Page 57 of Never a Duke
He flung off his cravat and waistcoat and pulled his shirt over his head. “I had planned to read you poetry. Play you a few sentimental ballads on my fiddle.”
Rosalind took his shirt, sniffed it, and rolled it up beneath her head. “We’ll get to that part. Maybe not today.”
Ned arranged himself over her. “Maybe not this year.”
He went still, the better to marshal his flagging self-discipline. They would have only one first time, and by allowing these intimacies, Rosalind was taking an enormous risk. He would withdraw, but she might still find herself with child before the vows were spoken.
Vows. With Rosalind. The joy was terrifying, matched only by the pleasure of kissing her, stroking her breasts, and exploring her sex, one glancing brush of his cock, one lazy nudge at a time.
“Ned, please. I need you.”
The words resonated down through all the years when nobody had needed him, when he’d been the encroaching outsider on London’s streets. When he’d tried to fit himself into a ducal household, when he’d made himself useful in every possible capacity at the bank.
“I need you too, Rosalind. Have needed you forever.” He began the joining, and Rosalind sighed, her whole body relaxing beneath him. He put every sense on alert for a hint that she was uncomfortable, changing her mind, or in need of a pause, but she rocked up to meet him, and locked her ankles at his back.
The loving was so easy, so uncomplicated andright. The darkest corner of Ned’s mind, where part of him always stood guard at a distance, finally surrendered its vigilance. He was in Rosalind’s arms, she was in his heart.
“That is…” Rosalind eased her legs down along his flanks. “This is exactly…This is lovely.”
“You are lovely.” Ned lifted up enough to regard her, all rosy and warm beneath him. Bad idea—because the sight was too inspiring. Also a wonderful idea, because this Rosalind, all flushed and heavy-lidded, was his alone to treasure.
She went plundering, glossing fingertips over his nipples, stroking his arms, then clasping his wrists and adding some power to the undulations of her hips.
“How you make me yearn,” she whispered.
Yearning was good. Moaning was better, though in Rosalind’s case, the moans were more soft exhalations punctuating an escalating tempo. Ned set awareness of his own longing at arm’s length, and instead focused on Rosalind. Her breathing, the urgency in her movements, the quality of her grip on his wrists.
Desire rode him hard, but this joining was about loving, not merely pleasure, so he held back, and held back yet more.
Rosalind in the throes of passion was a silent splendor. She bucked, she clung, and she shuddered all without speaking a word. Her body shouted her satisfaction more effectively than words could, and when she would have subsided into the bliss of fulfillment, Ned sent her over the edge again.
“What you do to me…” she murmured, kissing Ned’s shoulder. “What unimaginable, glorious delirium. I had no idea.”
“None?”
“Not a clue. I liked the kissing and cuddling. I liked the daring of breaking rules, but this is the opposite of breaking rules. This is…I can’t find the words.”
Ned snuggled closer, pressing his cheek to hers and withdrawing. He spent in the tight seam of their embrace, the satisfaction a promise of greater bliss to be had on their wedding night.
He was to have a wedding night. With Rosalind. The prospect thrilled and humbled and delighted. As Ned crouched over her, an eddy of cooling air whispering between them, he found the words Rosalind had been searching for.
This is home. You are my home. I am finally, finally home.
He produced a handkerchief and dealt with the practicalities, then subsided onto the blanket, and pulled Rosalind into his arms. They did not bother dressing, but merely tugged this and straightened that.
Under the benevolent spring sun, wrapped around the woman he adored, Ned closed his eyes, gave silent thanks, and slept like a soldier newly returned from the wars.
***
Rosalind marveled that she could share both the greatest intimacy known to the species with Ned, share a plate of sandwiches with him, and share a smile with him—ye gods, he was devilishly attractive playing his fiddle—and all of that sharing was of a piece.
She wasn’t shy and embarrassed around Ned, she was pleased.
He wasn’t strutting and flirtatious with her, he was tender. Ned did not need to make manly separations between affection, desire, cherishing, and friendliness. His regard for her was of whole cloth, a continuum of smiles, touches, silences, and considerations.
Rosalind was hungry for the food, which was quite good, and she was also famished for the closeness Ned offered.
“I don’t want Artie to return,” she said, when they’d packed up the hamper and donned their footwear. “Not until next spring.”Not until we’re married.She understood that Ned wanted to observe the outward proprieties, his version of gentlemanly esteem requiring that display, but the waiting would be nerve-racking.
