Page 37 of The Marquis, the Minx, and the Mistletoe
"I ... want," she managed, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. "I want ..."
She could not find the next word in her thought. Everything in her mind felt heavy. Sluggish. She stroked him with idle frustration, attempting to find the words she wanted, but only succeeded in tearing a groan from his throat.
"I want too," he said through gritted teeth, taking the hand that had rested on her thigh and sliding it up along her hips and waist. "I'm going to strip you now."
She nodded, her lashes flickering over thoughts that seemed both weighed down by impossible distraction and as rapid as a warren of rabbits, all at once. She felt the air on her shoulders, the give of cotton from her blouse, and managed to regain her vision just long enough to see him unlacing her stays, trailing wet, hungry kisses over the swelling of her breasts.
She wondered if modesty would come now, if she would be beset with mortification and a desire to hide herself as he stripped away the last of her underthings, leaving her in nothing but her orange skirt in disarray around her hips. It seemed he meant to remove that too, and at the behest of his murmured instruction she lifted her hips and allowed him to slide the fabric over her thighs, revealing all parts of her to his gaze with the passage of his fingertips.
There was no instinct to squirm or cower, and when he stood before her, his eyes raking over every exposed inch while he rid himself of his trousers, she allowed her knees to fall open, thinking that if he was to see all else, he might as well see there too.
He gave a strained sort of chuckle of surprise, making very good on her offer to gaze upon this part of her, and so she felt more than entitled to lock her eyes on him as his trousers were tugged off and that which she had fantasized about so often lately was finally visible to her, somehow even more impressive to her eyes than she had imagined, even from the estimation of her hands.
He stroked himself for her, drawing forth a bead of pearly moisture that made her feel quite weak, both of mind and body. So distracted was she, that it seemed a sudden shock when he was over her again, his fingers teasing at her entrance, drawing out a slick readiness for their inevitable joining, while his mouth revisited the willing welcome of her own.
"There will be more," he assured her gruffly in her ear, under a wave of heat and shock. Her body buzzed with attunement to his own as he dragged the beginnings of himself against her entrance. "There will be much more. I promise."
"More than what?" she murmured, before falling into a gasping whisper of silence, her fingers digging into the steel muscle of his shoulders as he began to ease his way into her.
It was odd, at first. Not painful. Just ... unexpected, if not a little uncomfortable. He moved so slowly, introducing her body to this strange new wonder, that she found herself struggling not to squirm in impatience. She shimmied her hips, attempting to get familiar with what was happening, which triggered a tensing of Sheldon's muscles and a biting gasp of breath that made her think she had hurt him in some way.
"I'm sorry," she babbled, attempting to go entirely still. "I'm sorry."
"What for?" he demanded, withdrawing a small degree and settling back into her, careful and measured, but enough to make them both gasp. "You haven't killed me yet."
"Why would I ... oh!" She gulped, her fingernails pressing into him as he gave another thrust, testing her body to see what it could take. She clenched her knees on either side of his hips, and buried her face in the hollow of his neck, doing her very best to remain perfectly still, despite the overwhelming desire to grind against him, to urge more of this motion and depth. "Must we go so slow?" she whimpered, holding tight to both her lover and her resolve.
He stopped abruptly, pulling back from her embrace to look down at her with startled incredulity. "Not if we don't need to," he choked. "How ... how fast do you want to go?"
"Like this," she answered, her ribs expanding in a breath of relief as she unclenched her knees and moved beneath him, testing the sensations she was discovering, sharing a body with him in this way. "Oh. Yes, like this."
She did not know how to interpret the shock on his face, and so she closed her eyes, deciding to continue moving as she wished until such a point as he asked her to stop. He did not ask her to stop. After a moment, his big hands settled on her hips and he began to meet her, timing the length and strength of his thrusts with the motions she was creating on her own.
He cursed, his voice ragged and his body damp with what seemed like more exertion than he could possibly require for such a simple task. "There will be more," he promised again, though it made no more sense to Tia this time than it had the last. "Hold on to me."
"Mm," she agreed, wrapping her arms around his neck, clinging her leg around his waist where he held her thigh flush with his hip.
He grunted, his thrusts becoming precise and rhythmic, each one sending a series of sensations through Tia’s body that she could not quite put a name to. She felt as though each stroke of his body meeting hers was an entirely new genre of feeling, a set of temptations that kept expanding, but did not stay still long enough for her to grasp.
He slowed as pleasure overtook him. He said several other words, some in Gaelic, some simply too coarse for Tia to have ever heard before, but from what she could tell, these exclamations were from a place of satisfaction, not anger.
She might have found it strange, if her own head were not swimming with new and delicious discovery.
He took care not to collapse upon her, likely not wishing to crush her delicate frame. He flopped off to the side instead, winding a possessive arm around her middle, and took endless ragged breaths as he attempted to recover himself.
One final time, and at great effort, he promised her that there would be "more."
She did not answer, for it still sounded like nonsense to her ear. What more could there be? She slid her hand over his larger one on her stomach and instead of pondering his meaning, chose instead to marvel at the swirling paint on the ceiling of the green room.
Her mind was silent, but her body buzzed, alive with all possible things. Tia rather thought she was feeling every sensation in the world except regret.
Chapter 18
The crushing weight of complete oblivion fled from Sheldon just as abruptly as it had tumbled onto him. As though he had lost his very understanding of the passing of time, he felt as though he had been overtaken by some force beyond him as he had flipped the latch to lock the green room door, and only just now had it fled, leaving crystal clarity in its wake, despite the heaviness of his limbs.
He blinked his eyes open, forcing them into focus in the room around him. He was lying across the bed the wrong way, he realized, though somehow a pillow had found its way under his head. He was naked still, and bundled up under the familiar weight of his down-stuffed coverlet. He forced his fingers and toes to wiggle, willing himself out of this perfect lull of relaxation and into his customary awareness.
Where was Tatiana Everstead?
