Chapter Sixteen

 

“Am I looking confident enough?” Somerset refrained from adding the for you dancing on his tongue. He was mighty tired of Isabel constantly carping on how he didn’t come across as being confident enough, though. Damn it all, he was more of a man than Jorge Savedra could ever even dream of being, wasn’t he? Yes, he was, curse Jorge and Isabel both.

And besides all that, they’d been dancing so hard for so long that his feet hurt, his head ached, and he feared his back was broken, or the next thing to it. This dancing nonsense was hard work.

“Almost.”

Somerset ground his teeth but remained silent. It would do no good to object. Besides, he’d probably only look like a sniveling fusspot if he did.

It was the Sunday before the contest was to be held, and he and Isabel had been dancing since noon. Isabel probably would have made them start earlier, but she was diligent about taking Eunice to Sunday school and church at the nearby Presbyterian church, and they couldn’t get started until after lunchtime. At least, Somerset thought sourly, Isabel had allowed him to eat lunch before she commenced torturing him.

Now Eunice was upstairs taking a nap—which sounded like a very good idea to Somerset—Loretta was out somewhere stirring up mischief, and Marjorie was catching up on correspondence in her room. Isabel frowned as she sorted through piano rolls. “Would you mind going over ‘Bird in a Gilded Cage’ again? We’ve almost got the choreography down.”

And that was another thing. According to Isabel, Somerset’s taller, more manly form required changes in the choreography she’d been practicing with that little fruit, Jorge. With exquisite—and silent—sarcasm, he reminded himself that Jorge wasn’t the fruit. Jorge was only a pain in the ass. Isabel’s new Fairfield dance partner, Geoffrey Gardner, found among the riffraff littering Loretta’s life, was the fruit. His jaw began to ache, so he unclenched his teeth. “I don’t mind at all.”

Smiling brightly, Isabel took Somerset’s left hand. “Ready? We’ve almost got it.”

It took a good deal of effort, but Somerset managed to pry his jaws apart. “Do you really think so?” He couldn’t help himself, and added, “Even given my level of incompetence and lack of confidence?”

“Now, now, now, Somerset. You’re neither incompetent nor do you lack confidence. You do seem just a little stiff still, though.”

He was stiff, all right, only not in the place Isabel meant. It was hell, dancing this close to her and not being able to rip her clothes off and do all the things he’d been dreaming about doing to her. Soon, though. He was going to get the woman to marry him or die trying.

The introduction to “Bird” filled the room, and Somerset forced himself to relax. Their entrance in this one required a smooth, but tightly choreographed, series of twirls to get them into the ballroom and in position to dance before the judges.

When done right, it was amazingly effective, with him strong and tall and looking as though he was in command—what a laugh—and Isabel small, wispy and dainty, with her ball gown’s skirt billowing out behind her.

Somerset knew for a fact how impressive their entrance was, because Loretta Linden had gone out and bought herself a motion-picture camera, of all things, and two tall electrical lamps like those used by the flicker-makers. She’d been filming almost all of their dance rehearsals, and he’d had to sit and watch the films every night after Isabel got home from dancing at the Fairfield, and listen to her critique his performance. It was never right, of course. She didn’t say it like that, but he knew what she meant.

He didn’t know how she did it, dancing all day and dancing all night, but she was determined to win that dashed contest. That she was liable to kill them both as she went about it didn’t seem to matter to her. If he was about to drop dead from exhaustion—and he was—he didn’t understand how she could keep going.

“You’re still a little stiff,” Isabel said softly. “Relax.”

“How the devil can I relax?” he demanded. “Every time I try to do anything, you tell me I’m too stiff.”

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, Somerset. I don’t mean to carp at you. I’m only concerned about the contest.”

“I am too, dash it.”

Damn. They were arguing, and they weren’t even lovers yet. He knew better than to start a fight with a woman he wanted to marry. After he married her, he could fight with her all he wanted. Not before.

But, dash it, he was tired of being criticized. He said, “I beg your pardon, Isabel.” His voice was as stiff as she claimed his body was.

“Please don’t,” Isabel said. She sounded discouraged. “You’re right. I’m too particular.” She brought them to a stop, went over to the piano, and the music stopped, too.

Somerset took Isabel’s arm and led her to a corner away from the piano. He was beginning to think of the dashed piano as an enemy. “Let’s talk about this, Isabel. Do you really think I’m too stiff? I’m trying very hard not to be, you know. Maybe it’s only that my style is different from Jorge’s.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Somerset. I know it’s difficult to hear someone criticize you over and over again, but . . . well . . .” She took a deep breath. “No, it’s not just a difference in style. It’s a level of relaxation. You know all the steps, and your technical ability is as good as Jorge’s.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know the answer.”

Well, damn. Maybe he just wasn’t cut out to be a damned dancer. He said, “Then I’m afraid I don’t, either. I’m not good at reading minds.” He said it stiffly, and cursed himself as an ass.

After a few moments of silence, during which Somerset took note of Isabel’s furrowed brow and assumed she was thinking of more things that were wrong with his dancing style, her shoulders became slightly less tense, and she said, “I have an idea.”

That’s more than he had. Striving for a congenial tone, he said, “Yes?”

She looked up at him with those huge blue eyes, and Somerset almost lost track of the conversation. “Do you remember when I told you about Eunice’s bad dreams.”

“Yes.” What in God’s name did the kid and her dreams have to do with this?

“Well, she said something that rather alarmed me last night after another nightmare.”

“Oh?”

“She said she was going to look in some psychology books in order to try to make herself wake up or recognize that she was dreaming the next time she had a nightmare.”

Isabel Golightly had a very strange child in Eunice. Somerset only gave her another, “Oh?”

She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t know anything about alienists or psychology books.”

Somerset was glad to hear it, since he considered alienists only slightly less ridiculous than astrologers.

Isabel went on, “The only psychology books I could think of were the ones written by Sigmund Freud, and I didn’t want her even touching those.”

Momentarily shocked out of his black mood, Somerset said, “I should hope not!”

With a grin, Isabel said, “I checked into the books in Loretta’s library. She had Dr. Freud’s book, so I took it upstairs and hid it. However, I glanced into it first.”

His gaze narrowed, and his frustration returned in waves. If she was going to start spouting psychology at him, he might just have to throw a fit. “I’m not sure I go along with all the new theories those alienist fellows are cooking up,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, rather than humorless and stodgy.

“No, I’m not, either, but I did find something rather interesting that might help us in this instance.”

Somerset doubted it. He didn’t say so.

“According to Dr. Freud, the more a person consciously tries to do something, the more aware he is when he achieves anything less than perfection. Even though it’s only natural to begin to do something less than perfectly, rather than assuming he’ll conquer whatever it is with more practice, he’ll be discouraged and think of himself as a failure. Therefore, because he thinks of himself—or herself, of course—”

“Of course,” grumbled Somerset, feeling like a schoolboy being lectured by a professor.

“Well, then, I mean, if a person thinks he—or she—is a failure, they’ll believe they’re unable to correct their errors and their conscious minds will live up to their expectations.” She frowned briefly. “At least, that’s what I got out of it. It was more complicated than that, but it made sense. In a way.”

It didn’t make any sense at all to Somerset, and didn’t know what to say. His first impulse was to stamp out of the room and leave Isabel to dance with herself, but he knew that was only his sense of futility climbing. “And is there a point to this?” he said at last, then wished he hadn’t because it sounded rude.

Isabel didn’t seem to notice. She said, “Actually, yes, there is. If I understood the book correctly, what Dr. Freud would suggest in this instance is that you stop even thinking about the steps and the choreography.”

“Stop even—” Somerset shut his mouth, since he’d spoken rather loudly. Striving to remain civil, he went on in a harsh whisper, “What do you mean, stop thinking about them? I’ve done nothing but think about them for the past ten days!”

Taking his arm in both of hers and looking up at him pleadingly, Isabel said, “I didn’t mean it that way. Please don’t be angry.”

Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one being picked on constantly.

“What I mean is that you don’t need to think about the steps and choreography any longer. You know them. They’ve become a part of you.” She searched his face. “Oh, dear, I’m saying this all wrong.”

Somerset couldn’t argue. He feared, in fact, that he’d begun glaring at her.

“What I mean is . . . Well, have you ever seen Vernon and Irene Castle on the screen? They’ve been in a couple of motion pictures.”

“Yes. I’ve seen them.”

“Well, the Castles don’t appear to give a single thought to the rules of the dances. Rather, they look as if they’re only enjoying themselves.” She stopped talking, thought, frowned, and said, “Well, except for the tango, which I think is a deliberately self-conscious dance. You have to think about what you’re doing when you dance the tango. But, except for the tango, maybe you should just think about having fun.”

For approximately five seconds, Somerset feared he was going to explode. Then Isabel’s words slipped past the roadblocks his vexation had erected, and he heard them. He wasn’t sure he believed them. Dubiously, he said, “Having fun?”

With a shrug, Isabel said, “Well . . . yes. Dancing is an art form, true, but it’s really more fun than anything else.”

Not for him, it wasn’t. They stood in the corner of the ballroom, staring at each other, for what seemed like an hour. Finally, after a furious spate of thought, Somerset said, “Hmmm. That actually sounds logical. In a way.” He hated to admit it.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been too picky.”

He shook his head. “You’re depending on this contest. I understand that. And I understand that you want us to be the best we can be.” Making a huge effort, he managed to overstep his resentment and actually smile at her. He held out his hand. “Do you want to give it another try? This time for fun?”

Tears brimmed in her eyes. Somerset almost gave in to the urge to take her in his arms and kiss the daylights out of her.

Making a quick swipe of her wrist to catch the tears, Isabel smiled back. “Yes. Thank you.”

“And, as long as we’re dancing for fun, why don’t you pick out a fun dance.”

Flashing him a glorious smile, Isabel said, “Thank you. I will.” And she tripped back over to the piano to look at the piano rolls as if her own feet didn’t ache as much as his did, although they must.

Shaking his head, Somerset limped over to join her.

She showed him a roll. “How about ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’.”

“Sounds good to me.” So Isabel put the roll into the piano, cranked the handle, set the needle onto the roll, and the first few bars of the ragtime number hit the air.

And then Somerset decided that, if he was supposed to be having fun with this dancing nonsense, he’d dashed well have fun the way he wanted to do it. Therefore, he grabbed Isabel around the waist and twirled her to the middle of the dance floor. Surprised, she laughed, throwing her head back and making Somerset want to continue twirling out the door, up the stairs, and into bed.

Unfortunately, Somerset was a gentleman, even when he didn’t want to be, so he didn’t do that. He also didn’t worry about the steps or the choreography. He just danced. It felt good, and by God, he actually began to relax. For the first time that day, he didn’t think about what Isabel might be finding to criticize in his movements. Her smile was radiant. He smiled back and realized he was enjoying himself.

When the music ended, Somerset stopped, and he and Isabel stood in the middle of the dance floor, staring at each other. All of a sudden, Isabel threw her arms around him, laughing. “That was wonderful!”

His arms closed around her, and for the first time that day he felt as though he was doing something completely right. “Yes,” he said. “It was.”

She heaved a huge sigh and subsided into his arms, as if she was as weary as he and relished this closeness as much as he did. He held his breath, as he held her, and prayed that they could stay wrapped in each other’s arms for a decade or two.

Peering down, Somerset saw her eyes shining with pleasure, and he felt the tension leave her body. She seemed to melt into him. Her eyelids fluttered, closed, and time stopped still.

All at once her eyes flew open again. Her body tensed. Damn.

“Well.” Her laugh sounded strained. “That was much better.” She drew away slightly. “I think we’re going to be fine.”

He let her go with the greatest reluctance.

# # #

Isabel and Somerset danced until dinnertime then Loretta came home and insisted they eat something. So Somerset stayed for dinner, then Isabel dragged him back to the ballroom. Eunice was in bed by that time, and Isabel felt a tiny bit of constraint at first.

She hadn’t meant to hug him earlier. It had certainly felt good, but it was a bold thing to have done. Somerset hadn’t seemed shocked; in fact, he seemed to have enjoyed it, but Isabel didn’t want to appear loose.

Or did she? She supposed that once he knew the truth about her, he wouldn’t want to marry her any longer, but . . .

She told herself to concentrate on dancing and forget everything else. They’d have to use the Victrola this evening, because the piano was too loud, and Isabel didn’t want to disturb Eunice’s sleep.

Because she was a little nervous, she put on her brightest smile and spoke in her heartiest voice. In truth, she was so exhausted, she could have dropped dead on the spot, and her feet hurt so badly, she was sure the bottoms must be bruised. Then there were her arms, which were about to fall from her shoulders in fatigue.

The contest meant too much for her to fail now, though, so she persevered.

“We’re doing ever so much better now.” Although she’d been skeptical that a book written by Sigmund Freud might actually offer some practical advice, she had to admit that he’d been right about trying too hard.

“I’m actually having fun,” Somerset admitted.

“I’m so glad.” Isabel had been worried earlier that day, because he had seemed to be getting stiffer and stiffer the more they practiced. No longer. Now he actually looked as if he was enjoying the dance. Maybe he was simply too tired to be stiff.

“I have to admit that my feet are starting to hurt, however.”

Isabel paused with the cylinder for “In the Good Old Summertime” poised over the Victrola. She’d been driving him very hard. She’d been driving herself hard, too, but she had more at stake in the contest than did Somerset, who was partnering her out of the goodness of his heart. As much as she hated to do it, she supposed she ought to let the poor man rest. And herself. Her poor feet were crying out in agony, and her eyes were so gritty, they felt as if someone had thrown sand into them.

“I’m sorry, Somerset. I guess I’ve become a little obsessed about this.” She offered him a quavery smile. “I wonder what Dr. Freud would say about that.”

He laughed. Isabel loved his laugh. She loved everything about him, actually. “I doubt that you’d want to know what the good doctor has to say.”

She laughed, too, although she didn’t feel much like it. Her nerves were jumping and she was so on edge, she was sure she’d be unable to sleep that night, as she’d been unable to sleep more than an hour or two at a time for days now. She knew she was putting too many of her life’s hopes and dreams on the upcoming contest, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “But he was right, wasn’t he, about not trying so hard?”

“Absolutely.”

He had drawn closer to her. Isabel held her breath, hoping that he would hold her again. She knew she must be a total wanton, but she wanted even more than that from Somerset FitzRoy. She might not be able to marry him, but perhaps, if she was very lucky, she might know his love once or twice. Was that too much to ask of the fates?

“You seem to be rather tense, Isabel.”

Her laugh was genuine, if sardonic, this time. She rolled her shoulders, for the first time realizing how much they hurt. “I am tense. My shoulder muscles are in knots, and I haven’t been sleeping. Too nervous about the contest, I suppose.”

He shook his head. “You should try to relax.” He grinned. “Although I know from experience that relaxing is easier said than done.”

“Yes.” Noticing the Victrola cylinder in her hands, she put it down. “I suppose I’ve driven us both enough for one day.”

“Turn around, Isabel. Let me see if I can get the knots out of your shoulders. I go to a Turkish bath every now and then just to get a massage.”

She turned obediently. As soon as his hands touched her shoulders, shock waves of want careened through her. She wasn’t sure this was the best way to relax, although she could think of something else the two of them could do that would probably work.

Lord, she truly was an abandoned creature. Her only saving grace was that she really didn’t want to be one. She’d love to marry this wonderful man. But in order to do that, she’d have to confess her terrible secret. The only person on this side of the ocean to whom she’d confided was Loretta Linden, the one person on earth she trusted not to cast her off when the truth was known.

“Does that feel good?” Somerset’s voice was soft, and it slid through her like warm honey.

She allowed her head to fall forward slightly. “It feels perfectly wonderful.” If she were to tell the whole truth, she’d have to confess that his touch made Isabel feel sensations she hadn’t felt in years . . . since long before Eunice’s birth.

They were both silent for a few minutes. Somerset’s hands worked wonders on Isabel’s shoulders, then they slid down her arms. Isabel’s breath caught. This wasn’t massage anymore.

“I wish you’d marry me, Isabel,” Somerset said, his lips brushing the skin at the back of her neck and making shivers rocket through her body.

“I . . . I wish I could,” she whispered.

He turned her around and held her at arms’ distance away from himself, frowning. “Why can’t you?”

“I . . .” Isabel swallowed. A million thoughts and thought fragments raced through her brain, until she willed them away. Then, making a decision she was almost sure to regret, she decided to take a chance. If he hated her after he learned about her background, she’d face that later. In fact, she wouldn’t even tell him until after the contest. She was being sly and cunning, two traits that were opposed to her generally open nature, but she didn’t care at the moment. She wanted Somerset so much, she burned for his touch. At last she blurted out, “I will!”

His eyes widened. He had perfectly gorgeous eyes. “You will? You’ll marry me?”

“Yes.” She flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Somerset, I love you so much!” There. She’s said it. She was pretty sure she’d pay for it later, but again, she didn’t care.

He hugged her hard. “You’ve made me the happiest of men, Isabel.”

And then, as Isabel had hoped he would, he kissed her. Because she didn’t anticipate this heaven to occur more than once or twice, Isabel wasted no time in deepening the kiss. Shamelessly, she pressed against him, feeling his arousal against her stomach and longing for more.

“Be careful,” Somerset said, his voice gravelly. “I’ve been waiting for a long time. I don’t know how well I’ll be able to control myself.”

“I don’t want you to control yourself,” announced Isabel without a blush. “I want you to come upstairs with me now.”

She feared she’d gone too far when she heard Somerset gulp and then say nothing. But, oh, she needed him. Badly. Her nipples were dimpled and aching, the pressure between her thighs was so great, she felt as if she’d die unless it were relieved, and she had gooseflesh everywhere.

Before she could apologize or scream or run from the room in shame, Somerset shocked her nearly into a faint by scooping her right up from the floor. She clung to his strong shoulders with a soaring heart. He was going to do it! Somerset FitzRoy, the man of her dreams, was going to succumb to passion and bed her before they were married. Isabel considered that an extremely fortunate circumstance, since they most likely wouldn’t be married at all.

“Which way to the stairs?”

Isabel considered it a good sign that he sounded as eager—or perhaps desperate was a better word—as she felt. “Out the door and straight ahead.”

He took off, walking fast. “Are we liable to run into anyone? I don’t want you to be embarrassed.”

“No. Everyone’s gone to bed long ago except Loretta and Marjorie, and they’re at a concert and won’t be back until after midnight.”

“Good.” He strode to the staircase and climbed, taking the stairs two at a time.

“You’re very strong, Somerset,” Isabel murmured, enjoying the sensation of being carried in this dramatic, knight-in-shining-armor fashion.

“It’s from all the tree-planting I do,” he said, beginning to be a trifle short of breath. “Which room is yours?”

“Down the hall and to the right. My room is the second door. It’s not locked.”

“Good.” He didn’t speak again until they got to her door. Then he faced a dilemma.

Isabel solved it for him. “Turn me around and I’ll open the door.”

“Good idea.” He did as she’d suggested, and so did she, and Somerset marched her through the door and into her bedroom. Then he stopped and looked around. “Nice place Loretta has here.”

“It’s like a palace,” Isabel agreed. “But I like your house better. It . . . it touches something in me.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’m hoping to do the same, very soon.”

She chuckled softly, glad he hadn’t misplaced his sense of humor during this moment of high passion. “If you’ll put me down, I’ll lock the door connecting my room to Eunice’s. Every now and then she has nightmares. Well, I told you about them.”

“Yes. I’m sorry about that.” He set her gently on her feet. “I had nightmares for the first few weeks, but haven’t had any for a month or so.”

Isabel kicked off her shoes before going to Eunice’s door. Her room boasted a thick carpet, thanks to Loretta’s generosity, but Isabel didn’t want to take any chances that she’d make noise. She turned the key, feeling guilty, then told herself that if Eunice had a bad dream, she could knock. Isabel would hear her.

She returned to Somerset and took his hand. Peering into his beautiful eyes, she said, “I still have bad dreams sometimes. I expect we’re not the only ones.”

“No. I’m sure we’re not.” He lifted her hands and kissed her palms, one at a time. “Are you sure about this, Isabel? If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll understand.” With a strained smile, he added, “It’ll probably kill me, but I’d certainly understand and respect your wishes.”

He was the most wonderful man in the world. Isabel shook her head. “I haven’t changed my mind. I only hope you won’t believe me to be abandoned beyond redemption.”

“Lord, no!” Again, he picked her up. This time he took her straight to the four-poster bed decorated with a lovely blue counterpane. “I’ve been wanting to do this forever, Isabel. Since that awful night on the ship, believe it or not.”

In spite of herself, Isabel felt her eyes fill with tears. “I was so upset because I hadn’t asked your name, Somerset. I wanted to pray for you, but I didn’t know your name.”

“You’ll share it soon.”

“Yes.” She didn’t want to think about that, since she feared he was incorrect on that score. Instead, she said, “Will you help me with my buttons? My shirtwaist buttons down the back.”

“Gladly.”

They undressed each other. Isabel was glad she danced for a living, because her employment precluded corsets and stays. Therefore, undressing was a much less cumbersome procedure than it might have been.

They both took their time at first, savoring the discovery of each other’s bodies. Isabel felt as if she were melting into the sheets sometimes, Somerset’s tender caresses were so inspiring. As need climbed in both of them, their movements became quicker.

Panting, Isabel said, “Let me unbutton your shirt, Somerset.”

“Gladly. I’ll just slip these straps off your shoulders and . . .” His words trailed off as he gazed at the swell of Isabel’s breast, revealed when she shrugged off her unbuttoned shirtwaist and he first glimpsed her upper torso. He licked his lips. “You’re beautiful, Isabel. I knew you would be.”

“Thank you.” Her fingers trembled slightly, but she managed to unbutton the last of his shirt buttons. With a yank, she pulled the shirt down until the sleeves caught because the cuffs were still buttoned. She briefly cursed her stupidity before becoming enchanted by his musculature. “Oh, my, so are you.”

Somerset didn’t bother with his cuff buttons. He tore his shirt off, popping buttons off both cuffs, then flung it aside. Reaching for Isabel, he pulled her to his chest, and for the first time, Isabel felt him without layers and layers of fabric between the two of them.

There was, however, one layer left, and she aimed to correct that problem at once. “Just a minute,” she whispered, pulling slightly away from him.

“Hey,” he said, but didn’t continue his protest when he realized what she planned.

With one sinuous movement, Isabel rose to her knees, whipped off her lace-trimmed petticoat. Then she knelt before him, bare but for her black silk stockings, tied this evening with plain white garters. If she’d known this was going to happen, she’d have worn more exciting garters.

Somerset didn’t seem to mind. His eyes examined her from the top of her head to her knees. She saw him swallow. He said, “My God. I’ve been longing for this moment ever since I first laid eyes on you, Isabel. I love you.”

He loved her? Isabel stared at him, amazed. “You do? You didn’t say so before.”

“Didn’t I?” He swallowed again and reached for her right garter. “I meant to. At least, I think I did. I do love you. That’s why I want to marry you. I mean . . . Oh, hell.”

And with that, he flung away her right garter, untied her left and consigned it to the floor, then tore off his own undershirt and wrapped her in his arms. Isabel would have cried out in rapture, except for Eunice being in the other room.

She had craved this for so long. It had been years since she’d lain with a man, and then it hadn’t been like this. Then, it had been hurried and fumbling, and it had left Isabel craving fulfillment. Not this time. This time she was with a man who cared about her. Loved her. Wanted to please her as much as he wanted to be pleased. His big rough hands stroked her back, making tingles dance through her. He was so big, and so warm, and so wonderful. Isabel felt cherished for the first time in her life.

Her breasts felt as if they were on fire, pressed against his chest as they were. She wanted to run her fingers through his chest hair. She wanted to feel him, to caress the silky length of his sex, to kiss him everywhere.

Very gently, Somerset laid her back on the bed, then stood, unbuttoned his trousers, and pushed them off, along with his drawers. Before Isabel could fully appreciate how very large he was—in every way—he joined her on the bed. “Don’t be frightened, Isabel,” he whispered.

Frightened? Was he teasing her? But no. He was worried lest she fear his possession of her body. She’d heard so many stories about women who fled from the marriage bed. She wasn’t one of them. She had considered this a flaw in her nature until this minute. “I’m not frightened, Somerset.”

He smiled as his hand cupped her breast. Isabel thought she might die from the pleasure of his touch. “Good. That’s right, you’ve been married before. You know what to expect.”

No, she didn’t. She’d never felt like this. And he wanted to marry her. Isabel felt truly blessed, and only wished the condition would last. Since it wouldn’t—couldn’t—she aimed to enjoy this experience to the full.

Since he was paying attention to her breasts, bless him, she decided to do some exploring of her own. Tentatively, she reached down and found his shaft. It was hot and silky, hard as stone, and much larger than she’d expected. Goodness, maybe she was afraid—a little. He moaned softly, and Isabel forgot about worrying if he’d fit. Gently, gently, she stroked him. With his hand still on her breast, he buried his head in a pillow, as if in an ecstasy of arousal. Good.

“That feels so good,” came, muffled, from beside her.

Isabel turned a little and kissed the back of his neck. He was as hot as a cannon barrel. “I’m glad.”

Suddenly, he lifted his head and turned over, taking Isabel with him until she was on top of him. “But I can’t take much more of that, because I’m about to explode.”

“No? Well, then, perhaps we should move on.” She knew she was ready. She’d never felt this kind of pressure before, this longing for release.

Somerset caught his breath. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Leaning over, she kissed him hard as she reached to guide him home. She slid over him as if they’d been made to fit together. Somerset closed his eyes, threw his head back, and groaned.

Slowly at first, Isabel rode him. She hadn’t believed she could be so brazen, but it felt too good to stop. As the pressure inside her grew, she speeded up, until she felt as if she were riding a storm.

And then, all at once, everything inside her first clenched and then shattered into a million sparks. She gasped, cried, “Somerset!” softly, then collapsed on top of him as shudders and tremors shook her body.

“Ah, God, Isabel. That was so good.” He turned over, taking her with him, until he was poised above her, braced with his bulging arms. “You’re so beautiful. So beautiful.”

Before Isabel had recovered from her own release, Somerset began moving in her. He wasn’t gentle this time, and Isabel was on the verge of climaxing a second time when his release came, taking her with him into another crescendo of sensation.

A few minutes later, Somerset’s arms enfolded her, and Isabel felt as if she’d finally found a safe haven from life’s storms. It was an illusion, but such a pleasant one she opted not to worry about the truth for a couple of hours.