Pleasure For Pleasure (29 page)

Josie heard him, and threw it away. She didn't need words. What she needed was just what he was doing with his hands, and then with his mouth…

Her toes were curled, and her back was arched, and she was whimpering for lack of air, and trying to keep it to a ladylike level. Except she couldn't, not after he brought his hands to play as well. She was making all sorts of unladylike noises, and she couldn't stop rising toward him, but she didn't care.

He pulled her knees apart, and rose over her, and she had one startling moment, one picture that she never forgot, her whole life long, of Garret Langham, Earl of Mayne, his face rigid and his eyes wild, his shoulders braced, and a look in his eyes…

Suddenly she believed him. Believed that he felt new, as new as she did. Believed that for some strange reason it all felt as new to him as it did to her. Because she watched the ragged breath escape from his lips as he rocked against her. And heard the guttural sound that came from his lips as he entered her.

One of the reasons she remembered everything so vividly was that from about two seconds after that first nudge—which felt pretty good, she had to admit—the rest of it
didn't
feel very good. In fact, that feverish heat evaporated from her legs as quickly as it had come, and instead of wanting to rise toward him, her only instinct was to get away.

Within another second the only things going through her mind were thoroughly unromantic swear words, things she'd heard in the stables, anything that would describe the awful stinging, painful stretching. It wasn't at all the way Annabel had described it. It hurt like—like
hell.
That was the worst phrase she knew, and she wasn't even sure it covered the situation.

Mayne was braced on his arms over her, looking down, and of course he could tell, so she gave him a tight little smile. “Is it almost over?” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

His voice came out funny and hoarse. “Not quite. Should I make it faster rather than slower, Josie?”

“God, yes,” she said, wondering if it was still too late to annul. No, she didn't mean that. But it was unfortunately true that unlike her sisters, she didn't—

“Ow!” she cried. And then, on the verge of outrage she actually burst out with the unsayable: “Hell!” Because he had lunged forward and something broke inside her.

“I'm sorry, Josie,” he panted.

She wiggled. “It feels slightly better now,” she offered, ignoring the fact that she was indisputably ruined for life.

“Good,” he said with that odd strangled sound to his voice, “because I don't think I could stop, so bear with me, please?”

Josie pulled her mind back to the business at hand.

And when she didn't answer immediately:
“Please.”

“Of course,” she said, trying to put a gracious tone in her voice. “Go right ahead.” Now she realized that Sylvie had been given better information than she had, though Sylvie's offer of once a week sounded like a lot. Perhaps once a month.

It didn't seem to hurt quite as much now. Garret's shoulders were sleek and bulged with muscle in a way that she never would have believed, looking at his elegance in a coat. She would have thought his muscles would be all lean and ropy, but instead he had the kind that bulged, and rippled under pressure.

It was an odd thing they were doing. Or he was doing to her. Because once it stopped hurting so much, she could feel the heat trickling back into her legs. And then she started running her hands over his shoulders, because they were so beautiful and muscled in such a clean shape, and the heat increased.

In fact, once Garret lowered his head to her breast, well, she had to admit that it wasn't half bad. The intimacy of it was—

But she lost that thought, because he changed position somehow, and now he was coming into her lower and slower, and it did something funny to her stomach, and pulses of fire were sparking through her again.

She gripped his arms.

“It doesn't hurt as much, does it, Josie?” he asked.

The odd, guttural sound of his voice, so far from Mayne's usual polished tones, that made her heart speed up as well. And then he said, “Because you're mine now, Josie,
mine
.” Her heart started going so quickly that it did something to her body, because she started rising to meet him, just a little lift of her hips.

He readjusted again, and now there was something in what he was doing that made her feel rather crazed, and those whimpers started again, except she didn't have time to worry about staying ladylike. He was pulling her up and she realized that his big body was sweaty and for some reason his sweat made her feel wildly excited. And then she happened to look down where they were joined.

It was as if lights exploded in her head and now she was
crying out every time he came against her. And clutching him hard, pulling him back. And he wasn't kissing her breasts anymore, he was ravaging her mouth, and all the time he was talking, saying things about her sweetness, and her taste, and the softness of her, and what he wanted to kiss, and bite and taste, and finally it came like a forgiving wind in the summer heat, rushing up from her curled toes and making her convulse against him again, and again, and again, crying his name in a bewildered kind of way.

Later she was never quite sure what he said, but she thought it was something to do with mercy and perhaps a deity or two, because a second later he let out a strangled groan and then took her mouth in the sweetest kiss she could have imagined.

S
un was coming in the window, so Josie rolled over in protest, intending to bury her head under the pillow. Except her arm was caught in the coverlet, so she pulled. And then like a fawn noticing the watchful eye of a fox, she suddenly came awake.

Her arm was pinned down by a male arm. A muscled golden-skinned male arm. She stared at it, while the night before poured back into her memory like water into a jug. She was no virgin now,
immaculata
or otherwise. Not anymore.
They had sneaked back into the house in the middle of the night after Garret swore he couldn't sleep on a sofa. Josie blushed to even think about what happened on that sofa.

He was sleeping. Hardly daring to breathe, Josie inched closer. He was
hers.
And oh…he was beautiful. In his sleep that weary look was gone from his face and he looked happy. His curls were so black that they shimmered in the morning sunlight, like a lump of coal if you turned it toward a lamp. Even glancing at his lips made Josie's stomach squeeze, and her toes curl reflexively…it was new, this feeling of hot desire. She had a feeling it would become commonplace.

Her new husband was something of a will-o'-the-wisp…which meant that she should enjoy him as much as she possibly could, while he was still interested. Though how he ever grew tired of the sort of pleasure they shared last night, she didn't know. Couldn't imagine.

Of course when he opened his eyes she was smiling like a fool. Josie snapped her lips together. “Good morning.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, looking utterly bewildered. The sheet slid all the way down to his waist in a most enticing fashion.

“I'm your wife,” Josie prompted him, pushing the heavy weight of her hair back over her shoulder. “Josie? Otherwise known as Josephine?”

The bewilderment disappeared from his face and a bleak look passed over it instead. “Damn me to hell,” he said, flopping backward and putting an arm over his eyes.

At least he didn't damn
her
to hell. “I gather that you do remember me?”

“Of course I remember you.”

“Gracious of you.”

“I damn well went and slept with a woman who is barely old enough to be my niece, although I had made up my mind to annul the marriage. What in the bloody hell came over me?”

“Me?” Josie asked hopefully.

He groaned.

“Although it was more like I was under you than you were over me,” she said, coming up on her knees. He couldn't get away now. Not for years and years.

“Oh God, you're even talking like a Bartholomew babe,” he groaned. Without removing his arm from his eyes, he reached out with the other one and pulled her down to him.

She fell against his chest with all her usual grace. Probably other women had cuddled against him like lithesome kittens but she was taken off guard and thumped down on top of him. He smelled wonderful, spicy, with a flavor of the outdoors. She took another deep breath. He had a hand in her hair, untangling it.

“Why are you snorting into my chest?” he inquired.

“I'm not,” she said, her lips muffled by the roughness of his chest hair. “I'm tasting you, not snuffling you. And”—she touched him delicately with the tip of her tongue—“you taste very good.”

“Ah,” he said.

Garret tasted a little salty, a little like soap, a little like something else…essence of Man. Or essence of Mayne? He shivered when she kissed his flat little nipple, so she did it again. And again.

He wasn't saying anything, but Josie had heard about men in the morning. They were bears. Everyone knew that. Sulky. Sullen. Fine. He could simply lie there and sulk, and allow himself to be used. So she…used him.

She trailed her fingers and sometimes her lips all over his broad chest. Muscles, Josie discovered, weren't hard the way they looked, but warm and rather silky to the touch. And if she put her lips against his skin, tasted him, even nipped him with her teeth, he shuddered again, a tiny shake, as if a chill wind blew over his skin.

His heart was beating harder and faster, and she smiled
inside herself. He had almost no chest hair, which was, she thought, rather unusual for a man. At least…

“Why don't you have chest hair?” she asked. She had just discovered that when her hair trailed across his chest he made a tiny sound. A good sound, she thought.

When he answered, his voice was slow and dark, and the smile inside her grew. “I don't have chest hair because…I don't have any.” He wasn't making a lot of sense, but she could forgive him that.

He deserved a bit of punishment, though, for saying that she spoke like an infant. “Of course, I don't know why you
should
have chest hair,” she said, drawing her hair across his chest again, and enjoying the little puff of air that came out between his teeth. “I would look very odd with chest hair.” She looked down at her chest and then looked up to meet his eyes.

Her nightgown was caught under her knees, and her breasts stood out against the light fabric as if she were wearing nothing at all. One thing that was good about her breasts was that they didn't sag down toward her waist, the way women's breasts sometimes did. He seemed to like them too.

“What do you think?” she said.

He blinked at her.

“Of my breasts?” she prompted him. “I think they're rather cheerful.”

He cleared his throat. “Cheerful?”

“Well, I would prefer to have a smaller version because they go so well in gowns. I have my mother's figure, as I understand it. But anyway, I've always thought that my breasts were…cheerful. They stand up, see?”

His lips parted.

She was really enjoying herself. Of course, she was playing a part. But wasn't she always playing a part? Wasn't everyone always pretending to be something they weren't?
And didn't he deserve it for acting as if she were a brainless little twit, too young for marriage?

So she pulled her nightgown even tighter against her chest. Her breasts were rather lovely, if she said so herself. Now that she'd got over the idea they were too large.

“Well,” she said, “perhaps I should go find a bowl of porridge…in the schoolroom, don't you think?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Isn't that where we babies belong?”

He was reaching out for her like a man in a desert. “Stupid of me,” he said, his voice sounding rather choked.

“Yes, well,” Josie said, swinging her legs over his as if to leave the bed, which caused her nightgown to fall back on her thighs.

“Come here, you dastardly infant,” Mayne said, and then he moved so suddenly that she didn't even sense it happening, and she was pinned beneath him. “Make fun of me, will you?” he growled at her.

“You're the one who called me a Bartholomew babe,” she taunted, loving the weight of his body on hers. “Perhaps I'm just too young for marriage?” To prove her point she arched her back just a bit, just so that her breasts rubbed against his bare chest.

“Vixen,” he muttered, bending his head.

But she twisted away from his kiss. “Why did you look so surprised to see me when you woke up? Tell the truth. Had you forgotten who I was?”

“Did I look surprised?” His head moved lower and he began doing the oddest thing: kissing her breast through her nightgown…Josie moved her legs restlessly. It felt wonderful.

“Yes, you did,” she said, gathering her thoughts together. “I do believe you had no idea who I was.”

“I knew who you were,” he said, drawing her nightgown off her shoulder.

“Then why the confusion?”

“Because I've never woken up with a woman,” he said. His lips skated along the skin of her shoulder, leaving a little path of fire.

“Nonsense,” she said rather breathlessly. “We don't have the sort of marriage where you must ladle on the fibs, Garret. I know you've woken up in beds all across London.”

He made a muffled sound that seemed to be a negative.

He was kissing her breast, and the rough feeling of it washed over her like a wave, drawing her into someplace where she couldn't seem to think of a clever retort.

When Mayne raised his head he found that his wife was lying in an attitude of pure, boneless pleasure. He pulled her nightgown down even farther, over her other shoulder. There was a small sound of cloth ripping and Josie opened her eyes. He rubbed his thumb across her nipple and she closed her eyes again.

There was no doubt in his mind that she had the most beautiful breasts he'd ever seen. The women he'd slept with had high, hard breasts, like small apples. Josie's were soft and abundant, spilling into his hands like a gift. Her nipples were as exquisite as the rest of her, pink and delicate.

He couldn't help thinking about the first woman he fell in love with, Lady Godwin. She was slim and straight, and held herself very erect. He knew what her breasts were like, because she affected the gauzy floating materials of the day. If he ever found Josie wanting to wear those gauzy kinds of dresses, he'd lock her up before he'd let another man see her breasts.

Josie's breasts made his heart ache just to look at them. They made his loins burn with a desire to sink into her softness, her womanliness that was so very different from the hard planes of his own body.

Josie's mouth was open slightly, all lush crimson lips and
sweet mouth. He couldn't wait so he pulled her toward him. “Josie,” he said.

She was pulling him down onto her, panting a little.

“I don't wake up with women…ever.”

“Mumph,” she said, and then, “Oh, oh—
oh.
”

Mayne felt as if he had received a benediction. Her legs curled naturally around his back and she was coming to meet him, her eyes open now.

“That's so wonderful,” she said. But then: “No—
ouch
—stop now!”

He choked on a laugh and stopped, as commanded.

“Perhaps you might come a bit closer now,” Josie commanded.

“Do you like it?” he asked, wondering why he felt like laughing. He never laughed during bedroom intimacies. After, perhaps. Or before. Never during.

“When it doesn't hurt. But I preferred what you were doing last night.”

Mayne paused for a moment. “What?”

“What you were doing last night,” she said, smiling up at him. “That was lovely. This is—” she wriggled under him “—not quite as perfect. Very nice, but—”

The laughter was growing and growing. No woman ever corrected him in bed. In fact, generally speaking, they had no complaints.

But he readjusted, pulled back, and then lunged forward. As his lady commanded. And she let out a little shriek that wasn't the least bit ladylike.

So he decided that he had the desired angle, as she put it. And then he decided to try another angle. She approved. A third: she didn't like it. In fact, she got quite cross and reached behind him and pulled him toward her.

Which made him start shaking all over and then he stopped thinking about angles, because her hands were on
his ass, shaping him, pulling him into her, closer and closer. He could hear her panting, little unladylike pants, and urging him on.

The sunshine was pouring over both of them, and whereas all the slim women of his acquaintance had hidden their bodies from view, Josie was there, every creamy inch of her. So he forced himself to stop, pulled away even though his little cat of a wife grew almost abusive, and feasted on her, all the curves and deliciousness of her. Let himself learn every dimple. Ended up kissing that poor part of her that hurt so much last night.

It didn't seem to hurt anymore, though, and really, his young wife had quite a temper when aroused. In fact, she was threatening all sorts of things by the time he came back up and silenced her with a kiss that left her boneless in his arms.

Whereupon he slipped back into her, found the angle she loved as naturally as if it were breathing, and then put her exactly where he wanted her, clinging to him, her hair tousled and her eyes soft.

Looking at him as if he were the only man on earth, the only man for her, the only one.

Which he was.

 

“What do you mean, you never wake up with women?” Josie asked sometime later. He knew the question was coming. She was cuddled against his side, all boneless soft silken skin, and he was grinning up at the ceiling and reminding himself that there was a reason to live. He'd just discovered it.

“I always leave during the night,” he said, settling her more comfortably into his shoulder. “That is, I left.”

“You
do
? What do the ladies say when you leave?”

“Not very much.”

“Don't they wish you to stay? I quite enjoyed waking up in
this fashion.” He glanced down at her to see if she were trying to shock him, but apparently she wasn't, because she had one cheek against his chest and she looked utterly content.

“So did I,” he said.

“Well, didn't they?”

“I never gave anyone the chance.”

“Why not?”

He moved a little, uncomfortable, until he realized that he'd lost contact with her hip and he wanted her right next to him, so he pulled her tight again. “I suppose it felt too intimate.”

She was smiling. “You
are
a virgin,” she announced.

“Not that I noticed.”

“A morning virgin.”

“As long as I'm not immaculate,” he said wickedly, and turned on his side so he could see her face.