The earl insisted on unbuttoning her gown. “I brought a sheath with me,” he said, his fingers working on the second to last button. “It’s . . . it looks odd, but it will prevent you becoming pregnant.”
A sheath? Dried sheep’s intestines? Charlotte managed not to pull a face. “That won’t be necessary, sir. The sponge . . .”
“You’re still protected?”
“Yes.” She bit the tip of her tongue. Liar. But it was only partly a falsehood; her magic would prevent her becoming pregnant.
The last button came free. Cosgrove retreated to the other side of the table.
Charlotte stepped out of her gown. She concentrated on folding it so it wouldn’t crease. She was aware of the rustle of fabric as Cosgrove removed his clothes. Her embarrassment grew with each second that passed. It was quite as bad as last night—the tightness of her chest, the knot in her stomach, the heat in her cheeks, the icy prickling of her skin. She’d not realized until yesterday that embarrassment could be hot and cold at the same time.
Her fingers fumbled as she unlaced her stays. Her cheeks became hotter. I don’t want to do this.
“It is embarrassing, is it not, to undress in front of a stranger?”
Charlotte gave a choked laugh. “Yes.” She risked a glance at him.
Cosgrove met her eyes, smiled at her. He had stripped to his shirt and breeches. “It’s only natural.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said again, recognizing that he felt uncomfortable too, that he was trying to put her at ease.
She unlaced the stays and put them aside. Only her chemise remained. She stole another glance at the earl. He was naked except for his drawers.
Charlotte’s throat tightened. Did he realize how magnificent he was? The strong shoulders, the muscled arms, the long, powerful thighs. She looked hastily away and started pulling out the pins that anchored her chignon.
Cosgrove came to stand behind her. For such a large man, he moved almost soundlessly.
Charlotte’s fingers became clumsy. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the hairpins.
“May I touch you?” he asked.
Charlotte opened her eyes. Her heart beat faster. She swallowed. “Yes.”
She expected him to take over the task of removing the hairpins. He didn’t. He stepped closer, his arms circling her, his hands coming to lightly rest just below her breasts.
Charlotte froze with her arms upraised. Her throat closed, making breathing impossible. Even her heart seemed to stop beating. Cosgrove’s hands burned through the thin linen of the chemise. She felt his thumbs, one on the outer curve of each breast.
Her heart began to beat again, a fast, fluttery rhythm, but her fingers were still frozen. She was acutely aware of his body pressed against her, his hands resting on her ribcage, his heat.
His thumbs moved, a light, stroking caress.
Charlotte closed her eyes tightly. She struggled to breathe, struggled to take out the last three hairpins.
Cosgrove’s hands rose to lightly cup her breasts. “Need help with your hair?”
Charlotte swallowed. “No,” she whispered, groping for the final hairpin.
He bent his head. She felt warm breath against the nape of her neck. Lips touched her skin and then teeth lightly nipped, sparking heat inside her. Charlotte squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Her breath was shallow, her heartbeat rapid. She found the last hairpin and pulled it out. The chignon slowly uncurled, but there was no space for it to fall, not with him pressed against her. Cosgrove’s hands moved, learning the shape of her breasts. His lips parted against her nape. She felt his tongue, tasting her.
Coherent thought fled. She was trembling, awash with heat.
Cosgrove lifted his head. “Finished?” His voice was low and intimate in her ear.
Charlotte nodded, unable to find the word Yes. The hairpins fell unheeded from her fingers.
He stepped back, releasing her.
Charlotte opened her eyes. She felt light-headed, feverish, burning inside.
Cosgrove took her hand and led her to the bed, three short steps, while her hair uncoiled down her back. “We can dispense with this, don’t you think?” He touched the sleeve of her chemise.
Charlotte nodded again.
Cosgrove released her hand. He stripped off his drawers. His pego jutted from the black curls of hair at his groin.
Charlotte’s throat tightened. She was unable to breathe again. Cock, she reminded herself dazedly. He calls it his cock.
Phillip Langford, naked, had been grotesque and disgusting. Cosgrove was anything but. The sight of his cock triggered a clenching sensation low in her belly. It wasn’t fear, wasn’t dread. I want him. The craving was deep and visceral.
Charlotte fumbled with her chemise, pulled it over her head, and let it fall to the floor.
Last night, being unclothed had been mortifying; tonight it wasn’t embarrassment that made her heart beat so fast.
Cosgrove pulled back the counterpane and took her hand again. He drew her down to lie alongside him on the bed. The sheets were cool and his body hot, his skin scorching hers.
The world contracted, became just the bed, candlelight and shadows, and Cosgrove. He touched her as he had last night, stroking, caressing, laying trails of pleasure across her skin. Charlotte clenched her fingers around the sheet as he teased her nipples with his tongue, as he nipped lightly. She managed to stifle a sound of pleasure, managed not to beg him to do it again.
His hands roamed lower, across her belly, her waist, her hips. The feverish heat built in her body. She gripped the sheet more tightly, not bold enough to return his caresses. Even naked, he was still an earl, his status vastly superior to hers.
Cosgrove trailed his fingertips up her inner thigh, making her shiver. His fingers slid inside her.
Charlotte’s body moved of its own accord, her hips lifting as if inviting him inside her, her inner muscles squeezing around his fingers. Cosgrove made a low sound of satisfaction. “No pain?”
“No,” she said breathlessly.
Cosgrove withdrew his fingers. He settled himself between her legs. She was acutely aware of the heat of his skin, the solid weight of his body. His fingers were at her entrance again—and then she felt the head of his cock.
She tensed, bracing instinctively for pain.
He slid an inch inside her and halted. His body trembled, as if he held himself in check. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Cosgrove took a breath as ragged as her own and thrust deeply.
Charlotte gasped, stiffened, clutched the sheet.
“It hurts?” His voice was strained.
“No.” Having him inside her wasn’t invasive tonight, wasn’t painful. Instead, it touched off pleasure in every nerve in her body.
Cosgrove withdrew, and thrust back into her. Charlotte’s body responded eagerly, her hips rising to meet him.
Cosgrove slid an arm around her waist, gathering her closer. Rhythm built between them. His heat was her heat, his ragged, panted breaths were her own. The rhythm became more insistent. Rising urgency consumed her. Her body was striving towards something. She didn’t know what it was; she just knew she wanted it desperately.
The pleasure, when it came, was more intense than anything Charlotte had ever known. It spilled through her in waves. She cried out, a breathless sound, clutching Cosgrove’s arm. He didn’t halt; if anything, his movements intensified.
The pleasure went on for endless seconds, and then Cosgrove’s body jerked in helpless spasms. She heard him groan as his seed spilled inside her.
They lay panting, entwined. Charlotte tentatively placed her hand on his back. His skin burned. His heartbeat reverberated inside her.
A surge of tenderness rose in her, so intense it closed her throat and brought tears to her eyes.
The earl pulled away. “Better that time?”
Charlotte nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Good.” Cosgrove laid a kiss on her brow—not a formal salute, not a loving caress, but something in between—something kind—and rose from the bed and crossed to where his clothes were piled on a chair. Perspiration gleamed on his skin. “Here.” He returned to the bed and handed her a handkerchief.
“Thank you.”
Charlotte clutched the handkerchief tightly, watching as he dressed. Drawers and breeches and stockings, shirt and waistcoat.
Cosgrove pulled on his boots and shrugged into his coat. “You’re not dressing?”
“I . . . I think I’ll have a bath.”
He nodded and raked a hand through his dark hair, glancing at the door. He was already thinking of other things.
Charlotte scrambled off the bed and picked up her chemise, holding it against her body, concealing herself. “I hope tomorrow goes well for you. With the Smiths.”
Cosgrove’s gaze snapped back to her. “Yes.” He looked at her, then past her, at the bed. “Would you, er . . . like to meet again tomorrow evening? So I can tell you how it went?”
Would I?
Yes. Desperately.
Should I?
No.
“If you would like to,” Charlotte said.
The earl smiled. His gaze on her was intent. Right now, he was thinking of her; not the Smiths, not whatever other plans he had for this evening. “Seven o’clock again?”
She nodded.
Lord Cosgrove picked up his hat. He bowed to her. “Good night, Miss Brown.”
“Good night.”
The door shut after him.
Charlotte stood motionless by the bed, staring at the blank, closed door. I love you, sir.