And then he decided—to hell with it. Why should he wait? Why should she wait? He leaned down, kissed her quickly on the mouth. “Wait right here,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Before she could ask questions—and she was Eloise, so of course she had questions—he slithered down, and spread her legs wide, the way he’d lain awake imagining at night, and kissed her.
She screamed.
“Good,” he murmured, his words disappearing into the very heart of her. His hands held her firm; he had no choice, she was squirming and bucking like a wild woman. He licked and kissed, and he tasted every inch, every tantalizing crevice. He was voracious, and he devoured her, thinking that this had to be quite simply the best thing he’d ever done in his entire life, and dear God, he was thankful he was a married man now and could do it as often as he liked.
He’d heard other men talk about it, of course, but never ever had he dreamed it would be this good. He was a hairbreadth away from losing himself completely, and she hadn’t even touched him. Not that he would have wanted her to at that moment—the way she was gripping the sheets, her knuckles white and straining, hell, she would have ripped him in two.
He should have let her finish, should have kissed her until she exploded into his mouth, but at that point his own needs took over, and he simply had no choice. This was his wedding night, and when he spilled himself, it was going to be into her, not the sheets, and dear God, but if he didn’t feel her squeezing around him soon, he was quite certain he was going to burst into flame.
And so he lifted himself, ignoring her cry of distress as he removed his lips, and he moved up, settling his member against her one more time, then using his fingers to part her even more as he pushed forward.
She was wet—very, very wet, a mix of her and him, and it was nothing like he’d ever felt before. He slid right in, her passage somehow easy and tight at the same time.
She gasped his name, and he gasped hers, and then, unable to keep his pace slow, he plunged forward, breaking through her last barrier until he was embedded to the hilt. And maybe he should have stopped, maybe he should have asked if she was all right, if she felt any pain, but he just couldn’t. It had been so damned long, and he needed her so damned much, and once his body began to move there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it.
He was fast and he was rough, but she must have liked it because she was fast and rough beneath him, her hips grinding against his with needy force as her fingers bit into his back.
And when she moaned, it wasn’t his name. It was, “More!”
He slid his fingers beneath her, grabbing on to her buttocks, squeezing hard as he tilted her up to allow him even easier entry, and the change of position must have done something to change the way he was rubbing her, or maybe she had just reached her limit, because she arched beneath him, going so stiff she shook, and then a cry was ripped from her throat as he felt her muscles convulse around him.
He could take no more. With one final shout he plunged forward, shuddering and shaking as he emptied himself, claiming her finally and indelibly as his own.
Chapter 15
. . . I cannot believe that you will not tell me more. As your elder sister (by a full year, I should not have to remind you) I am owed a certain measure of respect, and while I appreciate your informing me that Annie Mavel’s account of married love was correct, I should have liked a few details beyond that brief account. Surely you are not so wrapped in your own bliss that you cannot spare a few words (adjectives, in particular, would be helpful) for your beloved sister.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her
sister the Countess of Kilmartin,
two weeks after Francesca’s wedding
One week later, Eloise was sitting in the small parlor that had recently been converted into an office for her, chewing on the end of her pencil as she attempted to go over the household accounts. She was supposed to be counting funds, and bags of flour, and the servants’ wages, and the like, but in truth all she could count was the number of times she and Phillip had made love.
Thirteen, she thought. No, fourteen. Well, fifteen, actually, if she counted that time when he hadn’t actually gone inside of her, but they’d both . . .
She blushed, even though there wasn’t a soul in the room besides her, and it wasn’t as if anyone would have known what she was thinking, anyway.
But good God, had she really done that? Kissed him there?
She hadn’t even known such a thing was possible. Annie Mavel certainly hadn’t described anything like that when she’d delivered her little lesson to Eloise and Francesca all those years ago.
Eloise scrunched her face as she thought back. She wondered if Annie Mavel had even known such things were possible. It was difficult to imagine Annie doing it, but then, it was difficult to imagine anyone doing it, most especially herself.
It was amazing, she thought, utterly amazing and beyond wonderful to have a husband who was so mad for her. They didn’t see one another too terribly often during the day—he had his work, after all, and she had hers, of a sort—but at night, after he’d given her five minutes for her toilette (it had started at twenty, but it seemed to be getting progressively shorter, and she could even hear his footsteps pacing outside the door during the scant minutes he now allowed her) . . .
At night, he pounced upon her like a man possessed. A starving man, really. His energy seemed endless, and he was always trying new things, positioning her in new ways, teasing and tormenting until she was screaming and begging, never sure whether it was for him to stop or keep going.