Page 94 of A Symphony for the Earl

“You are killing me,” he moaned. But he kneeled on the bed and positioned himself above her, straddling her hips. His heart galloped against her chest, in rhythm with her rapidly pounding pulse.

Richard slowly ran his arousal along her core, and she ceased breathing for a moment at the exquisite sensation. The blunt tip skimmed the portal of her sex, then entered just a fraction, slowly withdrawing, then doing the same again. She exhaled jerkily and slid and squirmed to reach something deeper. His body clenched reflexively.

“Fiona—” His voice was unrecognizable. “Christ—I can’t—are you—”

“Acushla, if you don’t cease talking and do this thing,” she begged, “I will scream in frustration and wake the household.” She was on the verge of something momentous. If only he would…she didn’t know what…but she knew he could give it to her.

His erection grazed her again, rubbing against the swollen bud hidden beneath her outer petals, and she cried out, arching upward.

“Don’t. Stop.” Twisting her hips, she bucked against him.

With a strangled moan, he slid fully into her slick passage.

Fiona cried out at the sudden sharp pain.

The muscled biceps pillared on both sides of her body flexed with his effort to remain still. Beads of perspiration gathered on his upper lip.

“Easy, love,” he panted. “I promise…it will pass.”

He reached between them, supporting himself with one hand, and stroked the silky triangle between her thighs. He sought her mouth and his tongue tangled with hers, stroking and teasing with the movement of his fingers.

The surprising discomfort was gone—she knew only the friction of his pulsing length and the play of his fingers until she wanted to beat her hands on Richard’s broad back so that he might move faster and end her agony.

When her release finally came, it was in a rush of stars and dizziness and gasps for air. She clenched around him, quivering, and cried out, turning her face into the pillow.

Instantly, he shuddered over her. “Christ, Fiona—”

He threw his head back with a guttural moan, and his body grew rigid. Jerking convulsively, he buried his face in the crook of her neck as the molten heat of his release flooded her.

With a ragged groan of pleasure, Richard fell over on his back beside her, one arm across his forehead, the other reaching blindly to clasp her hand. His chest rose and fell as if he had run the race at Newmarket.

She turned on her side, facing him, still breathless herself. “That was quite splendid, Richard. I wonder why people make the effort to do anything else when they could just make love over and over again.”

He raised to one elbow, looking down at her in amusement, his cropped dark hair ruffled and falling across his brow. She loved to see him in excellently tailored clothes and perfectly tied cravats, but she far preferred this version. It was hers alone.

“Sweetheart, if that is how you wish to spend our days, you will not hear a word of protest from me.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

What Resolution?

When she woke sometime later, the candles had guttered out and she blinked her eyes, not recognizing the vaulted ceiling above, nor the emerald brocade curtains around the bed. Then she recalled she was in Richard’s chamber.

Bright moonlight poured from a crack in the curtains and illuminated a wide swath of the room. He lay sleeping on his side, facing away, the linens twisted under his hips and around one leg. The exposed limb consisted of one sculpted thigh and a strong calf, both lightly dusted with dark hair.

She froze, not quite sure what to do. Despite the enormous bed, his big body filled the space next to her. She caught the scent of cedar and sandalwood in the air with something more—a musky undercurrent.

Butterflies danced in her stomach as she recalled the intimacy they had shared last night. She cautiously explored the area between her thighs, but all seemed intact. She snatched her hand back to see if he’d seen her, but his side rose and fell slowly, and every so often she heard a light snore. Aunt Muriel had snored like a sleeping horse—but Richard’s snore was rather delightful. But then, she was unreasonably in love with the man.

She surveyed his broad back, delineated by the curve of his long spine and sleek, well-rounded buttocks bare in the cool night air.

The fire in the grate was just embers. She wondered what time it was and if it was appropriate to venture to her room. How ever did one behave after such intimacy?

She thought of when her aunt had awkwardly tried to explain the sexual act. The elderly lady had warned her that men were beasts, and no one expected a woman to enjoy that part of marriage. She had been disappointed. She imagined falling in love and the lovemaking to follow as a meaningful and thrilling thing. If not, why was it the subject of so much music and literature?

Aunt Muriel had pronounced that separate bedrooms were the custom in married households. When you were called upon to do your wifely duty, it was best to close your eyes and lie passively under the painful onslaught. It was usually over soon.

Well, Richard hadn’t done anything quickly. And if what he did was beastly, she was just as guilty, for she had enjoyed everything. And now they were never to sleep in the same bed again?