Page 66 of Courting Elizabeth

I obeyed.

He stood between my knees, his shirt open, his hair damp, his face taut with desire. No moment of our marriage should have been more indecent. None had ever seemed more beautiful to me.

His fingers found the hem of my shift, lifted by the weight of my skirts.

He went still.

“I want to give you pleasure,” he murmured. “Nothing else.”

The promise burned me more than his hand ever could.

I tightened my fingers around his wrist without pushing him away.

He understood.

He pushed back the linen with infinite care. The first direct contact made me start.

Fitzwilliam went still. When his hand began to withdraw, I held it against me.

His mouth found mine.

He murmured my name against my lips and held still, waiting for my body to adjust. Shame made me want to close my legs. I held his gaze and chose not to hide. There was no amusement, no judgment—only a focus so complete that I felt precious even in my ignorance.

He caressed me slowly.

The sensation was strange, too vivid, almost unbearable. Then he found a spot that turned my breath into a moan.

“There?” he asked.

I nodded, unable to speak.

He did it again.

Each movement built an unfamiliar tension in my belly. I clung to him. My lips wandered against his jaw, his neck, the bare skin of his chest. I no longer knew what I was doing. I only knew his hand was leading me toward something I both wanted and feared.

“Fitzwilliam…”

“Let go.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. I have you.”

His voice broke on that word.

The tension shattered.

I brought a hand to my mouth to muffle my cry. My body clenched around his fingers, swept by waves of pleasure that left me boneless. Fitzwilliam held me against him, his mouth at my temple, his murmurs lost in my hair.

When I finally caught my breath, I was nestled against his chest, my skirts still raised, my face burning.

“Good God,” I breathed.

He gave a low laugh.

“I cannot claim all the credit.”

I swatted him weakly on the shoulder.