Page 43 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

“Jemima,” Hugh groaned into her mouth, releasing her face and, instead, using his hands to draw her body closer to him.

Jemima was barely aware that they were seated on the bed in Hugh’s room, grateful there was no one to see the disgraceful display that she and Hugh were portraying. Her skin was damp, her dress clinging to every inch of it. Her nipples, desperate for Hugh’s touch once again, had hardened, visible through her soaking wet gown, but she no longer felt any shame.

She was with Hugh. He loved her. Would marry her. He would be her husband.

He groaned once more, and deepening their kiss, his left arm moved around her waist keeping her tightly clasped to him, the other went in search of the softness of her breast.

Jemima knew they should be restrained, knew what they were enjoying was simply not done, especially alone and unwed—but why should she restrain herself when she was so willing, and they loved each other so much?

She gasped in his mouth when he found her peak, softly caressing the soft damp skin that could be accessed above her dress and then exploring down to the ripe fullness of her breast. Her body was on fire, every inch of her desperate for the same attention.

Her hands fumbled with the buttons of his jacket, but she was better practiced now after the evening before on the garden balcony, and it took less than a thought for her to release him.

Hugh’s shirt was so wet it was more of a window to his taut chest. Jemima opened her eyes in shock to see the strong muscles and the curls that rose up to his throat and delved down in a trail to the top of his trousers, her thoughts following them down as her fingers splayed across his chest.

“Hugh,” she said in a ragged voice, “Hugh, I want—”

“I know,” Hugh’s voice was worse than her own, seemingly just able to construct words into a sentence. “I know what you want.”

It took only a heartbeat, and Jemima was unsure exactly how he had done it, but suddenly she was facing the ceiling, her back on the soft dry sheets. Hugh looked down at her, his expression unreadable, as his breathing grew deeper and more hurried.

“Do you trust me?” Hugh said quietly. As the hardness between his legs met the softness of hers. Jemima tried not to think about the very thin and very damp two layers of clothing currently keeping them apart. “I do not wish to do anything that you are uncomfortable with, Jemima, my love.”

Jemima stared into his eyes and raised a hand to pull him down even closer, his lips a mere breath away from hers.

“I would follow you anywhere,” she said in a strong tone, “and I follow you now.”

Hugh smiled, a smile Jemima had never seen before. All his concern seemed to melt away as water dripped from his torso, and he appeared to be entirely at peace.

But peace was not going to last, not when Hugh had permission to take her to the highest peaks of happiness he knew. Jemima hoped, as pleasure poured through her body and her mind became frayed and tangled, that he would give her that pleasure again. Surely, he knew what she wanted? Surely, he could see what she craved?

Propped up by his elbow, Hugh returned his lips to the place where they belonged: Jemima.

She opened her mouth willingly, taking him deeper into her, welcoming the sensations threatening to overwhelm her. As his lips massaged hers, his right hand moved to the ties at the top of her gown. Jemima whimpered into his mouth as she felt the tie pull and, eventually, fall open.

“You are so beautiful,” Hugh whispered, breaking the kiss to look down at her. “So beautiful…”

It was fortunate, Jemima managed to think, that she had once again ignored her stepmother and only wore one petticoat today.

It was as damp as Hugh’s shirt and just as transparent. His fingers brushed across her porcelain skin, still damp from the rain, and Jemima twitched, the mere touch enough to make her tremble.

In a moment, Hugh’s hands had pulled down both gown and petticoat to her ankles, then looped them off them and tossed them to the floor.

Embarrassment should have coursed through Jemima’s veins, and had it been any other man, she would have shied away, desperate to keep herself hidden.

But this was not any other man: this was Hugh.

Jemima arched her back slightly, unconsciously desperate for his touch to return to her.

“Oh, God, Jemima!”

It appeared Hugh could take no more. Lowering his head, he grazed the delicate skin just above her breasts with his lips. Jemima’s short intake of breath was matched only by her desire to have him repeat the connection.

“More, more Hugh,” she moaned.

He ventured lower, eventually reaching that ripe pink peak he had not yet tasted. Taking it into his mouth, he suckled, ensuring her other breast was not abandoned by bringing up his hand to fondle it delicately, and then more forcefully as their passion grew.

Jemima’s eyes were wide as she gasped aloud. “Yes, yes!”

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