He eased his head away, still holding her by the wrists. When he spoke, he scarcely recognized his voice. "I'm showing you."
"Sh-showing me?"
"What desire
is.
"
"But—" She bit her lower lip, swollen now from his kisses. "I already know that."
He could have cried from the bolt of lust that speared his loins. He had to ease his hips away from hers for fear of spilling like the greenest boy. He did not, however, give her a chance to escape. Not that she showed any signs of wanting to. Despite her obvious misgivings, she remained as he'd positioned her: her thighs slightly spread, her arms lifted obediently above her head. Her submission, even her fear, was an aphrodisiac he was reluctant to acknowledge. But he could not deny its allure, nor pull himself away. The best he could do was
try
to gentle the harshness of his voice.
"Desire comes first," he said, the words hoarser than he wished. "Then pleasure. One builds on the other.
Depends on the other."
He released one wrist to cup the heated fullness of her breast. Its nipple pressed discernibly through her bodice. He turned his palm and it hardened even more. "Do you feel it?
The ache of wanting?
In your breasts?
Between your legs?"
She nodded, shakily, and he kissed her in reward; kissed her until his head pounded in time with his
cock, until his passion burst from his chest in a primitive, animal growl. He kneaded her breast, pinching the sensitive tip, raking the swollen areola with his nails. She began to squirm against the trap of his body, not to get away but to get more. He knew how she felt; oh, did he know. He lowered his head to her breast and bit its peak.
"Edward," she gasped, pushing weakly at his shoulders. "I think I understand this part well enough."
He lifted his head to meet her eyes. He could barely catch his breath. "I'll need to touch you to show
you what pleasure is. I'll need to put my fingers between your legs and stroke your little pussy."
"M-my pussy?"
In spite of himself, he smiled. What an innocent she was. He nipped the curve of her chin. "I could
call it your love
garden, if you prefer.
Or Cupid's alley.
Or perhaps your buttered crumpet?"
She pleased him with a giggle. "In any case, you'll know what it is soon enough ... if you choose to let me go on."
She thought for a moment,
then
squared her shoulders. "I do. I do choose to let you."
His tension sighed from him. What a brave little darling she was, what a sweet, untouched, juicy plum. He played his lips over hers, letting their breath mingle in increasingly urgent gusts, letting her taste just the tip of his tongue. When she whimpered, he gave her more. When she moaned, he gave her all. Her fears thus distracted, he gathered up her skirts, slowly, taking the petticoats, too, warming her thinly clad legs with his own. When the mass of cloth reached her waist, she broke free of the kiss.
"Shall I hold my skirts?" she whispered.
"Yes," he said, just as softly. "I may want both my hands."
"If you do, you'll have to let go of my other wrist."
He laughed without sound. Even now,
Florence
could be practical. He pulled her still trapped hand to his mouth. Sweeping his tongue under the edge of her glove, he bit the plump flesh beneath her thumb. When she shuddered, his body did as well, hardening until the pain of wanting her stung in his eyes like tears. When he released her, his hand shook as badly as hers. Gritting his teeth, he took one step back to look at what he'd bared. Her legs, covered by the fine, lacy drawers, were as long and curvy as he
remembered,
her hands small against the bundle of sea-struck blue. Her boots—he shut his eyes at a spasm of longing— clung to her ankles with loverlike devotion. He hadn't planned on going to his knees, but his legs would not hold him. He fell and she drew a startled breath. A second later his hands wrapped the ankle of her shoes.
"Oh," she said as his fingers kneaded the bone beneath the kid.
"Oh, my."
He smiled when he saw her toes curl,
then
slid his hands higher. She was sensitive, his
Florence
: a well-tuned violin. He pressed his temple to her hip and blew softly through the lawn that covered her mons. Her shiver delighted him more than another's full-fledged moan.
"Just a little more," he said, drawing a teasing circle on her calf. "Just a little further and you'll know."
Her thighs trembled when he stroked them. He could scent her now, musky and sweet. Heart pounding, he nuzzled the open slit of her drawers. His hands followed, parting the sheer cotton, finding the crisp, tightly gathered curls. She tensed but did not move away. He sensed her waiting with bated breath. He combed her thatch to pet her mound. How wonderful were these secrets, and what a marvel that she would share them with him! Gently, he rubbed the tender cushion, gently, until the soothing strokes convinced her to relax. Then he drew one thumb, light as goosedown, over the shy, warm furrow of her lips. Tense or no, she was wet. Moisture painted his skin and hers, rich and fragrant and slick. That he had the power to call it from her both humbled and aroused.
"This is your pussy," he said, low and husky.
"This and the secrets that lay within.
I'd like to touch them if you'd let me. I'd like to show you the magic they can do."
"This is the pleasure part?"
He smiled and kissed her tangled curls. "Yes. This is the pleasure part." Hearing no protest, he parted her with his thumbs, rubbing into and up her folds. Her skin was sleek as satin here, oiled with desire. She jumped when he brushed her clitoris. Smiling again, he pressed it lightly, the pad of each thumb compressing either side. This time his reward was a violent shiver. She dropped one hand over his as
if to stop him,
then
just as nervously withdrew.
"Are you sure this is where you're supposed to be?" she asked.
"I'm sure," he laughed, and squeezed more firmly. This time she moaned. "This is the secret to a woman's pleasure.
This little pink bud of flesh."
"But it feels so strange. It—oh!" she gasped as his mouth covered the bundle of nerves.
Her hips canted forward, innocently eager.
Edward's blood roared in his ears. He hadn't known he was going to do this until he did. She tasted of the sea, of spice and heaven. His tongue stroked. His lips suckled. His fingers spread and rubbed her plumping sex.
"Oh," she cried, her head falling back against the ruined wall. "It almost hurts."
He did not heed the words, only the tone, only the hand that fluttered to his hair to press him closer. He drove her up the slope to climax, savoring every gasp of surprise, every moan of longing. He craved her pleasure as a starving man craves food. This was
Florence
. This was the woman he loved. He used everything his lovers had taught him: when to push, when to tease, when to murmur things he wished to do. Most of all, he listened to her body. Her tremors told him what she liked, the tensing of her thighs,
her ever-tightening grip on his head. For that, no other woman could guide him. This act was for her alone. When she died the little death, his soul exulted at her cry. He slid the tip of his finger into her passage, feeling the contractions at her barrier as his mouth swept her over once again. He didn't need
to do this. He'd shown her what he promised. But he couldn't let her go. This was all he would have of her.
This first knowledge of her body.
This first introduction to her bliss.
He wanted to make it as memorable as he could.
At the fifth orgasm, her knees gave way. She fell against him, taking him by surprise and tumbling them both to the grass. His body surged at the pleasant shock of her weight, remembering all at once that it
had needs as powerful as hers.
More powerful, he thought, fighting an urge to do more than run his hands down the length of her back. Unlike her, he'd tasted the joys his cock could know. He knew what it was to slide into a woman's warmth when he was hard enough to scream.
Of course, he'd never known what it was to do it with a heart wound tight by love.
<>
He'd thought she would lay there. He'd thought he would hold her as she calmed. Apparently,
Florence
did not wish to calm. She squirmed up his body and mouthed the bend of his jaw. Her lips brushed a runaway pulse.
"Show me," she said. "Show me how I can pleasure you."
It was a demand he dared not meet. He made a noise, a low, threatening rumble in his chest.
"Show me," she insisted, her hair hanging round them in a lemon-scented fall.
He didn't know how it had happened, but her wrists were in his hands again. He had manacled them; stretched them out from her sides. He knew he ought to release her. He knew, but he could not. His
legs were splayed beneath her. Her thighs lay over his sex. He wanted to imprison them as well, to
make his legs a second trap.
"Don't ask that of me," he said through gritted teeth.
She kissed his mouth, a girlish press with an intoxicating hint of tongue. "It's only fair, Edward."
The way she said his name undid him: low and throbbing, as if it held a meaning for her heart. He rolled her beneath him, pressing her into the ground with his greater size and weight. Now he had her. Now she could not get away. He cupped her head between his hands and fed his passion through their mouths.
"Oh," she moaned, gasping for air. "It hurts again."
He nearly came. He had to lift his hips and when he did her hand slipped into the space between them. Before he could stop her, she cupped bis straining sex. His body flinched, a great, nerve-jolting shock.
He could not speak for the effort it took to hold his climax back. Sweat broke out all over his body.
"Does it hurt for you?" she whispered, gently rubbing him up and down. "Does it hurt when you get big like this?"
"Take it out," he rasped.
"Jesus-Mary.
Open my trousers and take it out."
But he did it before she could, fumbling with the fastenings, nearly ripping his crumpled linen. His cock fell into her hand as if it knew its rightful home. He was thick, hot, pulsing with ungovernable desire. She clasped him lightly. Her hand was damp and warm and so small her fingers barely met around his shaft.
"
Florence
," he groaned, muscles jumping uncontrollably in his thighs. She was killing him with that light, curious grasp, sliding over him from balls to crown. The caress was almost too much but he was dying
for more. She seemed to sense it. She held him harder. She squeezed him in her tender hand and pushed her tightened fist along his length.
The top of his head seemed to lift from his skull. Pressure built in his groin, swelling in his stones, in his shaft. Instinct took over. He
cursed,
thrust his hand inside her drawers to clear his path. He pushed forward. His crest touched her parted lips. She was at his mercy and he was huge.
Desperate.
A single stroke from coming.
He groaned and squeezed his tip inside her. Nerves fired and screamed. She was wet. Hot.
For him.
The earth seemed to tremble at her body's silken clasp.
"Edward," she gasped.
There was fear in the sound. He hovered, trembling, yearning to break the fragile barrier and make her his. She would accept him, he knew. Her fluid heat told him that. He wanted to show her the joy men and women could share more than he wanted his next breath. But he could not do it. He could not soil
his brother's bride. Not even out of love.
With a tortured groan, he tore himself away. He wrapped his arms around his shins and pressed his forehead to his knees. Only by holding himself could he keep from taking her where she lay. He cursed until he thought he must be frightening her.
She was slower to sit up. When she did she laid her hand on the back of his head.
"Go," he said, stiffening under the touch. "Go now before I hurt you."
No doubt he had already. No doubt the words were bad enough. She pulled away and rose. Heart
aching, he listened to her shaking down her skirts. For a moment she stood at his side. She did not
argue, merely brushed his hair behind his ear, the gesture sweeter than he deserved. He thought she would speak then, but she walked away in silence and left him to his regrets.