Show me, Tristan. Please.
Tristan bit back a groan and tried to ignore the pounding of his heart and the insistent throbbing of his cock. His name on her lips was torture. He wanted to hear it again.
Her shy demand had taken him by surprise. Up until now he’d managed—barely—to maintain some emotional distance by telling himself that he was doing her a favor. He was the one with the knowledge, the greater experience. She needed his help. It was a logical solution.
But she’d just cut straight to the heart of the matter; the reason he’d been comfortable going along with their agreement was because he’d been the one to set the pace, to parse out the information, to give or withhold the pleasure. If he showed her how to please him, they would be equals in truth.
Was he ready for that? The hold she had on him was strong enough already. She could twist him into knots with just a look, a word, a touch. Once she realized the full extent of her potential she would be unstoppable.
And he would be lost.
Tristan bit back a wry laugh. God help him, he was already lost. He’d always suspected this outrageous girl would be his downfall. He’d tried to avoid it—avoid her—for as long as he could, but now it seemed like fate had finally caught up with him.
Did she even realize the magnitude of what she was asking? He’d stupidly thought he could hold himself apart when he made love to her. That he’d be able to pretend she was just another willing body in his arms.
That she would touch his skin, but never his heart.
She’d seen right through him. And, God, he loved the way she challenged him. She was demanding equality. The least he could do was give it to her.
“All right,” he heard himself say. “I’ll show you. Come here.”
He forced himself to remain motionless as she slid to the edge of the bed, that wicked silk negligee riding up the creamy perfection of her thighs. She stood and gazed at him uncertainly, her eyes huge and shadowed in the half-light.
“Closer,” he rasped.
She stopped when they were toe-to-toe and a shudder of awareness ran through him.
“Touch me. Wherever you like.”
She lifted her hand and flattened her palm directly over his pounding heart. He bit back a hiss of need. God, he’d miscalculated so badly. He was going to go up in flames.
He tried not to flinch as she explored him, petting him as if he were one of her wild creatures. Over his shoulders, across his chest. His stomach muscles tensed in relay as she slid her palms down his ribs, then lower, stroking his waist and hips with an innocent fascination that increased his desire tenfold.
When he could stand it no longer he caught her wrist and drew her hand to his cock.
“Here.” His voice was gravel in his throat. “Put your hand around me. Like this.”
He folded his hand around hers, showing her how to hold him, and when she curled her fingers around his shaft he sucked in a low groan of pleasure.
“God, that feels so good.”
Carys could barely see what she was doing, but oh, she could feel. The rough, springy hair, the velvety hardness of him.
It was a revelation. She’d never seen Howe’s member, let alone touched it; it had all been a confused blur as he’d shoved up her skirts and pushed between her legs, rough and uncaring.
This, with Tristan, was different. It was give-and-take, a slow discovery, and her heart contracted for the care he was taking with her.
He lifted his hand from hers and cupped the back of her head, his long fingers stroking the fine hairs at her nape, and she continued exploring on her own, fascinated by the way his breathing deepened and hitched.
She brushed the smooth top of him with her thumb and discovered a slick bead of liquid. He threw back his head and muttered a curse up at the ceiling. A tremor went through his body and a thrill of delight warmed her. Yes! He’d made her wet, with his wicked ministrations. She was finally doing the same for him.
He bent and pressed a kiss to her neck, his lips warm on her skin, and she tightened her fist, eliciting another groan.
“God, Carys. What you do to me—”
His hand covered hers again as he caught her lips in a ravenous kiss. Stars sparkled behind her eyes, darkness and swooning pleasure. His tongue slid in and out of her mouth and he rocked his hips in tandem, sliding his length within their joined hands. He showed her the rhythm, how to stroke him, up and down, and Carys marveled at the unexpected combination of violence and tenderness.
He pulled her even closer, resting his forehead on her shoulder, and she reveled in the strength of him, his ragged breaths against her neck.
His movements became more rapid, his hand tightening around hers until it was almost painful, and then with one final stroke he let out a long, low groan of bliss. His body convulsed with a series of shuddering spasms and his length pulsed in her hand. A flood of warm wetness coated her fingers, her belly; she felt it through the thin silk of her chemise, and her lips broke into a triumphant smile.
She’d given him the male version of the pleasure she’d experienced back in the clearing!
It took him a few seconds to come to his senses, which Carys fully understood. Her brain had been like porridge afterward too.
When he finally released his grip on the back of her head she pulled back, smiling up at him as he opened his fist and freed her hand. Her hold on him had been so tight it was hard to uncurl her fingers; they seemed fused to his skin, but he finally stepped back and bent to retrieve his cravat from the floor. He used it to wipe the dampness from her, then tossed it aside.
He cleared his throat. “Well, that was … unexpected. I hadn’t planned on that.”
Carys suppressed another smile. She loved the fact that she’d derailed his plans and made him forget himself. It made this evening less a meticulously planned seduction and more of a joint voyage of discovery.
She sneaked a glance downward to get a better look at him in the moonlight, and was shocked to find his member still standing proud. Her elation vanished. Had she done something wrong? Had he not received pleasure, after all?
She swallowed. “Have I … ruined it?”
His brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”
She gestured between his legs. “Shouldn’t it have gone down?”
His expression cleared, and his lips split into a smile of comprehension. “Oh, sweetheart. No. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Then why isn’t it going back to normal?”
He stepped up close, and her stomach fluttered as he brushed her cheek. “The fact that it hasn’t just proves how much I want you.” His eyes crinkled and he gave a self-deprecating shrug. “And what we just did doesn’t mean we’re done for the night. Not by a long shot.”
Carys tilted her head, still not entirely convinced he wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. “Do you need time to recuperate?”
He sent a cheeky glance south and his arrogant smile made her catch her breath. “Apparently not.”
He bent as if to kiss her again, but she pressed her hand to his solar plexus and summoned her courage to the fore. There was still one topic they had yet to discuss.
“Wait. I might not know much about this whole lovemaking business, but I do know the woman can get pregnant from doing it.”
Embarrassment burned her cheeks, but she forged on. This topic was simply too important to ignore. She’d seen enough animal couplings to understand that not every act of procreation resulted in offspring, but it had surely been pure luck that she hadn’t been made pregnant by Howe.
The horror of that possibility still made her shudder. She would not take that risk again.
“My brothers have clearly enjoyed the physical company of a number of women,” she said briskly, “and since none of them have produced any unwanted offspring, I can only assume there’s some way of avoiding that outcome.”
“There are. Several ways, actually.”
“What are they?”
She couldn’t quite believe she was having such a mortifying discussion, but Tristan seemed reassuringly unaffected, as if this was a completely natural conversation.
Perhaps it was. Did a man discuss such things with his mistress before starting an affair? Had he had this same conversation with those Venetian courtesans he’d mentioned?
A wave of irrational jealousy swept through her.
“There are times in a woman’s monthly cycle that make it less likely for her to conceive,” he said quietly, and she experienced a rush of relief that he was answering her, instead of mocking her ignorance.
“But it’s not the most reliable method. Another way is for the man to wear a sheath over his cock, to catch his seed. They’re made from linen, or animal intestine.”
Carys’s grimace wasn’t feigned. “Intestine? Truly? That’s horrible. Isn’t there a way that doesn’t involve animal innards?”
“Yes. The man can withdraw from the woman before he spills inside her.” He touched the damp patch on the front of her chemise with his thumb. “This liquid contains my seed. It could grow into a baby if it’s inside you.”
His words produced a strange flutter in her belly. Carys frowned. “So the woman has to trust the man to get out?”
“Yes.” His eyes bored into hers. “It requires a great deal of trust, but I swear to you, Carys, I won’t risk it.”
Carys stared up into his handsome face. Tristan Montgomery was many things, but there was no doubting that he was a man of his word. She put her palm to his jaw, thrilling at the slight roughness of his evening beard against her palm. “I trust you. Now show me what I’ve been missing.”