Not Quite a Lady (The Dressmakers 4)

She closed her eyes and let herself swim in the warmth and sweetness. The petticoat came away, and the short corset, and she let out a long, shuddering breath as her chemise fell open, and she felt his mouth trail over her shoulders, her breasts, slowly, so slowly. As her clothes fell away, his caresses were there, long and slow, as though she were the most precious object in all the world, as though they had all the time in the world.

They did. This was the beginning of their world, their life together.

She brought her hands up and stroked over his shirt with the same tenderness and wonder, letting her touch tell him how precious he was to her, a gift she’d never looked for, never dared to hope for.

He unfastened the buttons of his shirt, pulled it over his head, and tossed it over his shoulder. She caught her breath. She’d seen magnificent sculptures of athletes and pagan gods, and he might have modeled for them. But he was real and warm and alive, his skin golden in the candlelight. She lifted her hand to his chest and let it rest there. Under her palm his heart beat hard and steady.

He laid his hand over hers, lifted her hand to his lips. “I can’t wait much longer,” he said. “I’ve been putting it off, but I must get to those ridiculous bits of silk you call shoes.”

He edged back to the foot of the bed. He untied one shoe, slipped it from her foot, and sent it the way of the rest of her things. His warm hand closed over her foot. He slid his hand up to the top of her stocking. He untied the garter. He drew the stocking down a little ways. He made a path of kisses over the skin he’d exposed. He drew the stocking down another few inches and kissed her leg again. She began to tremble.

He continued down, to her ankles, then slowly to her instep. Finally, he drew the stocking down over her toes and tossed it aside.

She sank into bliss.

But he wasn’t done yet, far from it.

He did the same, slowly, oh so slowly, with the other stocking.

By then she was aching everywhere.

“Happy, Charlotte?” he said, his voice so low. It felt like the strings of a bass viol thrumming through her.

“Yes,” she said.

She felt the last of her garments slide away.

“Happier?” he said.

“Yes.” Could she bear any more happiness? Yes, if she had to.

He moved away, and through eyes half-shuttered with the stupor of pleasure, she watched him strip away the last of his garments, too. She watched him come to her, his big body looming over her. His mouth met hers and the kiss was deep but slow, so slow as though it was the last kiss in the world, the only one in the world.

Then he was caressing her, rousing her, and she had no words, no thoughts. She could only let her hands move over him, let her touch tell him how she longed for him, how she longed to be his, utterly.

And then at last he was inside her, filling her, and he loved her, unhurriedly and completely, as though they had all the time in the world. And by slow, aching degrees, he took her to the one perfect moment, when there was no more “I” or “thou” but only one love, carrying them to a place of magical joy. When they came to the peak, and her body vibrated and pleasure rushed through her like liquid fire—when he was the vibration and the pleasure and she didn’t know which was she and which was he—she laughed once, and, “Oh, my love,” she said. Then she buried her face in his neck and gave herself up to peace, at long last, peace.

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