as if her body had come alive for the first time.
His hand slipped to the sensitive skin of her neck and moved down to cup her breast.
Oh, my! How could a touch in one part of one’s body be felt so acutely in another? His hand on her breast ignited sensation in her most womanly place. It made her want more, much more. It made her want him to touch her skin all over and even to touch that—that most private of places.
She must be wanton. There was no other explanation. What was she to do with these feelings for the rest of her life? The least she could do was indulge them this one time. There could be no unwanted consequences the first time, she’d heard the maids say. When else could she do this without anyone knowing?
Edmund would not tell. And, even if he did, who would believe him? No one knew they were together. No one would ever know.
But Edmund suddenly broke off the kiss. ‘Amelie, we cannot do this. I won’t do this.’
She was bereft. And a little wild. To have those sensations aroused and so abruptly denied was like dousing a raging fire with a bucket of water.
Except this did nothing to extinguish the flames inside her.
She pushed him away and leapt from the bed. ‘Then stop! And be gone! And do not tease me so. Do not pretend you want me and then just stop! You are worse than Fowler! At least he told me right away he did not want me!’ Her emotions were running away with her mouth, and she could not stop herself. ‘Does no man want me? Not even when I offer myself? What is wrong with me? Am I really as detestable as Fowler said? Not even as desirable as Haymarket ware—’
He seized her by the shoulders. ‘I did not say I did not want you!’
She pressed herself against him again, putting her arms around him. ‘Then make love to me, Edmund. This may be my only chance. I want to know love at least once. Show me, please. Please!’
* * *
How was he to resist her?
He kissed her again, a long and tender kiss that showed all the yearning he could no longer disguise. He wanted her with every fibre of his being. He wanted this one last moment of beauty and joy before facing cannon fire, blood and death.
When his lips left hers and tasted of her neck and shoulders, she sighed. ‘Yes. That is glorious. Yes.’
His hand slipped beneath the neckline of her poor battered dress, now ripped and dirty from the violence of the street. He savoured her smooth skin and the feel of her nipple as his palm scraped against it.
She writhed with his touch and twisted around, presenting her back to him. ‘Unbutton my dress. Please, Edmund.’
Somehow his fingers undid at least a dozen tiny buttons. As soon as they were free, she pulled her dress over her head. He took off his boots and coat.
She presented her back to him again. ‘My stays.’
He untied the laces of her corset, loosened them and pulled her corset down so she could step out of it. He stripped off his trousers and drawers and added them to the puddle of clothing on the floor. He lifted her onto the bed and, as he climbed after her, she pulled off her shift.
She was naked and as beautiful as any goddess could possibly be. Her breasts were full, high and firm; their nipples dark rose. Her waist was narrow, but her hips a pleasing balance. Was she perfection? What had he done to deserve such a gift? Perhaps it meant he would meet his end. If so, he was thankful for her.
‘Do—do I please you?’ she asked, her voice small.
He allowed his gaze to luxuriate over her. ‘Very much.’
She smiled and gazed upon him. His chest bore more than a few scars, gifts from the Battle of Albuhera, but she did not seem to notice. Her eyes widened as she gazed farther down, but, then, she would not have seen a man fully aroused before.
Edmund could have taken her quickly and roughly and eased the almost painful desire coursing through him, but his mind still functioned well enough to remember she was a virgin. He had no wish to hurt her. He wanted to show her pleasure. He wanted to show her all the delights of lovemaking, to show her she was meant to have pleasure from it. Most of all he wanted to reassure her that she was worthy of love.
He settled beside her and kissed her again, on the lips, on the tender skin beneath her ear, on the long column of her throat. He caressed her breast and relished the feel of it beneath his fingers. He scraped her nipple with his palm, and she moaned in response. He explored her with his hands and lips, and she writhed beneath his touch.
Her skin was as soft as rose petals beneath his rough hand. He fancied she was like some special flower, pampered into blooming in a hothouse, protected from all harshness. A lonely flower, apparently, and one who wished only for someone to love her. He was not the man for her, though, not a low-ranking, baseborn son of a failed father with no name and no one to recommend him.
He could but try to show her what love could be between a man and a woman. He could show her the delight and the satisfaction.
‘I am going to touch you,’ he warned. ‘So I won’t hurt you.’
He slid his hand down her body.
‘Yes, yes, touch me,’ she whispered, placing her hand on his and guiding it to the moist place between her legs.
He eased his fingers inside her and gently stroked and stretched her. The feel of her aroused him further, but still he held back to make certain she was ready for him.
‘Just do it,’ she cried. ‘I want you to.’
He could not hold back now. He rose over her and entered her, moving as slowly as he could manage, when all his body wished to do was to rush to the climax.
* * *
Amelie marvelled at the sensations he created in her. To feel him joined to her was glorious, but each stroke left her urgent with need. This was beyond her expectations, yet her whole body seemed to be screaming, More! More!
She was glad it was Edmund showing her these delights. He was kind and strong and...skilled. Even she, with no experience at all, could tell he knew exactly how to please her. Fowler had left her and Edmund had not. She felt safe in Edmund’s arms in a way she could never be in Fowler’s.
The pleasure Edmund had already given her had been remarkable, but she knew there was more. She needed more. She needed to rush to some destination, though she did not know what it was. The closer they came to it, the faster they ran. She wanted—needed—to reach this place, but, at the same time, she did not want these sensations to end. It was like riding in a racing carriage, powerless to stop, but giddy with excitement, even so.
He moved faster and she moved with him, seeking more.
Suddenly the sensations exploded inside her, flooding her with waves and waves of pleasure, over and above all she’d experienced so far. He thrust one more time and tensed inside her. Was he spilling his seed? It must be so.
He relaxed on top of her, covering her with his body and his weight. How had she suddenly turned to butter, melting beneath him, with no will to move?
He
