Page 66 of Miss Desirable
Wouldwas conditional phrasing in English.Please take me to bedwas imperative.
The old litanies rose up in his mind.Do not make too much of a passing mood. Do not create friction when a woman is so obviously trying to be agreeable. Do not make the situation worse with interrogations and fuming silences.
He gathered up their gloves and escorted Catherine to the French doors that led to her personal parlor. She’d left the latch unlocked, apparently, or Harry—who had pestered Jacques endlessly about wine pairings—had been lax about securing the house at the end of the day.
No lamp illuminated the path to Catherine’s bedroom. No fire burned in her grate.
“A pity we have so little light,” Fournier said. “I would love to inspect your bedroom down to the last detail.”
“You will have to content yourself with having your person inspected down to the last detail, monsieur.”
Catherine offered him her back and swept the hair off her nape. By feel, he eased the hooks of her gown free, then loosened her corset laces. How often had he performed these courtesies for his wife? How often had other men done the same for Gabriella?
He kicked that sad, bitter thought away. “Shall I take down your hair?”
“I will see to my hair. You have clothing to remove.”
No matter how Fournier tried to convince himself otherwise, Catherine’s words held no hint of seduction. He disrobed until he wore only his breeches. His attire was draped neatly over the reading chair, his boots positioned beside the bed.
And behind his falls, his cock was all but taking a nap.
Catherine wore a robe over her chemise, and her feet were bare. By the dim moonlight, her pale garments made her stand out like a ghost, her braid a dark rope over one shoulder. She tucked herself against Fournier, her arms slipping around his waist.
“To bed with us, then?” she asked.
“This is what you wish?”
“You’ve said your fencing has become sublime. I would like to experience sublime lovemaking with you, Fournier. Experience it again.”
He suspected his fencing was about to become horribly inept, but when Catherine kissed him, he kissed her back. By degrees and caresses, his misgivings were gradually submerged under a tide of desire.
No woman could fake this degree of passion, this near desperation. Catherine soon had him on his back in the bed while she lavished upon him every consideration likely to increase his arousal. Her hands, her mouth, her breasts, and then finally, her heat, sheathing him in a luxurious slide into heaven.
She started off slowly, teasing him with a relaxed rhythm of thrust and feint. When he retaliated with openmouthed kisses and deft caresses to her breasts, her tempo became demanding.
“I want you to spend, Fournier. Share this with me.”
“Non.”
Her undulations turned desperate. “Please.”
“Non et non.” He caught her to him and drove into her with a determination that had been unthinkable a half hour past.
Catherine yielded to passion, the pleasure shuddering through her and threatening to unravel Fournier’s resolve. She battered herself against him, her breathing a harsh counterpoint to the creaking of the bed ropes.
This much was real and true, and this much, Fournier could give her. When she subsided onto his chest, he pulled the covers up around her shoulders.
“You are not satisfied,” she said. “I want you to be satisfied.”
She doubtless did. Catherine was a generous and enthusiastic lover. She also, though, had wanted him to be distracted. He’d drifted off in a fog of marital exhaustion often enough to see the pattern.
“I want you to have your rest,” he said, easing from her body and shifting them to spoon himself around her back. “Sleep,ma chérie amante, and if the weather is fine, we will gallop in the park tomorrow morning.”
Catherine said nothing, her breathing as even as if she had already succumbed to dreams, though Fournier knew her and knew she hadn’t.
He was accustomed to frustrated desire—Gabriella had emphatically not wanted a child with him—and as Catherine fell into true slumber, he ignored his body’s clamorings to focus on the unrest in his heart.
A demon had entered the paradise he’d been building with Catherine, a demon of doubt at least and possibly of the human variety. Catherine had mentioned that old slur—Miss Dubious—and as Fournier silently dressed and let himself out of the house an hour later, he turned his mind to why that insult should trouble her now.
