When the Duke Returns(81)

Stroking his back felt like nothing she’d experienced before. It was all rippling muscle, ridges and curves that moved under her fingers as he—

He did that thrusting thing.

The truth was, she didn’t really care for it all that much.

But he did. That was the wonderful thing about it—there wasn’t an ounce of composure about Simeon now, nothing of the controlled man. His face was alive with pleasure. She ran her hands over his cheekbones and he thrust forward so hard that she actually gasped and raised her knees.

Which felt better, for some reason.

He made another sound in his throat, as if he were dying, and that made her smile. “Isidore,” he said. “Are you—are you—”

“Yes?” she said helpfully.

“I can’t control myself much longer.” His voice sound dark and anguished.

No wonder women love bedroom activities. “That’s just as it ought to be,” she cooed. Every time she moved, he gasped, so she arched her back again. It felt better that way for her as well. If she moved, he lost control. Which was exactly what she wanted, Isidore thought. He pulled back and gripped her hips so hard that it was going to leave bruises, pulled her up and toward him. He was definitely out of control.

Simeon’s head was roaring, his body rejoicing in a rhythm that he felt as if he’d known for years. It was like a glorious race. It was pure physical joy. Isidore’s body was soft, warm, wet—

He couldn’t wait much longer. And yet it was like seeing the finish line and not wanting to reach it. He didn’t want to come.

He didn’t want—

Pleasure was roaring in his legs, and Isidore was meeting him now, raising her hips in a way that made him want to bite her on the collarbone, act like a rampaging beast.

His vision was almost black by the time he let himself go, wild and fierce. He thrust forward, dimly hearing the bed frame pound the cottage wall, dimly sensing Isidore’s little laugh, dimly—

He was outside himself. The smell of Isidore and her curvy little body, her laugh, the sound of her voice, the way she touched him without fear and without shame, took him to another place.

He threw his head back and roared like a man who was never quiet, like a lion claiming his mate.





Chapter Thirty-three




The Dower House

March 3, 1784

Simeon came back into his body very slowly. Valamksepa used to talk about a noncorporeal experience that fasting monks experienced. Simeon never thought it sounded like an appealing prospect, but he might have to rethink that naïve supposition.

He was covered with sweat, panting as if he’d had a long run, and happier than he’d been in years. Isidore had her eyes closed, so he drank her in: the slightly exotic tilt of her eyes, her little nose, her creamy skin. She was exquisite. She was his. She was impulsive and infuriating and all too emotional, but she was his fate.

There are exquisite aspects to surrendering to one’s fate.

“Did it hurt, Isidore?” he asked, suddenly remembering that she too had been a virgin, and rolling off her body.

She opened her eyes. “No, not at all. Did it hurt for you?”

“No, but no one says that it ought to.”

“It was not terribly uncomfortable,” she said, coming up on her elbows and peering down her body.

He followed her eyes. She had the most curvy, creamy body that he could have imagined.

“No blood,” she said relievedly, flopping back down again. “A few bruises on my hips. So what did you think?”

Simeon had never been very good at explaining things. How could he explain a rush of pleasure so acute that it felt as if his skin were alive, as if he knew her body as well as his own, as if he was seeing the world in color after being blind?

“I liked it,” Isidore continued.

That was good. Simeon lay back because if he didn’t stop looking at her, he would leap on top of her again. His rod stirred at the thought.

“It’s not something I would want to do every day,” she continued, “but from what I hear, people don’t do it all that often anyway.”

Simeon turned his head.

She was looking at him, rather shyly. “Do you mind that we consummated our marriage, Simeon?”

It didn’t sound as if Isidore had fallen out of herself while making love to him. In fact, now he thought about it…

Not that he knew much about women’s bodies. He’d always avoided salacious campfire talk. She didn’t experience great pleasure.

That was entirely unacceptable.

Likely she wouldn’t wish to try making love again for a time. That too was unacceptable. He made a plan and implemented it, all in one second.

“We weren’t very good,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow, ignoring her question.