"I can still pull out," he said, his arms trembling, his body dripping sweat. "You don't have to take my seed."
Her head rolled back and forth against the bed. "I want it," she said, hands urging his hips. "I want everything."
He winced. His movements were heavier now, less controlled. He was not drawing out as far. He could not seem to bear to.
"If you take it," he growled, "you'd better consider yourself my wife. If I spill inside you, this will be our wedding night."
She
smiled,
amazed he could doubt she'd already surrendered. "You're the husband of my heart. There will never be another."
He paused long enough to search her eyes. His were narrowed, searching for the truth. She grinned at
his seriousness, unable to help herself: he had filled her so with bliss. He must have seen this because
he finally
nodded,
the same curt acknowledgment that had piqued her in the past.
"Good," he said briskly, all Edward, all beloved. "There will never be anyone else for me."
"Come then." Still grinning, she dragged her nails down the long, sweaty curve of his spine. "Make me yours."
He flinched, then darkened, then exploded into motion between her legs. She had unleashed something even he could not control; his release had waited too long on hers. Now he would not take his pleasure, it would take him. His body jolted hers, harder, faster, his sex a piston of throbbing need. She grabbed the side of the bed to keep from sliding and even with this, he'd soon thrust her up against the headboard.
"Hold on," he ordered, bracing his arm on the polished wood.
"Hold ... on ... to ... me."
She held, curling her hands behind his shoulders, keening at the pounding wonder of his wildness. He was grunting as he thrust: broken phrases, endearments.
Deeper,
he begged.
Oh, God, sweetheart, deeper.
She tried to help but his skin slipped under her hands. She dug her heels into the mattress. She pushed. The added force unraveled him. He cursed and swelled and drove so far he seemed to breach her womb. His body held, trembled,
then
shuddered with the first unstoppable wave of climax. His fists were
clenched, his eyes screwed tightly shut. Veins stood out on his neck as he strove to hold his place while his cock gushed hot and hard. He gasped at the end, and moaned and then, as his muscles relaxed, her peak unfurled like the petals of a flower. Still couched inside her, his penis twitched at the fluttering pulses, in perfect sympathy with her pleasure.
She was glad her body had waited. She wouldn't have wanted to miss the drama of his peak.
"My," she sighed, stroking his hair as he collapsed onto her breast. "That was wonderful. I can't wait to do it again."
His shoulders shook and she realized he was laughing, silently, but he was. His shaft slipped from her with the motion, heavy and limp and wet, an effect she found peculiarly erotic.
"
Florence
," he groaned, nuzzling the bend of her neck. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit."
* * *
He felt as if the earth had stopped turning. For the first time in his life, his spirit was at peace. The air
was hushed and fragrant, and his heart so full of love he thought it must overflow.
Florence
lay against him, nestled in the curve of his arm. She was drowsy and soft and her hand played gently up and down his side. She was easy with him now—as well she should be. This night had been
one in a million. Nothing could have prepared him for the ecstasy they'd shared, for the closeness, the profound sense of change he felt within his soul.
She'd called him the husband of her heart.
She'd given herself to him, without reserve.
And this was only the beginning. A lifetime of pleasures opened in his mind, holding her, loving her. She would be his bride. They would walk into the future hand in hand.
He thought he could live on this happiness for years. As it happened, though, he only had a day.
CHAPTER 18
They bathed together
in Edward's private plunge bath. The tile was garnet and gold, the tub white-veined black marble. The water flowed hot from the silver tap in a seemingly endless stream. The tub was so deep
Florence
could sink in it to her neck. She had never seen a marvel like it and yet the greatest luxury of all was the freedom to touch the man she loved. He seemed to feel the same for he teased her and tickled her, whispering foolish endearments as he drew the soapy sponge along her skin.
Florence
purred under the attention, so weak with pleasure she could barely caress him back.
"You are the queen of the cats," he whispered as he slid inside her once again.
As breath-stopping as their first time had been, this wet, languorous coupling was even better. He taught her what a truly clever cock could do. How it could probe and rub. How it could weep with desire and find tender, hidden places that made her want to weep herself.
"That's the way," he praised as she cried out and clung. "Teach me what you like."
That an organ so inherently selfish could be made so generous she found amazing, almost as amazing as the pleasure she took in its gratification. Awed by the magic they could make together, she cradled him gently in her palm.
"When you touch me like this," he said, his hand lightly stroking hers. "I know how weak a man can be."
Such weakness she could learn to love.
He followed when she slipped back to her room to change. He insisted on dressing her himself,
instructing Lizzie,
through the closed door to take the day off. Far from being scandalized, the maid giggled and pattered off.
Florence
was certain Edward's sword had reached the limits of its strength but somehow, during the process of lacing her new French corset, it found the wherewithal to rise again.
His fingertips roved the stays that bound her, the lace and satin, the nip of her waist and the swell of her lifted breasts. "Jesus," he said as if the awe of it overwhelmed him. "I can't get enough of you."
As if there weren't a second to lose, he turned her, bending her forward over the end of the bed and tearing her drawers out of the way. His actions were so frantic she could hardly believe they'd been making love for hours. His fingers spread her, his chest cupped her and, with a long, heartfelt groan of relief, he drove into her from behind. He felt huge from that angle, a stranger almost. He did not wait but began thrusting like a man possessed, his expression hidden,
his
grip desperate on her hips. In seconds
his erection stretched to bursting inside her, fevered and thick as he begged her to open, to let him all the way in.
Let me,
he
moaned,
let me
with strokes so long and fierce she could only stand and brace. He came so quickly she barely had time to follow, despite the knowing motions of his hands. His hoarse cry of completion pushed her over the trembling edge. When they'd both settled, he apologized for his roughness, but
Florence
had never found him more exciting.
Shaking her head, she stroked his sweat-sheened face between her palms. "It doesn't matter what you
do. Your touch will always move me because it's yours."
He flushed at that and muttered something like "Only time will tell."
Florence
was prepared to prove her claim, more than prepared. First, however—she stifled a prodigious yawn—she really had to rest. They
tumbled together into her bed, fully intending to sleep till dinner.
A low, persistent knocking woke them both.
"Miss Florence," Lizzie called through the door, "Lord Greystowe. Viscount Burbrooke has returned."
Edward bolted up so quickly her head bounced from his chest. In the dying daylight, his face was as
pale as the sheets. "Freddie," he panted, his fist pressed to his heart.
It seemed a part of him was not at peace with what they'd done.
* * *
Freddie had changed.
Edward noticed it the moment his brother answered his summons to the library.
His cast had been removed, for one thing, but the difference ran deeper than that. Though his eyes held the same amusement at the world, their gleam was happier. He seemed more self-possessed; taller, if
that were possible. Most of all, despite a slight limp, he had the loose-limbed, loose-hipped stride of a
man who'd spent the last few weeks with someone very skilled at exorcizing lust.
Not that Edward wanted to dwell on that.
He turned his attention to the whiskey decanter and the finger of Irish gold he'd poured into Freddie's glass.
"Heavens," said his brother, strolling across the room to where he stood. "This must be serious if you're breaking out the single malt."
"Serious enough," said Edward. He handed Freddie the crystal tumbler, then looked out the window through the colonnade. Torches lit the grounds as if there were going to be a party. Edward had a feeling Lizzie had spread the news about him and
Florence
to the staff. No doubt this was Mrs. Forster's idea
of encouraging romantic
walks. Under other circumstances, he would have appreciated the hint. Tonight, however, the reminder of the news he had to break to his little brother made his stomach sink. The fact that Freddie was likely to welcome it did not help.
Unaware of what was
coming,
Freddie sipped the whiskey and peered at him with half-lidded, ironic
eyes. "If you intend to scold me," he said, "you may as well save your breath."
Edward's hand tightened on his glass. "It's not you who needs scolding."
"Do tell," said Freddie in a rakish, mocking drawl.
Unfortunately, what Edward had to say was no laughing matter. He tossed back the drink and set it deliberately down. When he turned, his brother was waiting with one raised brow.
"I'm marrying
Florence
," Edward said.
The announcement was clipped and challenging. He knew he was glaring, but couldn't quite make
himself stop. Freddie was not going to change his mind, not for anything. To be sure, the chance that Freddie would want to was very slim. But rationality had no part in Edward's behavior.
Florence
was
his. He was going to stake his claim.
Given Edward's manner, Freddie's response was mild. He toyed with the edge of the ebony console
table where Grimby had left the liquor, then looked up with a smile.
"Well," he said, "as this is something I know you've wanted since before you knew you wanted it,
I have to wonder why you're so dour. If you're feeling guilty, I assure you it's misplaced. Any idiot
could see your marrying
Florence
will make us both much happier."
"Will it?" Edward studied his brother. Freddie was dressed casually in a crisp white shirt and summer trousers. His vest was a subtle medley of ivory silk and gold embroidery, colors that called attention to
the sun he must have gotten since he'd left. He was the flower of English manhood: kind, witty,
brimming with health and life and far handsomer than Edward would ever be. A man with Freddie's
gifts could make anything he chose of his life, any dazzling thing at all. He wondered if his brother understood what he was giving up.
"Freddie," he said, "do you realize how cruel the world can be? Imogene Hargreave, for one, will never let this pass. When news of my marriage gets out and the inevitable conclusions are drawn, a great many of your friends will was more than a brother; he was the goodness that leavened Edward's soul.
"
France
," he said, unable to let it go. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you wish me happy."
"I do, Freddie!
With all my heart."
Freddie must have heard his reservations. He reached out to clasp Edward's neck, his thumb on the bend of his jaw, his lingers curling warmly behind. It was a gesture
of support, a gesture a father might have made. Edward's throat constricted at
the strange reversal of their roles.