Marcus was suddenly keenly aware that he lay in her bed wearing nothing but his breeches, which felt tighter than they had a few minutes earlier. For such a learned girl, she had an abundance of questions.
As her calm and quiet questions echoed around in his brain, he envisioned her small hands, touching herself, pleasing herself. His throat went dry again, this time for an entirely different reason. She certainly knew how to draw his mind away from his nightmares.
Emily had been raised a lady. She’d attended more balls than he could imagine, sitting on the fringes, watching her peers dancing, flirting. The poor girl had known she was missing out on something, and she’d attempted to discover it in books.
“I don’t know if it’s the same for me,” he answered honestly in a raspy sounding voice. The darkness invited intimacies he’d never thought to discuss with a woman, let alone the woman he was about to marry. “And, yes. You can experience it on your own. But I warn you…” He watched her closely. He wanted to see her eyes when he said his next words. “It’s considered to be very, very wicked.”
Ah, yes. Her pupils flared and a flush crept into her face. “I…” She turned her head away. “I tried it… but I think I was doing something wrong. It wasn’t the same.”
How was it possible she could charm him so easily? Marcus lay back again and folded his hands behind his head. In doing so, he noticed her gaze fall to his chest. She licked her lips, and he couldn’t help but remember the feel of her mouth on him earlier today.
The counterpane and sheets hid the result of that memory.
“Show me what you did.” Only a bastard would dare a lady this way. Would she? He never quite knew what to expect from her. The rapid pounding of his heart surprised him. The room seemed much smaller as he anticipated her response.
She shook her head though.
“What happened? What did you feel?” he goaded her. If she didn’t do something, he just might. He slid one of his hands beneath the sheet and wrapped his fingers around his girth.
Her eyes followed his motion.
“It helps to imagine…” He’d help her understand.
“What are you imagining right now?” Her question drove him to slide his fist downward.
“I’m not alone.” How had they come to this? How did she do it? “I’m watching you, listening to your voice, wondering how you touched yourself when you were alone. I’m imagining the sounds coming from your lips as you pinch and squeeze your own flesh.”
One timid hand crept up her night rail, past her belly to her sternum. She’d done nothing yet, but her arousal was more than apparent beneath the thin material of her gown. Her lips parted, and her breath hitched.
“I’m not touching you. And yet you are stimulated.” Marcus could not remove his eyes from her for anything in the world.
“It’s different. I’m not alone right now. I’m watching you.” Her voice strained. He could see the battle she waged inside herself. Modesty verses passion.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered her.
Her lids fell shut.
“Passion is in the mind.” He realized that Emily Goodnight had lived most of her life in her mind. “Now.” He slid his own hand upward in a slow, drawn-out motion. “How did it feel, when I took you in my mouth?” Marcus swirled the bead of moisture that had escaped around the tip and then pushed his cock up into his fist.
“Many believe it is a disease.” She’d opened her eyes again. Thinking. Where would she take them now?
“But not all cultures have always been of the same mind. The ancient Greeks did not. They had a word for it: anaplan.” She dropped her hand, all her attention now focused on what he was doing.
“Where would you learn something like that?” Marcus ought to slow his hand. End this oddly seductive discussion, but her curious eyes watching him did little to dampen his arousal.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
“I discovered the most amazing collection in Lord Smythe’s library. Books he obtained on his travels,” she explained evenly, as though they were discussing some literary tome, all the while intent upon the motion of his hand. At her words, Marcus imagined her hiding in an altogether different library. He needed to stop, but her hungry eyes drove him further.
“Can I see it?” she whispered. “May I watch?”
When had he felt anything like this? God, never. Nothing in all his exploits had come anywhere close to affecting him the same as her simple questions.
What kind of bastard tossed himself off in front of a lady? In front of an unmarried girl.
Except she wasn’t just any lady. She’d watched him before. She’d studied the act, read about it, stared at ancient depictions.
And he’d marry her in a day or so. Was he willing to be her personal, living, breathing exhibit?
She licked her lips.
God, yes.
“Move the coverlet.” He enjoyed pushing her. She hesitated. In response to her hesitation, he slowed his hand. “Unless you’d rather go back to sleep?”
She pulled the coverlet back.
Resisting the temptation to take her hand and wrap it around him, Marcus began sliding his fist again.
He did, however, grasp onto her with his free hand. For some reason, he wanted a connection with her. If he was going to do this, he needed to be touching a part of her. For all his previously brash and blatant behavior, he felt an unusual vulnerability with her staring at him.
She peered closer, and he almost laughed. Of course, she wasn’t wearing her spectacles. “Lie down beside me.”
Emily feared he’d change his mind, so she obeyed his command with only the briefest hesitation. When she lay down beside him, the mattress sank, causing her entire length to press up against him. He kept hold of her hand, though, holding it against his bare chest. From where she lay, she could glance up at his face or down to where he worked his mentula.
All of this was so very different than the drawings she’d seen. Apart from a few drawings, which depicted the male organ as overly large, most artwork showed men’s genitalia as much smaller and passive, like a cluster of grapes, or jewels. This particular mentula had a life of its own. And it was so much larger than what she’d imagined.
It bobbed and weaved in the moment he’d released it to shift on the bed. It looked angry, purple… It seemed desperate for attention, springing up from his curling black hair.
Almost as magnificent as the organ itself was the image of his hand grasping it. The muscles in his wrist and arm flexed with each movement.
Oh, Lord… and the rest of him. The smooth skin of his hips, the corded definition in his abdomen… set butterflies loose within her. She’d seen his chest up close today, but she’d not seen all his torso. The dark hair trailed an enticing path to his groin.
She tilted her head back to see his face. He watched her with that hint of the devilry she’d always seen in him, but something else flickered in the depths of his gaze. The expression she glimpsed reminded her of what she’d seen when he’d worked himself behind Mrs. Cromwell. It wasn’t pain. She saw a vulnerability, an emptiness.
She found herself reaching up and smoothing his brow. And then she pressed her lips against his arm, wanting to impart some comfort. Wanting him to know he was safe with her.
He tightened his fingers around her grip and continued his motions with his other. Emily had thought she could watch him, remaining detached, but as he moved, as his motions became more frantic and his hips pushed upward, she clung to him. A pulsing grew inside of her, throbbing between her legs, urging her to move to the same rhythm of his hand.
Marcus’ breath hissed between his teeth. He jerked harder, more violently, and then something inside of him released. Semen squirted up in spurts, like a fledgling fountain, some landing onto his taut abdomen and the rest spilling down his hand.
She remembered the agony she’d seen on his face the night of the ball. When he’d plunged himself into that woman from behind. It had quickly been followed by disgust.
She didn’t want to see disgust.
Without thinking, she edged herself up and planted tiny, ridiculous kisses all over his face. She’d erase any anger he held for himself or anyone else. It probably wouldn’t make any difference, but she had to do something.
And then he surprised her as his lips tilted up in a slow, satisfied smile. She wanted to freeze this moment. Seal it away to remember long after he returned to his traveling ways. Save this moment to recall long after he’d abandoned her to her own devices.
What was she thinking? She couldn’t fall in love with him. Did she want to live out the remainder of her life with a gigantic and never-ending heartache?
She left one more kiss along his jaw and then rested her head on the pillow.
He squeezed her hand again but weakly this time. As though most of his strength had left him. He must have experienced something similar to what had come over her earlier that day. She’d barely been able to hold herself up. And then she’d fallen asleep.
Perhaps now he could sleep without dreaming.
“You’re awfully quiet, Miss Goodnight,” he murmured into her hair.
Often when he spoke to her, he did so with a teasing lilt in his voice. And at first, it had bothered her. It had made her think he didn’t take her very seriously. But it was in his voice now, and it didn’t bother her at all. The playful tone made her feel closer to him. As though the two of them shared a secret joke.
“I thought you’d fallen asleep,” she whispered. Why had she whispered? Was it because she wanted him to remain sleeping beside her? Because she didn’t want him to return to the small bed near the floor?
“I need to clean up.” But he didn’t move. He just lay there, clasping her hand against his chest.
Clean up? Oh… that. She lifted up to examine the white translucent liquid he’d ejaculated. And now his member looked much more like the statues she’d seen. It looked depleted, restful… cute.
She pushed herself to sit and tugged at her hand. “Stay put,” she ordered him this time. He seemed perfectly willing to oblige.
She located a washcloth and poured some lavender-scented water onto it. She then squeezed it out and returned to the bed.
When she dabbed it at his stomach, Marcus jerked awake. “What are you doing?”
She touched it to him again, and he pushed her hand away. “Are you ticklish?” She knew this was the case. He tried wrestling the cloth from her grip, but she held it behind her back. “You are!” She couldn’t help laughing.
“Emily,” he growled. “I’m not ticklish.” He drew the word out slowly. “I am sensitive. Especially… after.”
“After?” she taunted.
But his arms had wrapped around her, and he was peeling the rag from her fingers. “You little wench.” He took the rag and proceeded to wipe at his nether region. When he moved to climb out of the bed, she pressed her hands against his chest.
“Just sleep,” she ordered. “This bed is plenty large enough. You needn’t try to sleep on the trundle.” He was an earl, for heaven’s sake, and the trundle was intended for a lady’s maid.
Marcus surprisingly didn’t argue with her. He did slide over to the other side, however, giving her more than an adequate amount of space. She’d have no excuse for touching him now.
“I’ll put the candle out, then.” She glanced hesitantly down at him.
There was that smile again. “I’ll be fine, Emily. You’ve quite taken my mind off my nightmares.”
Emily blew it out and crawled under the covers.
She wondered that she’d never been so intimate, so oddly familiar, with any other person. Not Cecily, Sophia, or even Rhoda. How would it feel when all this was over? After they’d married?
It couldn’t be any worse than she would have felt if she’d been sent to Wales, that was for certain. She turned onto her side and watched his profile in the moonlight.
“Marcus,” she said timidly.
“Um-hm?” He sounded as though he were already half asleep.
“Thank you for being my friend.” And then she couldn’t stifle the yawn that took hold of her.
Marcus pulled her into him. She curled up against him and absorbed his warmth. He smelled of soap and the lavender water, and something else. Something undefinable and masculine. She tucked one hand under her cheek but had nowhere to put the other but on his chest.
It somehow fit there perfectly. With her head resting on his arm, she worried she would make him feel uncomfortable. But before she could move, he turned onto his side and trapped her against him.
“Go to sleep, Miss Goodnight,” he mumbled.
“Um… Goodnight, Marcus.”