Chapter 11

11

NUMBER FOUR AND NUMBER FIVE

Leo had never been so full of nervous anticipation in his life. He wasn't, if he were honest, a man of any great sexual experience. He'd done quite a lot of kissing and mutual exploring with a slightly older neighbour when he was young, just before he'd gone to sea, experiences which he remembered with enormous fondness. His companion in pleasurable discovery – in some respects his teacher, for she had been from the outset far surer than he of what she wanted – was now a married woman of thirty with a parcel of children of her own, and he hoped she was happy.

There were many and varied opportunities offered to a sailor in every port, of course, not to mention on board ship, if one were so inclined, which he wasn't. But then again, a large proportion of those opportunities were of a frankly terrifying nature, for anyone who valued his health and his self-respect. He had heard of a perilous game rich, bored gentlemen played, a series of wildly irresponsible dares involving loaded pistols, though he didn't know if it was anything more than a rumour, and dallying with pox-ridden dockside whores struck him as even more dangerous. At least a bullet was quick. Naturally, he had indulged his sexual impulses sometimes, in places that seemed safer – he was only human, and he'd spent his whole adult life and half his boyhood in the navy – but he had done so prudently, always. That was something he should tell her, probably, Isabella; that he had always been careful to be safe, and he would, if things progressed in that direction, which it seemed they would, continue to do so. He would protect her. He didn't suppose she would be any more eager to risk pregnancy than he was, even if no other kind of risk had ever crossed her mind.

He didn't believe that the danger of parenthood, at least, was something he need worry about tonight. He imagined that there were a few items at least on her list before they came to that point. He thought too that he had a shrewd idea of what number six was, and she'd alluded to four, though he had no idea about five. It made him nervous, therefore, but it was also still damnably exciting. He'd probably be considerably less anxious if he didn't care about her so much. Of course he would. But he pushed that thought away since it led nowhere but to painful places. Dwell on the excitement. Dwell on making it – whatever it was – as wonderful for her as possible. He wanted to do that.

She locked the door of the dark, intimate little room and turned to look up at him, unfastening her cloak and throwing it aside without any apparent regard for where it landed. She licked her lips, involuntarily, it seemed to him, rather than in any deliberate attempt to tantalise him. Though it did. So, she was anxious too. It made him feel better somehow, made him all the more aware of the arousal that hummed in his blood, in every inch of his body, and set his head spinning. He said, and he had to clear his throat to say it, ‘What do you…? May I kiss you? First?' Was that wrong? Were they perhaps not going to do that again, now she'd crossed it off? That would be a shame, for him at least.

But she said, ‘Yes!' and then she was in his arms, as eager as he was, apparently. They'd done this before and they knew they liked it. They were on solid ground. His tongue brushed hers and hers came to meet it; they held each other tightly, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle, and gave licence to their mutual hunger. In the quiet room, there were little inarticulate murmurs of pleasure, and soft gasps that could have come from either of them. All thoughts, all worries about the future left him, submerged in the rush of pure sensation as their mouths devoured each other.

When he came back to himself, his hands were on her buttocks – that was new – squeezing her soft, abundant flesh, lifting her off her feet, pulling her as close as she could be. This was one of the many, many things he'd dreamed about doing, and it was even better than he'd imagined.

Her hands were inside his waistcoat – she must have unbuttoned it. With an adorable little cry of triumph, she pulled his shirt free of his breeches and slipped her hands under it to touch his bare skin at last. He loved to feel her hands upon him. It was another thing he'd thought about; it seemed he had a list too. He should probably write it down. Maybe later. Not now. Definitely not now.

She was exploring his back, her small, determined hands warm on his skin, but after a little while she pulled away slightly and said breathlessly, ‘Number four…'

‘What's number four?' he managed to say, though she'd mentioned it and he thought he knew.

She could write it on her list, she could think it and want it, but apparently, she couldn't say it. It seemed that she was going to show him; he was more than willing to be shown. She had worn, he saw now, since he hadn't been attending before, a silvery gown with a bodice that fastened with tiny pearl buttons. Sometimes, he knew – he wasn't that inexperienced, though he didn't claim to know much about women's clothing – these buttons on ladies' gowns were mere decoration. These ones weren't, though; these ones were functional because she was unfastening them. All of them.

Once undone, they revealed the straps of her stays and a scandalously flimsy chemise that covered, just barely, her breasts. Did that have buttons too? No, it had ties, she'd probably chosen it tonight because it did, and she unfastened them. She was determined, clearly, to do all this herself, and it was powerfully erotic to him, and also new. Everything was new. She was blushing, but she faced him bravely and bared herself to him. Good Christ in heaven. Her beautiful, beautiful, big breasts, which he had touched but never seen, and her erect pink nipples, erect just for him. He made some sound in his throat and it seemed to give her courage to speak at last. He couldn't have said a word in that moment, and any shred of rational thought he might have clung to deserted him entirely when she said, ‘Would you like to… kiss me? I don't know if I told you that that's number four.'

He made a strangled sort of a noise that she could take as, ‘Would I like …?' if she so wished, and then they were tumbling onto the sofa, fortunately there was a sofa, but of course there would be, and he was pushing her back into the soft cushions, or she was lying back herself in delicious invitation, perhaps both, and his hands, his mouth were on her.

Leo lost himself again. He wanted to lick her, so he did. Around and around her nipples, and she moaned and arched her back against him. He drew one aroused little bead into his mouth and sucked on it, and tongued it as he sucked. His hands were on her, too, exploring, enjoying the weight of her exposed breasts. Her skin was flushed and she made little noises once again that showed how much she liked it all. Her fingers were in his hair, holding him against her, urging him on, not that he needed any urging. She smelled wonderful, she smelled of herself. She tasted wonderful. When it was all too much for him for a moment, just too damn good, he buried his face in her glorious flesh and she held him there and stroked his head. He could hear and feel her heart pounding under him. He pressed his lips to her skin again and put out his tongue to taste more of her. Salty, sweet, unmistakably her.

He wasn't aware of it, but his right hand had crept down across her gown, across her lush curves, and was searching blindly for the hem of it. He only realised when she said, when she moaned, ‘What you're doing with your hand?—'

‘I'm sorry!' he gasped instantly.

She chuckled, a low, rich sound he hadn't heard from her before and wanted to hear again. It was his new favourite sound. She said, ‘That's number five. Don't you dare stop, sir.'

He was nothing if not obedient. He found the hem and raised it, and his fingers were on her knee, on her thigh; she wriggled under him, pleased with the direction he was taking, clearly. So was he. The silk was glorious to touch, but her skin, when he came to it, was better. So much better. He traced the top of her stocking where it met her velvety thigh and thought to say, ‘My hands are rough; I wish they weren't. I'm sorry, I don't want to hurt you…'

‘Don't be. I like it,' she almost growled. ‘It doesn't hurt me, I mean, but I like the feel. I like it very much.'

So did he. The calloused pads of his fingers were rougher than a gentleman's hands should be, but she'd said she liked it so that was good, was better than good. He stroked her lush thigh and then continued upwards, to tangle in her curls. To find her secret places. He loved the noises she made when he touched her, and when he came to the little bud of flesh he was seeking, it seemed to swell under his caressing fingers. He loved, when he explored further, the undeniable fact that she was wet for him.

‘I don't know what you like,' he whispered, his hand cupping her, stroking her. ‘I want to please you. So much.' He wanted to make her cry out with pleasure. He hoped he could. God knows it wasn't about anything at all to do with conquest, or even skill – he didn't think he had any great skill to speak of – but he wanted to give her something, he wanted with passionate intensity to know that they were in harmony with each other, that she was enjoying this as much as he was. Her pleasure seemed much more important to him than his own just now, and that too was something he'd never experienced before.

‘Oh…' she said breathlessly, moving under his hand, pressing herself against him. ‘Shall I tell you?' It seemed she had lost all the shyness that had overwhelmed her when they'd first arrived, now that he was touching her at her direction.

‘Please!'

‘If you touch me… there… that's good.' His fingers were on her peak again, circling it, coaxing a response from her willing flesh. They were both breathing raggedly.

‘Like that?'

‘Yes, a little harder, even.' He was glad to take instruction, if she would consent to give it, and moved harder and faster on her, using her wetness to ease the motion of his fingers, anxious lest his rough skin should irritate her most tender and delicate places after a while, even if it did please her too. His mouth was still on her breast, kissing, sucking, his other hand was there as well, and she had her hands fixed tight in his hair, holding him to her. He wanted to give her everything.

‘And this? Shall I do this?' His fingers slid to her entrance, and he slipped the tip of his index finger into her just a little, into the glorious, silken, liquid core of her.

She moaned, ‘Yes!' and he dared to venture further, not wanting to be too tentative, but not wanting to push too far or too fast, not wanting above all to hurt her. She seemed to sense his uncertainty and gasped, ‘If you touch me a little more on my… my seat of Venus, then presently you can put your fingers in me fully.'

‘One finger, then two?' he asked, obeying her instructions and pressing more firmly on and around her peak, stroking it with his thumb, as she writhed beneath him and arched her back. His voice was muffled in her flesh, low, intimate, urgent. All he cared about was making her happy.

‘Yes, so good, please,' she gasped, the power of articulate speech apparently on the point of deserting her. Which made him very happy. He pressed his finger into her and then slid out, and soon established a rhythm that had her pushing her pelvis up against him and clinging to him even more tightly. Two fingers after a while, stroking in and out, and she liked that, she was moaning low and breathing hard. He was more confident now and surer that he would not hurt her, and he slid between her bud and her entrance, really fucking her with his fingers as she had asked him to. He was enormously responsive to every tiny movement of her body, to the depth of her arousal, and he felt her hot flesh tensing and tightening as her climax approached. He could hear it in the increasingly guttural sounds she made and feel it in the slick wetness of her. She was close.

‘Oh God!' she gasped, and he felt the beautiful moment of her release, when she started to peak and little convulsive movements spread out through her whole body. He knew not to stop, he didn't know how he knew, and his fingers still slid over and into her as she jerked under him and her limbs relaxed and melted into the sofa. She was no longer holding him to her. He buried his face between her breasts and closed his eyes for a moment.

His rhythmic movements slowed and at last stopped, but he didn't take his hand from her. He didn't want to. He'd lost all sense of time, but every now and then a renewed little spasm of pleasure shook her body and she pressed herself up against him again. He didn't want to deprive her even of one convulsion of sensation. Each was infinitely precious to him. He was still kissing her breasts and murmuring incoherent endearments but – probably fortunately – she seemed too lost in her orgasm to hear him. He opened his eyes and lifted his head so that he could see her face. It was soft, flushed, vulnerable, and her mouth was open. He felt enormously protective of her and knew in that moment, if he had not known before, just how much he loved her. At least he had been able to give her this, even if she didn't want anything else from him. This wasn't nothing. He felt tears building behind his eyes and in his throat and indulged himself for a moment in letting them free. A hot salt droplet trickled down his face and lost itself in his neck, and then another. She wouldn't see, and even if she did see she wouldn't know what it meant. He was safe for a little while, he thought. He slid his fingers from her at last but couldn't bring himself to release her completely. His hand lay loosely on her sex. If he took it away, he'd want to taste it, taste her on him, and she might think that was odd. Was it odd? He was a long way past being able to tell.

She sighed and opened her eyes. They were enormous velvet pools that, not for the first time, he knew he could lose himself in forever. Perhaps he was already lost. He had another hand, he realised – he wasn't quite himself still – than the one that was still cradling her secret places, and he could not help reaching out with it and touching her face very gently. She smiled at him. Please don't say thank you , he begged her silently. I'll break down and sob if you say thank you. I'll wager that's not on your list. It certainly isn't on mine.

She didn't. She said, ‘That was…' She didn't seem to know what to say, and he had no objections to that. He had no idea what to say either. He should probably move his hand. His head. His whole body. He had – for what seemed like years he had had – an intense, almost painful erection. He might or might not have been grinding it against her thigh as he pleasured her. But he wasn't planning on mentioning it if she didn't. It would presumably go away eventually. Next year, perhaps.

But she shook her head as if trying to clear it. He could see now that there were tears on her cheek, but he wasn't presumptuous enough to assume that they had anything to do with him. They couldn't be. He had no idea what was going through her mind and wasn't sure he wanted to know. It was quite likely, after all, that she was thinking about her husband, her lost love, and that would be only natural even if the idea was a painful stab in the chest for him.

Isabella said, ‘I was wondering… about you. About number six.'