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Miles hid his head at Delilah's shoulder, trying to catch his breath. It had felt so good. Beyond good. Amazing, in fact, as she had just stated. He had been so close to climaxing, and he could tell that she had too.
He should pull out of her and move away from her, but he needed another moment to compose himself. He couldn't bear the look of disappointment on her face just yet. He knew what she would say: that it wasn't his fault, that it happened, that it was only natural. But he also knew that he would be able to see the disappointment in her eyes.
Delilah was caressing his back with one hand, while the other was buried in his hair. It was clearly a soothing motion, saying that there was something wrong with him, that he shouldn't feel sorry about it.
Miles sighed, starting to lift himself on his palms.
"I'm sorry. That was my fault," Delilah said before he had managed to raise himself to look at her. Miles knew that the disbelief was written on his face. Her face was flushed, and her dark hair spread across the pillow. In the flickering light from the candles, it looked as if it was flowing in water. The image of her as a siren emerged again.
"I shouldn't have told you that I hadn't been with anyone for three years. It would, of course, only put undue stress on you." Her tone of voice was earnest, and she looked at him, concerned.
"It could never be your fault . . ." Miles sighed as he rolled away from her. He stared into the purple canopy above her bed. He had been so sure that it would happen. He had definitely felt that the pills were working, and it had been a long time since he had desired a woman as much as he desired her.
Delilah moved to rest her arm gently on his chest, looking down at him. Miles briefly met her eyes, then looked at the canopy again. She didn't move, however.
"Well, fault is perhaps the wrong word — for both of us. But I shouldn't have told you. And I shouldn't have . . ." Miles looked at her when she paused and could see that she blushed a bit. She wasn't looking at him as she was clearly thinking how to phrase what she was going to say, but she looked into his eyes as she spoke again. "I wanted to feel you so much that I didn't consider whether it would be the best for you."
Her words sent a jolt through his groin, but his cock remained limp.
"But that shouldn't be a problem . . ." Miles began.
Delilah lay beside him again, looking at the canopy as well.
"I think we should rethink this completely," she said, and there was an analytical edge to her voice. "We shouldn't just assume that everything will be fine and working. I think we should try not coupling when in bed together."
She turned her head to look at him. Miles turned to look at her, as well. Her gaze was earnest and sincere.
"What would we do in bed, if not coupling?" Miles could not help but ask with a quirk of his brow.
Delilah tsked but smiled at the same time.
"We would use our hands and mouths to pleasure each other," she said with a smile as she sat up.
Miles liked that she didn't cover herself, but seemed to be completely comfortable in her own skin. He was momentarily distracted by her soft white breasts with the brownish-red nipples.
"That sounds lovely, too," Miles mumbled absentmindedly. Then he remembered what they were talking about. "But that's not the point," he said as he sat up. "I want to be able to sleep with someone. I need to be able to sleep with someone."
"I know," Delilah said emphatically. "But I think it will take a while and that it's better if we go slow."
"I don't want to go slow. I want my cock to work," he said frustrated, gesturing toward his groin. He had been so close and felt frustrated with dissatisfaction.
"I'm sure it will eventually, but I don't think pressuring yourself will help anything. Did you notice what happened before you . . ."
Delilah made a gesture with her hand, clearly indicating his erection falling. There was a curious look in her eyes, and even though Miles found her curiosity and approach to his problem a bit annoying, he felt the urge to indulge her.
He wanted to be able to sleep with women again without having to think about whether his cock would work. He wanted to be able to sleep with her again and have her scream out his name as she climaxed.
The details of what had just happened between them were not clear, but he did remember what he had thought right before his cock had gone limp.
"You said something about how amazing it was, and I thought that it was as well, and then I thought that I couldn't believe that the pills were actually working and that I was finally cured and then . . ." Miles sighed. "Then I suppose I started questioning myself, whether it was simply luck or whether I was actually cured."
"That's very good," Delilah said, smiling encouragingly.
"So that means that my problem is that I doubt my ability to perform?" Miles asked as Delilah rolled out of bed and grabbed a dark red dressing gown from a closet.
"Not exactly," she said as she tied the ribbon around her waist. "There's usually a problem that occurs first, and then once you have tried a couple of times and it doesn't work, you will start questioning your ability to perform at all."
She had started moving to the door to the hallway.
"I'm going to retrieve a refreshment from the kitchen. Is there anything you desire?" she said, her hand resting on the doorknob.
"You're going to the kitchen dressed like that?" Miles smiled as he nodded toward her attire.
"I gave Martha and Jane the night off. They won't be back until 11."
"I could eat something," Miles said as he got out of bed, walking toward her. "I think I'll join you."
He hadn't been in a kitchen in close to fifteen years. When he was a child and adolescent, he would often pass through the kitchen on his way into the house, grabbing whatever was on the table to eat on his way in. Especially at their country estate, he hadn't started entering through the front door until he was about fifteen — or accompanied by his parents.
"Dressed like that?" Delilah said, raising her brows.
"Well, you said that the servants were out," he countered, trying to corner her by the door, hoping to get a chance to kiss her again. But Delilah squirmed around him, walking to the closet again.
"I have another dressing gown." With a flowing motion, she hauled a dark grey dressing gown from the closet. "That's too distracting," she added with a grin, eyeing his naked body, then throwing the dressing gown across the bed. Miles caught it and put it on.
"Does that mean you would be too distracted to eat?" he goaded her, tying the ribbon around his waist. The dressing gown was a bit too large and too long. It had clearly been made for a man larger than he. Miles tried not to think about how Delilah and the Duke of Camborne would have gone to the kitchen to eat after coupling.
"Oh, definitely." Delilah smiled and winked before she exited the room.
Miles followed her down the hallway with cream colored wallpaper and down the stairs, through the hallway where he had entered and down another hallway with closed doors on either side.
Delilah walked through a door to the service stairs and down to the dark kitchen. The last daylight had not faded yet outside, but being underground, the kitchen was rather dark.
Miles leaned against the large table in the middle of the room. The house was clearly meant for more staff than the two currently in Delilah's employ. Delilah had lit a couple of lamps. She let one be on the table, taking the other through a door that evidently led to a pantry.
"What do you like?” she asked from in there. She was munching something; he could tell from the way she spoke.
“Champagne and oysters,” Miles teased her.
“Champagne? I thought you weren’t drinking?” Delilah teased him back.
Miles chuckled as she rummaged around the pantry, clearly knowing her way around. She emerged with a tray with bread, ham, a pie, and a glass bottle containing a yellow liquid that was unmistakably lemonade.
“If you want champagne, you’ll have to advise me in advance — or bring it yourself. As for the oysters — I don’t know how anyone can eat them," Delilah said as she placed the food on the table. She made a shuddering movement and stuck her tongue out.
"You find oysters that atrocious?" Miles laughed.
"They taste like cold cum," Delilah said with a serious air, before moving to the kitchen table to retrieve a cutting board and a knife.
Miles barked with laughter, bending over, and supporting himself on his hands on the table. He could hear Delilah chuckling as she cut the bread. He straightened to look at her.
"Why do you know what cold cum tastes like?" he was able to say, the occasional chuckle still emerging in between the words.
“Well,” she said with a bite of bread in her mouth, another in her hand. She was waving it as if she was lecturing. “Technically, I haven’t tasted it cold . . . I suppose it’s more a matter of the texture.”
She couldn’t keep a straight face as she said the last part and they both laughed again. Miles looked at her grinning face and felt the urge to kiss her, and why not? She was his mistress now, he supposed. He took a step toward her, but at the same time, Delilah moved to the other side as she mumbled: "Plates."
She retrieved both plates and two glasses from a cupboard.
"You seem to know your way around the kitchen," Miles commented, for some reason feeling annoyed that he hadn't managed to kiss her.
Delilah was organizing a plate of food for him.
"I mostly eat down here with Martha and Jane," she admitted. And it clearly was an admission; there was reluctance in her voice that showed she would rather not have shared it. But she had also not lied to him, which he liked.
"You don't have a dining room?" Miles asked. He couldn't help but wonder what his mother would say if he started eating his meals in the kitchen. She would probably have a stroke.
"I do, but I rarely use it. I like to have company while I eat," she explained without looking at him, handing him a plate with two slices of bread, two slices of cold ham, and a piece of what appeared to be apple pie. She poured lemonade into the glasses and placed one in front of him.
"We're eating here?" Miles had to ask, even though it was a redundant question.
Delilah simply nodded and sat down. Miles followed suit, although a bit hesitant. It was one thing being in the kitchen. Another entirely to eat there. But it was a nice and warm place and quite cozy from what he was able to tell from the lights of the two lamps. There were white curtains in front of the low windows and a large clay figure of a fish that was painted blue hanging above the kitchen table.
"Mustard," Delilah said, springing to her feet and retrieving it from the pantry. "Do you want jam as well?"
"On my ham sandwich?" Miles had to ask.
"Well, yes. Ham and blackberry jam go surprisingly well together." She placed the two jars on the table.
"If you say so," Miles murmured as he smeared the bread with mustard.
They ate for a moment in silence.
"When's the wedding?" Delilah then asked.
"Which wedding?" Miles said as he was making the other sandwich.
"Yours."
"Oh, well, the date hasn't been set yet," he said dismissively, hoping that it was enough to stop her from mentioning it again. His mother was pestering him about it at every chance she got.
"I gather that it's not a love match," Delilah went on, nevertheless.
Miles looked at her. She seemed focused on smearing blackberry jam on a piece of bread then adding a slice of ham. The woman wouldn't eat oysters, but she would that, he thought with a half-smile as he shook his head.
"What makes you say that?" he finally decided to ask, since he couldn't figure out how she knew or why she cared.
Delilah shrugged, licking jam from her index finger. He shouldn't have stopped her when she was licking him earlier. He had been quite close but had figured that it was not the reason he was there. She smirked as she caught his expression.
"There's still time for that. As for you not being in love with your betrothed, it's clear from the way you speak of her," she said, still smirking. "Do you plan to continue to sleep with other women after you marry?" she added.
"I don't see how this is any of your business," Miles curtly pointed out, eating his apple pie in large bites, taking another bite, even though he wasn't finished chewing the first. Another example of behavior that would cause his mother to have a stroke.
"I beg your pardon; we don't have to discuss it now. It's just . . . your betrothal seems to be the only occurrence in your life that has changed. It seems only natural that it could be what is causing your problem. Do you find the notion of marriage stressful?"
"Which man doesn't find the notion of marriage stressful?" he retorted icily, because by God he could not think of anything more stressful. Unless you were the type of man who would bully your wife into submission — and Miles wasn't — then of course marriage would be stressful. You had to cater to someone else’s wishes and demands. Even though Eleanor Wolfe seemed like a reasonable woman who wouldn’t bother him too much, he would still, to some extent, have to consider her moods and needs.
"I don't think all men find marriage stressful. I think, in fact, that many don't think much about it at all. It is simply the means to an end, that being money, status, or an heir. And for some, it's even fulfilling, when they are fond of or maybe even in love with their wives," Delilah stated.
Miles huffed. He supposed that she was right about the first thing, perhaps even about the part about some men being fond of their wives, but love . . .
"Isn't love just a mixture of lust, friendship and . . . I don't know, being accustomed to someone else’s company?" he said and drained his glass of lemonade. Even though he primarily thought of it as a drink for children and debutantes, he had to say that this was utterly refreshing.
Delilah shook her head, smiling. Not like she was amused, but as if he was an unknowing fool. Miles was about to be offended when she stood and offered him her hand.
"Come, I want to go back to the bedroom," she said.
Miles took her hand and followed her with a smile.