HANDS LACED OVER HIS belly, Oliver stared at the canopy over his bed. Darkness greeted him, the faintest outline of the canopy barely visible.
He deliberately did not think of Lydia.
Tomorrow would be a full day. He had a stack of paper as tall as himself to wade through, Lord Demartine had given him a new proposal for a shipping venture, and the estate in the Cotswolds needed a new roof. And he deliberately did not think of Lydia.
Exhaling, he placed his hands behind his head. Who was he trying to fool? He’d never stopped thinking of Lydia.
Earlier, she’d left with a cheeky grin and his euphoria had lasted for all of two minutes before the reality of what they had done set in. He still didn’t know what had possessed him. One minute she’d been standing there, and then next she’d been in his arms and a dam, once broken, was impossible to stop. He wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t sorry he’d touched Lydia, kissed her, made her come. Finally, he could admit to himself he wanted her. Maybe he was too old for her, but for the moment, she had chosen him and he was finally ready to admit he had chosen her in return. From the moment he’d looked at her and realised she was a woman, he’d wanted her. He’d always been hers, and so he would enjoy it for as long as it lasted. It couldn’t be forever. She would realise she didn’t really want him, that there was someone younger, bolder, more amusing. Her crush would dissipate and he would let her go, never allowing her to see the broken man left behind.
The door to his bedchamber opened. A figure darted in, closing the door behind them lightning-quick. Pushing himself to his elbows, he watched as— Lydia. It had to be Lydia.
The Lydia-shaped figure moved towards his bed. The strike of a match threw light about the room. “Why is it so dark in here?” she demanded.
Of course it was Lydia. “Because it is night and I am attempting to sleep?”
Making a rude noise, she placed the candle on the fireplace mantle.
“You are where you should not be,” he said mildly.
“That could be the story of my life.” In a flurry of movement, she leapt upon him. Automatically, he circled his arms about her. “You’re not wearing a nightshirt,” she said conversationally.
“I don’t.” He still couldn’t reconcile she was in his bedchamber.
“Are you naked?”
“I wear drawers. Lydia, why are you here?”
“I realised something,” she said, her thighs hugging his hips.
“And what is that?” Hands tightening behind her back, he relished her weight upon him.
“This afternoon, you gave without taking.”
Lust pooled in his groin as he recalled the taste of her, the feel of her beneath him, and the heady knowledge he was the one to afford her such pleasure. “Did I?”
“Yes.” Taking his hands from her, she trapped his arms above his head and leaned over him. “I’m here to rectify that.”
“How?”
“Like this,” she said, and she covered his mouth with hers. Letting go of him, her hands were warm on his face as she held him still for her kiss, a perfect, hot, delicious kiss. Splaying his hands on her back, he pulled her into him, her nightgown-clad breasts flattening against his naked chest. He groaned into her as her tongue flicked at his lips, teasing him with her taste.
Sitting up, she dragged her nightgown over her head and suddenly she was naked. He barely had a moment to swallow his tongue before she leant over him, her lips hot against his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Her hair trailed through his fingers as she kissed down his chest, tonguing his nipple and lightly sucking, before kissing his stomach. Pushing at the sheets, she revealed his drawers and picked at the laces.
Oh, Christ. Christ. What was she— “Lydia?”
Fascination coloured her expression as she lifted his cock from his drawers and he hardened to stone. Holding him, she traced his length, rubbing her thumb over the tip. Lightning streaked through him and he swore.
Delighted eyes found him. “Did you like that?”
“Yes, I liked it,” he ground out.
“What else do you like?”
“Lydia, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” Her gaze dropped to his cock. “I want to.” And she leant down.
Warm breath washed over the head and then, Christ, then she licked him. He collapsed against his bed, sheets fisting in his hands as her eager tongue learned him. When she took him in her mouth, he just about swallowed his tongue. She was clumsy and sloppy and it was the best damn thing he’d felt in his entire life. Fire shot through him and he could feel climax storm through him, too damn quick but Christ, it was Lydia, and he better fucking warn her because he was going to come and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do— “Lydia. Christ, Lydia, you have to stop. I’m about to—”
She released him, her fascinated gaze on his aching cock. “You’re about to what?”
“Christ, I— Not in your mouth. Not this time. You— Here.” Taking her hand, he wrapped her fingers around him and groaned at her touch. So good. She felt so good. He showed her how to touch him, how hard and how fast, and she watched avidly when in an embarrassingly short amount of time, he came all over her hand.
Chest heaving, he collapsed against the bed. Fuck. That was—Fuck. Fuck.
She stared at her hand. “Is this your seed?”
Barking a laugh, he threw an arm over his eyes. Only Lydia. “Yes.”
Sitting up, he wiped her hand with the sheet and then kissed her, and in his kiss was gratitude and laughter and how Lydia was just so damn Lydia and he liked her so much.
It didn’t take much for his kiss to turn from sweet to carnal. He wanted to see her fall apart again, wanted to hear her choked breath and how she moaned his name. Wrapping his arms about her, he flipped her to her back.
“Oliver, what are you doing?” she protested.
Ignoring her, he pushed her thighs open. Christ, she was glistening. Giving him pleasure had aroused her so much it had spilled onto her thighs. Hooking his arms under her knees, he covered her with his mouth. Her flavour burst on his tongue, equal parts sweat and tart, and he growled, loving he now knew her taste.
“No, Oliver, this was supposed to be for you,” she moaned, her thighs hugging his ears.
He glanced up. Eyes wild with lust met his. She looked undone, and he loved he could do this to her. “This is for me.”
Lowering his head, he set about driving her mad. Her back arched, her breasts thrust in the air. Reaching up, he covered them, her pebble-hard nipples stabbing his palms. Her thighs squeezed his head as she gasped and moaned, her head thrashing. Abandoning her breasts, he took hold of them and forced her open, holding her still for his lips and tongue. She was soft and wet and hot and he wanted inside her so badly. He ground his hips into the bedsheets, so damn hard even though she’d just made him come.
Remembering how it had driven her wild that afternoon, he licked and sucked at her bud and, then, sank a finger inside her. She was tight and even hotter and wetter and he added another, finding that place inside her that made her scream.
Pushing herself into him, her mouth opened on a silent scream as she erupted, squeezing his fingers as she came and flooding him with more of her sweet-tart flavour. He doubled his efforts and she bucked again, her body rigid as pleasure wracked her.
“Stop. Oliver, stop. It’s too much,” she gasped, pushing at his head.
With one last kiss, he reluctantly pulled away. Wiping his mouth, he placed a kiss on her belly, her sternum, her breast, before taking her lips. She kissed him back, her arms winding about him as her hands tightened in his hair.
He kissed her again, and then again, and then, with a sigh, he settled on his back beside her. She lay next to him, dazed, and he smirked at the canopy. He had done that. He had pleasured Lydia Torrence into silence.
After a while, she said, “We should do that again.”
Unable to stop his grin, he turned to her. “Ready whenever you are.”
“Now?”
“Now.” Leaning over her, he applied himself to tasting every single inch of her skin.
***
OLIVER LIGHTLY DRAGGED HIS fingertips over Lydia’s back. She lay on her front, her cheek resting on her folded hands with her eyes closed. The sheet pooled around their hips, the light from the flickering candle picking out hills and valleys. Her skin was soft and warm, and he’d never felt such contentment as he did right at this moment.
“You’re very good at this.”
His cheeks heated. What the bloody hell could he say to that? He couldn’t—“How would you know?”
“It’s good that you practiced,” she continued, ignoring him. “I shall only have to educate you slightly.”
Jealously was a petty emotion and he would not allow it to control him. “Who did you practice with?”
Her eyes opened. “What does it matter? None were you.”
He supposed, but.… “Who?”
“How many did you practice with?” she countered.
“What?”
“How. Many. Did you. Pract—”
His face felt like it was on fire. “I’m not discussing this with you.”
“Ha! It’s different now it’s on the other foot.” Grinning, she propped herself on an elbow, her red-gold hair spilling over his pillows. “How many?”
“Enough to know what I’m doing.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I wish I’d waited.”
She stilled. “Pardon?”
“I wish this was new to me. That I only knew you.” He didn’t begrudge any of the women he’d been with—not that there had been many—but he wished he’d realised Lydia was the only one he wanted. “How did you know what to do?” Her eyes were soft and…wet? Christ, what had he said? “Lydia?”
Taking a shuddering breath, she said, “Know what to do what?”
“When we—” He gestured vaguely, feeling awkward as hell.
“Ah. When we.” She settled into his side. “Harry and George don’t hide things nearly as well as they think they do. They have the most interesting books stashed under their beds.”
“And that is where you learnt this?”
“They had pictures, Oliver. If you think Violet and I didn’t study those books thoroughly, I will have to disappoint you.”
“I am not disappointed. At all.” He brushed his lips over the top of her head, his hair falling forward at the move.
She tugged at the strand before he could pull back. “I love this.”
“My hair?”
She nodded, watching the strands fall from her fingers. “More and more of it would fall about your face as the day progressed, and you would shove it back impatiently, not even aware you did so.”
“You chewed on the end of your hair.”
Hazel eyes flew to his, a question in their depths.
“When you concentrated,” he clarified. “But then, you stopped doing it and you’d brush your lips with the ends instead.”
“That was Miss Chisholm. She was quite aghast at the habit and set about correcting it.” She placed the ends of his hair against her lips. “I’ve not seen it fully down before. It’s quite long.”
“Below my shoulders.”
“Why is it so long? Tis not the fashion.”
He’d never actually said it out loud. “My father hated it.”
It sounded petty and small, but words couldn’t come close to conveying the maelstrom that swirled within him. It had been his one small rebellion. His father had ruthlessly controlled every aspect of his appearance, and the moment his hair had touched his ears, his father had ordered it cut. Then, his father had died.
Lydia ran her fingers gently over the beard on his chin. “And this?”
“Same as my hair.” Twice a day he’d been compelled to shave, his father inspecting his jaw.
Cupping his cheek, she placed a kiss on his chin. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“That your father was horrible.”
He blinked. Christ. His father was horrible. He’d never thought of it that way, but he had been a terrible father. Wrapping his arms about her, he hugged her tight. She was everything to him. “You are so beautiful.”
Her gaze flickered. “Oh. Thank you.”
“No, I—” He wasn’t explaining it well. He didn’t mean“You are beautiful. All of you. Every part of you. Your mind. Your compassion. That you say such a thing as my father was horrible and you are right. He was horrible. You say things and you make me think of it a different way, and I…. You are beautiful.”
It still didn’t explain enough, didn’t convey what she meant to him, how she made him better, how she was the best person he knew. The one whose opinion, whose insights, he most wanted. The first person he wanted to discuss anything with, the first person he thought of each morning, the last he thought of each night, and how when she was on the Continent he’d missed her. He’d missed her so much.
She bit her lip, her eyes wet.
“You’re not—I didn’t—Don’t cry.”
“I’m not,” she said as a tear slipped over her cheek.
He captured it with his thumb. “Lydia—”
Her hand wrapped around his, her fingers caressing his palm. “You mean everything to me.”
The lump in his throat made it difficult to swallow. Bringing her hand to his lips, he brushed a kiss over her fingers.
“Don’t let me fall asleep,” she whispered.
“I won’t.” He stroked her hair as she settled against him, her fingers smoothing the smattering of hair on his chest, and he tried not to think about how perfectly she fit by his side. All night he held her, and neither of them fell asleep.