"Oh, blast,"
Francis swore, nearly stamping his foot in frustration and
sending her once again into a fit of giggles. Lydia held on to
the bed post for support and gave him a saucy look over her shoulder.
"Shall I send
for Bess, then?" she teased. "I doubt you have much experience as
a lady's maid . . . ."
"No! Oh,
*damn* and blast. Just come here, where the light is better," he
said, pulling Lydia backwards by her lacings toward the nearest
sconce. His exasperation was completely adorable, his
single-mindedness definitely arousing, but she was laughing so
helplessly that she nearly collapsed against the wall.
"Well
perhaps, I can simply serve to amuse you rather than . . . ah, at
last!" he cried, as the troublesome snarl in her laces came free.
She turned breathlessly to face him and shivered as his hands brushed
her shoulders, sweeping her gown down her arms. Her stays fell to
the floor, her chemise slid toward her hips. Oh, how his rapt
expression tugged at her heartstrings! Or perhaps it was tugging
at her dark rose nipples, which stiffened instantly in the chill air.
But in a
moment he was warm against her, drawing her close to him, so that she
could feel his ardor all down the length of her. He was a tall
man, strapping even, and she had to stand on her toes to slip her arms
around his neck. It was a delicious sensation, being stretched up
against his broad chest, held safe in his arms.
"Mmm,"
Francis murmured against her neck, breathing deeply. His warm
lips traveled to her bare shoulder, then further still, down, down
across the upper slopes of her pale round breasts.
His
gentleness surprised her. She imagined a sailor, long at sea,
would be impetuous -- that his drawing room reserve would vanish once
they reached her bedroom. He was certainly willing, nay eager, but
encouragement, she felt, was the key.
Her fingers
intertwined with his as they both struggled to loosen his neck cloth,
his waistcoat, his britches. At last they stood together beside
the imposing walnut tester bed, naked as they day they were born.
Candles flickered in sconces and at the bedside to cast a soft glow
upon them as she pulled Francis up onto the bed with her, reclaiming
his embrace, wantonly raising her parted lips to be kissed.
She wanted to
open herself to him everywhere at once -- her mouth to his rough velvet
tongue, her arms to his strong body, her moist and swelling sex to his
proudly erect affair. He lifted his mouth from hers, and she
gazed up into his eyes, which burned dark with desire. Ah, she
was nearly ready to push him onto his back and have her way with him.
"Lydia,"
he whispered.
"Yes,
Francis?"
"Are you . .
. cold at all?"
"Yes," she
said, laughing again. "And you?"
"Um, my
backside is."
"Shall we get
under the covers then?"
Francis
himself began to laugh in the ensuing scramble of pillows, limbs, and
bed clothes, until at last they lay together once again, warmer,
breathless, breast to breast, losing themselves in scent and taste, the
intoxicating sensation of skin against skin.
"Ah," he
cried out a few moments later as Lydia slipped herself on top of him,
then rose up to take him, the whole thick, rampant length of him into
her quivering hot sheath. His big hands gripped her hips
reflexively as he caught her rhythm, raising up to fill her deeply each
time she lowered her ripe round bottom against him. The scent of his
desire, mingled with hers, filled her senses. With each thrust,
she felt the crisp thatch of brown hair at his groin brush enticingly
against her most sensitive spots.
She leaned
forward so that her toppled breasts were offered for his kisses, his
suckling. His lips were hot against her fragile skin and she was
blissfully aware that her change in position had increased the friction
between his impressive shaft and the sensitive bud nestled just inside
her pulsing core. She braced herself against his beautiful
shoulders, her head thrown back, her elaborately arranged hair
beginning to cascade carelessly down her back.
Francis's
wordless moans continued but when she opened her eyes to look down at
him, he seemed to be lost in his own world, distant from her. His
eyes were closed, his head turned away, brow furrowed, lips
parted. As though she had been struck, her heart skipped a beat
and stinging tears had just begun to well up in her eyes when she heard
him call her name.
"Lydia!
Oh, darling . . ."
And with
that, everything was perfect once again, or nearly so. Each of
his forceful movements seemed to drive him further and further inside
her. She loved taking his thrusts, she could go on forever.
"Just like
that," she said softly, "It's so lovely. . ."
Her heart
thudded in her breast, filled with tenderness at the sight of his
turmoil, his dark blonde hair awry, slipping from its tight black
binding as his head thrashed against the pillow. She continued
moving on him, watching his ecstatic face, until at last she felt him
tighten his hold on her hips and he gripped her firmly, keeping her
still as he plunged up into her with short, hard thrusts, groaning with
the overwhelming sensation of complete release.
* * *
Lydia rested
her head on his shoulder as they lay on their backs, close as close
could be, staring up at the richly embroidered canopy above their
heads. Francis had taken her hand in his, kissed it tenderly and
clasped it against his chest. He turned his head to regard her
through heavy-lidded eyes.
She lay
quietly, attentive to the slowing pace of their breaths and
heartbeats. Her senses were all keyed up, as they had not been in
many long months. She did feel so incredibly alive again, despite
the tension that still thrummed in her body.
"Have I made
you happy?" she asked him.
"Happy!" he
exclaimed, turning toward her so that he could reach his free hand up
to play with her rich, tumbling hair. "This is like a dream of
happiness." His voice was thick as honey with feeling.
"Truly, Lydia, I did not think I would ever know such sweetness in this
life."
Lydia found
herself nearly in tears again. Had there really been so little
love in his life? She could hardly believe it. He was so
unbearably handsome, and a good man. But, handsome or not, his
education did not seem quite . . . complete . . . somehow. With
the state she was in, the matter of the moment was not to allow him to
unburden himself, but rather to increase his knowledge of women and
pleasure.
"And would
you like to make me happy also?" she asked him, smiling gently.
Francis sat
up in the bed, his face filled with concern. "Oh, sweetheart,
what's wrong? Have I hurt you? What should I do?" The
seriousness of his expression only made her want to giggle, which would
never serve. But, God have mercy, was he completely in the dark
as to a woman's needs and pleasures?
"Oh, no," she
said quickly. "I am most assuredly unharmed. I am
delighted, in fact. It is just that I would like to experience
the release that you have just had -- the pleasure that only you can
give me."
His smooth
brow furrowed again, as he seemed to search his bewildered mind for
some snippet of information he might have heard once upon a time in the
gunroom or a tavern but had not thought about very much about since.
"Oh, yes,
yes, darling, of course I . . . " His new-minted smile faded and he
nearly hung his head with shame. "Only -- it's only -- it's only
that I don't think I quite know how . . . ."
"Will you let
me show you, then?" she asked, drawing his hand to her breast and
clasping an arm around his neck to pull him close.
He sighed in
relief. "I am your willing pupil," he said, a smile lighting his
eyes again at last.
And so he
proved. Not that any task she set him was burdensome in the
least. He loved to play with her soft white breasts, yet somehow
he'd had no notion of the deep enjoyment his touch afforded her. Her
nipples puckered to exquisitely sensitive stiffness with the merest
brush of his long fingers, and she moaned softly as he accepted her
gestured invitation to nuzzle against her bosom. Scraping his
beard-roughened cheek back and forth lightly across her silken curves,
he caused her to gasp in delight, until at last he was licking and
sucking gently on the proud rosy tips.
"Oh, yes,
Francis, oh love," she breathed, as sweet yearning suffused her lower
body, her plump and tender quim already aching for his touch.
"Here," she said, letting her own hand fall to the top of her thighs
and using her fingers to part the little cove beneath the nest of
feathery chestnut hair. He greeted the sight with a sharply
indrawn breath. She felt herself welling with moisture in
response and her heart beat began to rise once more.
"Here," she
said again, gliding a finger over the glistening pink bud that was her
innermost secret. "Touch me here."
And he did,
tentatively at first, covering her hand with his own while she showed
him the stroking motion that pleased her best. He was utterly
enchanted by her mounting excitement, and abruptly took her wrist and
pulled her hand away so that he could caress her without any
impediment. Slowly, over and over, he moved his fingers across
and around that enticing spot, his eyes drinking in the rapture that
shone from her flushed face.
"Do I please
you then?" he asked, palpable longing in his voice. "Am I . . .
?" But she was already beyond words, could only whimper and
implore him with her eyes.
Instinct
alone must have made him enter her, two long fingers thrusting
deliberately into her tight, trembling sheath as his thumb brushed and
pressed where his fingers had been. Oh, the feeling was beyond
naming, the tension unbearable.
He whispered
her name, then other things, murmuring so low she could barely hear
him. He was soothing her, urging her, while his fingers slipped
so deeply into and out of her yielding moistness, again and again and
again. She was panting now, her eyes wide and unfocused, and she
arched her back, gasping helplessly as she came in a torrent of
intense, desperate contractions against his hand.
* * *
She was
certainly not surprised to learn, as they held each other in the
afterglow, that he had not been with many women. He had never
brought a woman to climax before, she was sure. He was circumspect
about what he told her, but it was apparent that his adjustment to the
service had been a hard one. He had grown up fully expecting to
become a country squire like his father. To learn at the age of
thirteen that fate had something entirely different in store for you
was a bitter thing.
In some
respects, his sensibilities were too refined for the midshipman's
mess. He loathed the way they all drank and gorged themselves,
described their tawdry encounters with loose women. And yet part
of him was fascinated by it all. He'd always had an eye for
girls, for example but was usually far too bashful to act.
Apparently
there had been a flirtation and a series of misunderstandings with the
vicar's daughter one summer when he was seventeen and home on
leave. Years later, he spent some weeks in thrall to an opera
dancer in Lisbon while his ship was careened there for
repairs. Otherwise, though he hated going with trollops and
light skirts, he did sometimes. A man ached so, what was he to
do.
Lydia thought
it probable that his emotions had hardly ever been engaged. She
imagined that he had never really been in love, but that in his secret
heart he had always wanted to be. She sighed, thinking of the
young girl he had left behind that one summer. He must have
seemed like a prince to her -- tall and shy, beautiful as a god,
burnished by his gold hair and a handsome blue uniform. He must have
broken her heart.
In a manner
of speaking, he was that prince to her now, more virile, more vital
than a callow youth -- or, if she were being honest, a middle-aged
husband -- could ever be. Full of vigor, a man in his prime.
Francis had
drifted off to sleep, his head on her breast. Ah well, even a
vigorous man would need to rest after such a bout. She sighed to
think what the morrow might bring. Her servants, she was sure, would be
the soul of discretion, but there were no real secrets in her social
circle. Sarah Rutledge, of course, would be over the moon with delight
for her, perhaps with a dash of envy thrown in. But what on earth
were Henry's children going to say when they learned that their errant
stepmother had taken a lover the same week she came out of
mourning?