered what they'd feel like on his cock.

Jesus.

He flipped his paper back up before he became any more aroused just looking at her.

Warm and pleasant and cozy . Pleasant, for God's sake! When he had been as hard as granite and brimming over as soon as he got into the bed, panicked he would spill just touching her.

Oliver turned the page of his newspaper, frowning.

Yesterday, he would have been happy she had said it was pleasant . Anything would have been better than vile , which is what Violet had said it was.

No, Henrietta hadn't been revolted like Violet had been. She hadn't been scared and mute like Emily. He had been a fool to think Henrietta would be. She was not Violet or Emily.

However, he was still himself. A failure, now and forever. He had provoked nothing in her except cozy and pleasant . And warm .

Damn, he was worthless. He was a hot water bottle, not a husband.

"I wish," she said.

"You wish what?" he bit out, still stewing in his anger at himself.

"I wish you'd tell me what you're thinking." Her voice was as calm and soft as it was when she told a story to his son. "I never know what you're thinking. But I'm your wife. A real wife now, because we know each other, like in the Bible. I should know your thoughts, too, shouldn't I?"

His innocent wife—yes, still innocent, despite the fact he had spent inside her last night—wanted to know his thoughts?

"Please, Oliver. Please tell me what you're thinking. I want to know."

She wanted to know.

And he had vowed to give her anything she wanted.

He threw the paper down, and he threw caution to the winds. He leaned forward, almost coming out of the chair, and spilled out the filth that befouled his mind.

"I'm thinking I want to rip every shred of clothing off you and ravish you right here. I'm thinking I want to suckle at your big, gorgeous breasts until you leak milk into my mouth. I'm thinking I want to wrap your thighs around my neck while I kneel at your feet and feast on your cunt and lick you and tongue you and bury my face in your sweetness as you pull my hair and scream my name. I'm thinking I want to plunge my hard prick into you over and over and over again like a savage animal until you're delirious with ecstasy and your pussy squeezes around me and you come on my cock while I explode inside your womb."

She trembled. No, she quaked. Large, jerky movements from her head all the way down to her slippered feet that beat out a stuttering tattoo on the carpet. Every bit of her exposed skin turned red, an even deeper shade than her hair. Her eyes widened and her pupils became enormous, turning her pale-blue irises into mere rims surrounding inky pools.

"Well," she gasped.

He gasped, too. He could not believe what he had just said to her. To the purest piece of sweetness and goodness in existence.

Violet had been right. He was vile. The things that had just come out of his mouth would embarrass a stevedore, let alone a barely deflowered maiden.

He threw himself back into the chair, wiping the spittle from his mouth. His own words had engorged his cock to the point of pain. And he deserved that pain.

She would flee now. Because she had asked what he was thinking and he had told her.

Maybe she would just flee figuratively, withdrawing her request for a child, for copulation, for his company in any guise.

Maybe she would flee literally, back to her parents, abandoning Nathaniel when she was the only mother he had ever known. And she would abandon Oliver, too.

A terrible error in judgment two years ago had brought him so much happiness. He had fallen into something good, for once. And now another error in judgment had destroyed it.

His old companions darkness and despondency were just beginning to settle over him when he heard her say something under her breath.

"Why don't you?"

His eyes snapped to hers. "What did you say?"

"I said." She blinked several times and then spoke loudly and clearly, enunciating every word carefully. "Why don't you do what you're thinking?"

"You don't know what you're asking," he snarled, completely powerless to pretend at niceties any longer.

"I know," she said, her voice now tremulous. "I know?.?.?.?your words, what you just said to me, the pictures you put in my head?.?.?.?I liked it."

He swallowed.

"I more than liked it." She licked her lips. "I ache for you. For your," she hesitated, "cock."

With the agility of youth, she was suddenly out of her chair and kneeling at his feet and undoing his fall that strained to hold his throbbing member in abeyance.

"What—"

She tore at his buttons until his groin was bared, his hard shaft springing out, fully erect.

Unerringly, her fingers wrapped around him. The first erotic touch ever on his cock from a hand that wasn't his own.

"I'm going to do what I'm thinking." Now she was the one with spittle flying from her mouth, a feral gleam in her eye as she looked up at him and moved her hand over his shaft. "I'm thinking about how I saw you," she moved her hand faster, "do this and I realized I had to have you. Have your prick."

"You?.?.?.?you don't want a baby?"

"I'm greedy. I want you, I want your cock, I want your babies, I want—" She stopped herself from speaking. Stopped her movement of her hand along his length. Bit her lip. "I want everything."

"I—"

"I want you to spend on my face."

He looked down at her beautiful face. The face of a goddess. Not a chaste Artemis or Athena. But a wild, wanton temptress of the highest order. Aphrodite. She'd always been that, hadn't she? A true voluptuary. The way she savored her food, thrilled to a vigorous ride through the countryside, relished a cool breeze on her skin.

He had persisted in boxing her in. Persisted in thinking her a child. Why? When he had allowed her to be the woman who was a mother to his son, the woman who ran his household.

He had been making her smaller than she really was. When really she was?.?.?.?utterly magnificent.

Her hand began to move again and there was no room for thought anymore, only the most urgent need. He was rising to a peak that towered over every fell.

She had been looking up at his face but then her rosy-gold lashes fluttered, her blue eyes disappeared as her neck bent, and she said, "You said you wanted to feast on me. Well, I want to feast on you."

She took him in her mouth.

Oh, my God. Her mouth. Hot and wet like her quim had been last night despite his incompetence as a lover. His hips bucked, lurched, and thrust as she sucked at him and swirled her tongue over his tip like it was a spoonful of her favorite ice and her hand continued to move up and down as if she were feeding herself his shaft.

"Henrietta. I'm going to—" was all he got out as a warning and then it was upon him.

His first spurt landed far back in her throat, but she released him from her mouth and pulled her head back and the rest landed where she wanted it.

On her round cheeks. Her freckled nose.

Her perfect face was covered in his seed. Seed spent for pleasure only, not for a baby.

"Oh, my God," he said out loud.

Her hand came away from his cock. Moments ago, during the act of pleasuring him, she had been bold and brazen. But now worry returned to her, and her forehead furrowed.

"Was that all right?"

His mind was blank. But it mustn't be. He must say something to her. Summon words. Praise.

"That," he dared to lay his hands on the face of his daring wife,"was more than all right . That was unbelievable." He ran a thumb through his spend on her cheek, and the anxiousness faded from her eyes. "Unbelievable pleasure. You just gave me. I thank you."

"I must be a mess." But now her voice wasn't fretful. It was husky, without a trace of regret. Almost taunting.

"A beautiful mess," he corrected her as he took out his handkerchief and cleaned her face gently.

She just stared up at him.

He took her hands and stood, drawing her up with him, his braces holding up his trousers as his fall flapped open.

Looming over her, he walked her backwards. She fell into her own chair with a little puff of surprise. He knelt at her feet and drew her skirts and petticoats up to her waist. Her round knees were together. He gently pushed them apart from each other, separating those plump thighs that belied the underlying muscle that kept her on her horse.

And then she was open to him, and he saw her beautiful sex that he had only felt in the dark last night. Tight, copper curls framing her dark-pink pudenda, glistening in the firelight.

She was wet for him.

Her fingers found his shoulders. He looked up from her gorgeous sex and said, "I've never?—"

"I haven't either, as you know," she said quickly. "None of this."

"So you'll have to help me. Tell me if you don't like anything?—"

"You, too."

"But I've dreamed of this with you. I've wanted this with you."

Still keeping his eyes on hers, he leaned in and kissed the inside of one stockinged knee. Slowly, he kissed his way up her thigh. When he got close to the top of the stocking, he had to force his eyes away from her face due to the angle of his neck. When he got past the garter and kissed her bare skin for the first time, he heard her whimper.

It cut straight to his heart, dissecting away the scars of being despised, of being unwanted by two other women.

He had planned to kiss his way down her other thigh, but once he got close to her quim, he couldn't move away. Her sweet musk was intoxicating. Part Pears soap, part sweat, part saddle leather, but mostly something that must be her arousal. Essence of Henrietta. He brought both of his hands up and gently parted her outer lips. He kissed the pink, dewed flesh around her entrance. More whimpers. He nudged with his nose as he kissed and finally brought out his tongue and gave her a long lick, all the way to the top of her sex.

"Ooooooooh. There. There. That's it. That's it." Her hands laced into his hair.

"You like that?" he said into her cunt, reveling in her heady taste and dizzy with the notion that she actually wanted him to do this.

"The top, that little place at the top, that's the place where?.?.?.?if you touch me there, I'll spend. I mean that's what I do on my own?.?.?."

Henrietta gave herself pleasure. Of course she did. His sensual voluptuary would not deny herself just because she had married a coward.

He felt with his tongue around the top of her slit and there was a little nub of hardness there.

She yelped. "That's it, that's it."

Vasco da Gama had nothing on him. Nor Ponce de León, nor Captain Cook. Who gave a fuck about the Fountain of Life? The source of the Nile? The Northwest Passage?

Oliver Hartwell had discovered the source of his wife's greatest pleasure.

"Gentle at first," she whispered.

With the lightest touch, he licked the nub. Her fingers momentarily released his hair and then pulled.

"Yes, Oliver. Oliver!"

He licked a bit harder. She squealed. He licked faster. For the first time ever, he heard his wife take the Lord's name in vain. The little nub was getting harder and harder and larger. He dipped down to her entrance. Her juices were copious now and he needed a taste of her there. And as he tongued her entrance, he felt his phallus begin to revive. His forty-three year old cock was ready for more, was it?

She quieted. But as he returned to the nub and set up the pulsing quick rhythm of his tongue again, she squealed. Again.

"God, God, God. Oliver. Oliver. Oliver!"

Her legs shook, her fingers mauled his head, she commingled his name with the almighty's. Then she collapsed, quivering. He kissed her outer lips lightly, not ready to leave this brave, new world.

Finally, he straightened and sat back on his haunches. His height meant he had had to bend down quite a bit to get to her quim. His fantasy hadn't taken that into account. He must buy some chairs with taller legs.

Her eyes were on him, but they were dreamy, hazed, far away in some land of indolent pleasure.

"Goodness," she breathed.

Creakily, he got to his feet and buttoned his fall over his once-again tumescent organ. She bit her lip as she watched him put himself away.

"But?.?.?.?but what about the suckling of my breasts and the plunging into me like you're a wild beast?"

He leaned over and pulled down her skirts. "Let's go upstairs and take care of that in a bed. You make my cock think it's twenty years old, but the rest of me isn't."

A hearty laugh burst from her before she pressed her lips together in a futile attempt to control her merriment. "Will you say more lewd things to me?"

He leaned over again and put his hands on the arms of the chair and got his face very close to hers. "Do you want me tell you about how I want you on your hands and knees on the mattress so I can take you from behind while I grope your sinfully gorgeous bottom? Drive my cock into you from that position so forcefully that your beautiful flesh jiggles and shakes and you collapse onto the bed, crushed by my need for you?"

She stared at him, her mouth agape. "Yes."

He straightened his back and groaned and held out his hand. "Then come with me, wife."