CM Fic - In the Arms of Love 2/3
Title: In the Arms of Love
Authour: smacky30
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Pairing: Rossi/Prentis
Summary: The year is 1820 and Emily Prentiss is forced to marry in order to save her family from financial ruin. This part is a total Smutapaloosa. No excuses. :)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: This was written for mingsmommy who bid on me in thefandomaid auction to help Japan. Her prompt was 'circa 19th century - David Rossi is wealthy but untitled. The Prentiss family is titled but have lost much of their wealth and are burdened with a headstrong daughter. Bodice buster marriage of convenience.'
I want to give a shout out to mingsmommy and losingntrnslatn for putting up with me and doing my beta work. They are the bestest ever!
Valentine’s Day, and Emily had been married for just over six weeks. Those weeks had passed in a whirlwind of activity; teas and luncheons, plays and operas, and, of course, balls. Living in London was proving to be far more entertaining than she had ever imagined, but she missed her family terribly. She missed the quiet country mornings with the sun rising over the trees, painting the sky with pinks and oranges. She missed the hours spent in the gardens, reading or sketching. She missed JJ and Spencer and Cook and her father. Sometimes, when it was late at night and she couldn’t sleep, she even missed her mother.
Mr. Rossi’s home, while impressive, was lonely. Oh, the carpets were lush and the drapes made of rich fabrics. The windows were so clean they were practically invisible. Fireplaces added warmth, making even the formal parlor cozy and inviting. But there wasn’t enough laughter. It was as if the house were quietly waiting for something just out of reach. A sense of hushed expectancy surrounded Emily as she moved through the silent rooms.
The clock in the study chimed four times, signaling it was time for tea. With a quiet sigh, she tucked away the needlepoint she was working on and rose from her seat by the window. Soon Mr. Rossi would arrive, they would sit down and he would tell her about his day as the owner of London’s largest newspaper.
As if on cue, the slamming of the front door signaled his arrival. His voice boomed through the downstairs rooms. “Emily? I’m home.”
The smile that tipped up her mouth wasn’t as forced as it had been six weeks earlier. In fact, if she paid attention to the butterflies in her stomach, she would realize she was actually happy to see him.
“That’s what spending too much time alone will do,” she mumbled as she made her way to the foyer. “As well as making one talk to oneself.”
Mr. Rossi was standing just inside the front door, shrugging out of his topcoat. When he had passed it to Morgan, who turned out to be much more than a driver, he crossed the marble floor, his heels ringing against the stone. Even Emily had to admit the deep green waistcoat and black wool breeches suited him, although she tried to keep the admiration for his appearance out of her eyes.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rossi.” His grin was only slightly mocking, his brown eyes gleaming with good humor. “How was your day?”
It was the same every day. He called her Mrs. Rossi and asked about her day. Oddly, the routine of it was soothing. Emily never thought she needed or wanted routine in her life. When she was living in the country all she wished for was a little excitement. Now, the very idea of the predictable made her feel safe.
Emily shook her head and fought against returning his smile. “Lady Emily,” she corrected , without heat. “And my day was fine.”
Stepping closer, Mr. Rossi rested his hands at her waist. His body barely brushed against hers, and she held herself rigid to prevent any unnecessary contact. Staring down at her, he murmured, “Kiss me, Emily.”
Again, it was the same thing he had said every day since they arrived at the London house. He never asked for more than a kiss. Never. But he wanted her to kiss him anytime he asked. Oh, he would not force her. She knew, because in the beginning there were a handful of times she had refused. Now, she can’t remember why she told him no. There was no reason, really. It was more to retain some semblance of control over her own destiny than to rebel against him. That he seemed to understand and to accept her desire for control both irritated and intrigued her.
Anticipation fluttering through her, she raised her hands to his shoulders, leaned forward and fitted her mouth to his. He tasted of pipe smoke, both bitter and sweet. He tasted familiar. Even as his hands tightened on her waist, even as his lips parted against hers, she wondered when finding comfort in their daily routine had become her truth.
With a quiet grunt of what sounded like approval, Mr. Rossi flicked his tongue along her bottom lip. He had done that more and more often over the past couple of weeks. At first, Emily had recoiled. The very idea of his tongue inside her mouth disgusted her. But, with a patience that surprised her, he persisted. Gently, he coaxed until Emily not only allowed the kiss, she found herself participating.
She can remember vividly the first time his tongue swept into her mouth and slipped over hers. Surprised at the heat and roughness of it, what she had thought would be revolting suddenly became the center of her world.
Standing there in the foyer, she willingly parted her lips, willingly allowed him to deepen the kiss. His hands on her waist pulled her closer, and she went without hesitation. Then her body was pressed against his, her breasts flattened against his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck, her hands brushing through the silky strands of his hair. And she ached; her heart and her breasts and between her legs all ached in the most pleasurable way.
Confused by her body’s reaction, Emily quickly pulled away. “I wish you wouldn’t do that here.” She fought against the desire to wipe her mouth, fought against the urge to kiss him again. Instead, she lifted her head and gave him her haughtiest stare.
For just a second, irritation flared in his eyes. Then a lopsided grin slid over his mouth and a familiar twinkle lit his eyes. “It’s my house. I will do as I please.” Holding out his arm he waited for her to take it. “I’m starving; let’s take our tea in the study today.”
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Emily perched on the edge of the tufted leather chair and watched as the maid placed the tea tray on the table.
“Would you like me to pour, my lady?” Kate stood, hands clasped in front of her and awaited Emily’s instruction.
Smiling warmly, Emily shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll take care of it.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Bobbing a curtsey, Kate hurried from the room and closed the door quietly behind her.
Emily leaned forward, and with deft movements, poured tea into two paper thin china cups. Fragrant steam wafted around her as she added a lump of sugar to each cup and stirred, the spoon never making contact with the delicate china. Finally, she passed one to Mr. Rossi and took one for herself. After taking a sip, she placed her cup and saucer carefully on the table to her side and let out a quiet sigh.
“Would you care for a scone?” she asked, already reaching for one of the plates on the tray.
When he nodded, Emily placed a scone on the plate then added several spoonfuls of clotted cream and a heaping spoon of jam, before holding the plate out for him to take. He plucked it from her hand, a thoughtful look on his face.
Pausing in the process of preparing a scone for herself, Emily watched him nervously. “What? Is there something wrong?”
“No, nothing is wrong.” He shook his head slowly. “When did you learn how I take my tea and how many spoons of cream to put on my scone? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were interested in my likes and dislikes.”
Flustered, Emily dropped the spoon into the bowl of jam, the metal clattering noisily against the edge. “I…” she swallowed, silently cursing the heat she could feel along her cheekbones. “We’ve done this almost every day for six weeks. It doesn’t take a brilliant mind to figure it out.”
“Ah, Lady Emily, you wound me.” He chuckled and lifted his cup for a sip of tea.
She settled back in her chair and used the edge of her fork to cut off a bit of scone. Just before raising the bite to her mouth, she let her eyes rake over him. “You look perfectly healthy to me. I doubt my words have had any effect on your ego, my lord.”
His laughter was sharp and startling. “Sparring with you has become one of the highlights of my day.”
Not sure what to make of that, Emily merely popped the forkful of scone into her mouth and chewed slowly. Sometimes she was sure he disliked her as much as she did him. Then he would do or say something that intimated he cared about her, at least a tiny amount. Those were the times she lost sight of why she was married to him and allowed herself to think about having something more.
She swallowed and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Tell me about your day.”
Emily listened intently as he gave her the news from Parliament, where things were in a state of upheaval, as the members tried to keep up with the ever-changing needs of the people it was designed to govern. Unlike the fanciful conversations she’d been forced to endure with other men, conversations about nothing more important than the weather, Mr. Rossi talked to her. He seemed to enjoy answering her questions and hearing her opinions. It wasn’t until Kate returned to collect the tea try that Emily realized how much time had passed.
“Oh my!” She turned to look at the clock sitting on the mantle. “I should get ready for dinner.” She rose, running a hand over her hair, feeling the loose strands around her face. “I had Cook set a table in the back parlor. If that’s acceptable.”
“Whatever you wish.” He stood and laid a hand on her arm, holding her in place. “I have something for you.”
Without ceremony, he moved around behind the desk, pulled open a drawer and withdrew a package wrapped in plain paper tied with a single ribbon. Handing it to her, he urged, “Open it.”
“But I didn’t get you a gift.”
“Ah, but I got one for you.” When she made no move to open the package, he continued, “It’s not a contest, Emily. Now open your gift.”
Flustered, she tugged on the end of the bow. When it was loose, she slid it off the package and dropped it on the desk. Then, with fingers that trembled, she spread the edges of the paper. Reverently, she lifted the leather bound volume from its wrapping and ran her fingers over the cover. It was smooth and cool against her skin. Opening it, she allowed her eyes to flutter closed as she inhaled deeply. The smells of paper and leather and ink assailed her; smells she had always associated with escape from her everyday world. Finally, she opened her eyes and read the title.
“Frankenstein?” It was the novel people were just beginning to whisper about. Published two years earlier by an anonymous author, there were a very limited number in print. That he had taken the time to track it down, that he understood she would rather have this than anything published by Jane Austen, spoke volumes about Mr. Rossi.
Her voice shaking, Emily looked up at him. “I…I don’t know what to say.”
A shadow passed over his face. In a flat voice, he said, “If it isn’t to your liking, I can always get you something else.”
“No!” Emily’s yelp seemed to startle him almost as much as it did her. “No,” she repeated more calmly. “I… Nobody has ever given me something so perfect.”
Mr. Rossi drew in a deep breath and gave her a lopsided smile. “I thought we could read it together.” He dragged a hand over his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers. “In the evenings. Something to pass the time.”
It struck Emily that she had never seen him look as unsure as he did at that moment. Maybe, she told herself, he really was concerned she wouldn’t like the gift. But that seemed ridiculous. He was still the most arrogant man she had ever met. A simple gift couldn’t possibly make him doubt himself. Giving a mental shrug, she called a smile to her face.
“That would be lovely.” Emily realized she meant it. It would be nice to read to him and have him read to her, to share their impressions, to spend time together. Confused by the emotions rolling around just below her skin, Emily cradled the book to her chest defensively. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“Go up and get changed. I’ll have Cook hold dinner for another hour.” When she would have left the book, he shook his head. “Take it with you. Maybe we can start reading tonight.”
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
A fire was burning brightly in the fireplace of the sitting room of the master suite when Emily retired there after dinner. The pale yellow drapes were drawn across the windows, hiding the rainy night from her gaze. Settling onto the settee near the hearth, she debated on beginning to read, then decided to wait for Mr. Rossi, who was downstairs in the study having an after dinner whiskey. With a resigned sigh, she picked up the needlework she had abandoned days earlier and began to ply the fabric with needle and thread.
It was mindless work, and she took the opportunity to let her thoughts wander. Over the past couple of weeks, she had begun to formulate a plan to relieve her boredom. She was confident she had worked everything out in her mind: all the arguments, all the benefits, all the drawbacks. She had an answer for every possible question Mr. Rossi might raise. The problem was finding the right time to broach the subject.
Distracted, Emily jumped as the needle pierced her finger. Reflexively, she raised her hand to her mouth and sucked at the drop of blood that had appeared there. Suddenly, she was assailed by a memory from their wedding night. At the time, she hadn’t really thought much of it, at least not as an indication of his feelings for her.
Emily was standing beside the bed, uncertainty making her reluctant to crawl beneath the covers. She watched in silence as Mr. Rossi moved about the room dousing the lamps, puddles of shadow following in his wake. Finally, he turned and saw her hovering there.
Shoving his hands on his hips, he stood there, clad in nothing more than an undershirt and y-fronts, bare legs firmly planted. His entire body canted toward her in a pose that was nothing if not confrontational. “Emily, I’ve already told you there is nothing to fear from me. Get into bed.”
“I…” She swallowed, grateful that he couldn’t see her blush in the dimness of the room. “Shouldn’t there be blood?”
For a long moment he stood there, his brow drawn down in confusion. Then he began to chuckle. The chuckle turned into a belly laugh. At that moment, she wanted to hit him. To pummel him. How dare he make fun of her, humiliate her?
“Stop it!” She hissed the words at him, venom in every syllable. “If all you can do is stand there and laugh then I will let the servants believe whatever they want.”
“What?” he shot back. “That you weren’t a virgin?”
She crossed the room then, hands clenched into tight fists. “I will have you know that I, unlike some people, come into this…union…never having lain with anyone.”
“Are you jealous?” His lips twisted up in a smirk and the usual teasing glint was missing from his eyes.
Barking out a shocked laugh, she shook her head. “You are insane. Being jealous would imply that I care one wit about what you do.”
He opened his mouth to retort then seemed to lose the will. Running a hand through his hair, he looked as her with eyes as flat and emotionless as a serpent’s as he asked, “Do you have a pin?”
For several seconds she simply stared at him. The change of subject served to let the air out of her sails. But the look in his eyes troubled her in a way she couldn’t quite pinpoint. If she didn’t know better she would think she had hurt him with her barb.
“What kind of pin?” She took a step back, her mind racing to figure out what he would be doing with a pin.
“A needle, a pin, something sharp.” He looked at her then as if she were daft. “Something I can use to prick my finger.”
“What? Why?”
“Well,” he bit out, “our options are limited. I can stick my finger and smear blood on the sheets. Or I can stick yours.” When she instinctively shoved her hands behind her back, he nodded. “Well, there’s one other option.”
“I have a hat pin.” Emily dashed across the room and pulled a hat box from atop the wardrobe. Lifting the lid, she extracted the pin and held it out for him to take.
She watched as he calmly took the pin from her and jabbed it into the pad of his thumb, wincing as the tip penetrated his skin. When blood appeared, he crossed to the bed, drew the covers back and rubbed his thumb on the cotton, leaving a dark red stain.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Rossi’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she jumped at the sudden intrusion.
Yanking her finger from her mouth, Emily balled her hand into a fist in her lap. “I’m fine.”
“Let me see.” He crossed the room, his long legs carrying him quickly to her side. He sat down beside her and took her hand in his; he uncurled her fingers and stared down at the drop of blood welling from the tiny hole in her index finger. Without hesitation, he bent his head and touched his lips to her fingertip.
Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air in the room. Emily wasn’t sure how or why, but it was gone, and with it, her will to protest. She knew she should pull away, should be outraged at the intimacy. Instead, she found herself trembling as his mustache brushed over her skin. Then his tongue laved her finger, and the feelings from earlier were back. Vaguely, she wondered if this was lust - this fullness in her breasts, this hollow weight in the pit of her stomach, this hot tingle in her most feminine place.
She could feel his eyes on her, watching her, could feel his lips curve into a smile. When he drew away, she bit her bottom lip to stop the whimper of protest that rose in her throat. The glint in his eyes said he knew a secret. More specifically, he knew her secret. Jerking her hand away, Emily turned her head to study the fire.
When did this man’s touch become something her body responded to? When did this man’s touch become something she wanted instead of abhorred?
Mr. Rossi placed a rough finger against her cheek and turned her face to his. “You are a beautiful woman, Emily. One day you shall cease to fight me, and I will make you feel more than you ever thought possible.”
She wanted to be angry, but there was something in his voice, a sincerity that told her he wasn’t teasing or bragging. There was longing in his look, gentleness in his touch. For that moment, Emily allowed herself to believe he might actually want her for more than just the social benefits their marriage could afford him.
“I’m sure I feel what any woman feels.” She tried for haughty, wanting nothing more than to put this entire instance behind them. But the words sounded weak and unsure, even to her.
“Are you?” His voice was soft and warm. More than words, his question was a caress. “You know what it feels like to make love to a man?”
Once again, Emily braced herself for the rush of anger such words should have engendered. She waited for it, hoping to use it to put some distance between them. Once again, it failed to come. Lust, hot and sweet, like warm honey, rolled through her veins. Trapped by his gaze, she struggled to draw in a breath. He reached out and trailed a finger over her mouth, and she was shocked at the rightness of his skin against hers. She had kissed him hundreds of times, and none of them had felt as intimate as this one touch.
“Kiss me, Emily.”
Deep and slightly uneven, his words slid over her. He made no move to touch her, but the hint of challenge in his voice and the hot glint in his eyes was more than enough to have gooseflesh rising on her arms. She shivered. Not because the room was cold. She neither noticed nor cared about the temperature. No, she shook from the force of her wanting, and from the conflict that wanting caused.
Drawn to him, unable to break the spell he was weaving around her with his voice and his eyes, Emily turned her body to his. She expected him to reach for her, wanted him to take the decision away from her. But he waited, allowing her to make the decision. Still she wavered, her body swaying against the pull of his, hoping against hope this aching need would pass.
“Emily.” He murmured her name, and she felt each syllable pull at her.
Fear gripped her; fear of the unknown, fear of opening herself up to this man, fear of being hurt. It was this fear that kept her rooted in place when every fiber of her being was screaming at her to kiss him, to take the first step on this path with him. Gripping her skirt with trembling hands, Emily closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, hoping to steady herself.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Don’t you want to read this evening?” Even to her, the question sounded inane. She knew neither of them had any desire to read or play one of the board games they normally engaged in. There was too much electricity in the air to allow either of them to concentrate on such mundane things. Tonight, no matter how she tried to avoid it, she was going to allow him more than a simple kiss.
Mr. Rossi shook his head, a rueful smile playing about his full mouth. “No.”
She swallowed hard, and forced her fingers to loosen their hold on her skirt. On legs that wobbled dangerously, Emily leaned toward him, until her breasts brushed against his chest, until she could feel his thigh pressed against her skirt. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she kissed him.
He tasted of whiskey, and Emily wondered if just that could make her intoxicated. Surely, that was the only way to explain the lightheadedness that had her clinging to his shoulders and parting her lips under his without a second’s hesitation. In the back of her mind, she cautioned herself to slow down. But her body refused to listen. She pressed closer, sliding her hands around to the back of his neck, and wondered at the quiet moan that escaped him.
Mr. Rossi settled one hand at the small of her back and used the other to cup the back of her head. His strong fingers cradled her while he used his mouth to ravish hers - gentleness and savagery in everything thing he did. Every move of his lips, every stroke of his tongue tugged at an invisible string that ran straight through her center to the secret place between her thighs. What had started as a tingle was now an ache.
Without warning, he tore his mouth from hers and trailed his lips along her jaw to her ear. “Do you trust me?”
Before she could form the word his mouth was on hers, and she could tell this kiss, unlike all the others before it, had purpose. She hadn’t realized he was holding back in their prior exchanges, until now. But there was subtle dominance in his touch and his kiss was proprietary. His hands were in her hair, fumbling to release the pins, tugging at the strands until it fell around her shoulders. And all the while, he never stopped kissing her: tiny nips with his teeth, long needy sweeps of his tongue, and soft lingering presses of his lips to hers. Emily had never known there were so many kinds of kisses; each of them speaking to her in a way the others could not.
When finally she felt his fingers at the ribbons holding the bodice of her dress, Emily stiffened. But he was there, stroking his hands along her arms, soothing her. He whispered assurances, promising to ask no more than she was willing to give. His words and his touch continued to stoke the fire that was roaring through her veins, and before she realized what was happening, his mouth was running along the tops of her breasts.
He was looking up at her as his teeth grazed the soft skin of her chest. She could see the need blazing in his eyes, and his desire fed her own. She wanted to touch him, to have him touch her. In fact, if he didn’t do something to help ease the ache that was beginning to consume her, Emily was afraid she might just die from the wanting.
Everywhere he touched burned; her cheek, her throat, her shoulders, the delicate skin along her collarbones. Emily clung to him, her hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into the fine linen of his shirt. She had her eyes closed so tightly she could see colors swirl behind her lids. So concentrated was she on the way he was making her feel, she failed to notice him working her bodice down below her breasts.
Mr. Rossi paused in his ministrations, and nervous, Emily opened her eyes. He was looking at her, his gaze hot and heavy against her skin. She had seen her body in the mirror thousands of times over the course of her life. But she had never thought of how it would look to someone else. Never thought of how her breasts, full and firm and nicely rounded with nipples just a few shades different from her pale skin - the light pink of a blush - would look to a man. At that moment, with her dress and chemise around her waist, Emily was so self-conscious she barely resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands.
He loomed over her, pressing her against the arm of the settee. The carved wood was cutting into her back, and she wondered vaguely if she might have a bruise there later. Slowly, reverence in his every move, he bent his head and nuzzled the valley between her breasts. His mustache tickled while his afternoon beard scraped her delicate skin. Turning his head slightly left and then right, Mr. Rossi kissed each breast in turn.
While she was trying to catalogue the sensation of his warm lips against her skin…against that skin…he was sliding to the floor to kneel beside the settee. Then his hands were on her. One arm supported her while his other hand explored her body. His palm brushed over her nipples, his fingers lightly squeezed her breasts. And his mouth? His mouth ravaged hers. If she had been thinking clearly, been thinking at all, she would’ve used the word plundered. But she wasn’t thinking, only feeling.
Emily couldn’t process it all at once. She tried; her mind struggled to catalogue each touch, every kiss. But it was happening so fast, and yet, not fast enough. She wanted him to slow down, to let her absorb it all, and she wanted him to hurry, because the ache was unbearable. Her breasts felt swollen, tight and hard and…
“Oh, God!” she gasped as his mouth left hers to wrap tightly around a nipple. Then he began to suck, his lips tugging and releasing over and over until she wanted to weep from the sheer beauty of what he was doing for her.
Unconsciously, she arched her back and threaded her fingers through his hair, drawing him as close as possible. Instinct, something primal and dark and a little dangerous, had her clenching her thighs and rolling her hips in an effort to ease the delicious discomfort between her legs. She had never known, never imagined, it would be like this. The sharp bite of need that was concentrated at her very center, the knowledge that only his touch could bring her relief.
In a move that bordered on violent, he jerked himself away from her. With shaking hands, he began tugging his shirt over his head. Emily stared up at him with wide eyes, afraid to look away, lest he disappear. When the garment was nothing more than a pile of snow white linen on the floor, he removed his undershirt and dropped it as well. Then he took her hands in his and placed her palms against his chest.
As soon as she touched him, his eyes slammed closed and he tilted his face up toward heaven, his lips moving as if in prayer. With his flushed cheeks and mussed hair he looked untamed, and Emily felt a frisson of fear move through her. Then he looked down at her and smiled that crooked smile, and she was lost in the feel of him once again.
Curious, Emily allowed herself to look at him the way he had looked at her. So different from her own soft curves, he was broad and muscular. His skin was warm and alive under her fingers. The smattering of hair tickled her hands as she slid them over him. She brushed over the flat discs of his nipples, intrigued by the hiss of his indrawn breath.
All her attention was focused on the textures of Mr. Rossi; smooth and rough, soft and hard, his torso was a tactile feast that she was intent on partaking of. She was so focused, so concentrated she didn’t realize he had unbuttoned his pants until he took her hand and guided it to his exposed penis. Shock ran through her and Emily jerked her hand away.
“What are you doing?” Emily stared up at him, horrified, deliberately keeping her eyes on his face.
“Emily,” he groaned. “Please touch me.”
She couldn’t help it, she let her eyes lower, bobbing down and then up for a quick glimpse. Not sure what she expected to see, Emily couldn’t deny that what she saw made her want to touch him. But more than that, she wanted to look at him. She wondered what that said about her, that she could be interested in seeing him naked. Hands clenched into fists, pressed tightly against her abdomen, she looked.
He’s beautiful, she realized. His manhood jutted out at her from a nest of dark curls. The shaft was dark red, angry looking, and the tip flared out like a blunt sword. The skin was stretched so tight around the head that it had begun to slide back, exposing smoother skin so engorged it was almost purple. And she wanted to touch it, to test the weight of it, to know if the skin was a satiny as it appeared.
“I…” She swallowed hard, refusing to meet his eyes. “I don’t know…”
Gently, he took her hand in his. “I’ll teach you.”
When she nodded, he used his hand to wrap hers around his erection. For a second or two, or maybe more, Emily simply held him in her hand. So many things were running through her mind as she tried to sort out what she was feeling. He was hot and heavy against her palm, his heat burning into her, marking her as his in some invisible way. Without thinking, she tightened her fingers around him.
“Yes,” he hissed, his head dropping forward until his chin rested on his chest. “Just like that.”
Unsure of what to do, Emily trailed her fingers along his length, tracing the thick vein along the underside of his shaft, and he urged her on. She skimmed a fingernail around the head, and he stopped breathing. When she squeezed again, his hips jerked against her hand and he groaned. Again, she thought, allowing his reactions to guide her through this uncharted territory. Emboldened, Emily moved her fingers over his velvety skin with more pressure, more assurance. She felt him tremble and, in that very second, began to realize her power over him. With heavy-lidded eyes she watched his face, intrigued and even more aroused by the play of emotions there.
He wasn’t idle. His hands roamed her body; her breasts, her stomach, her waist…everywhere. With his hands and mouth, he worshipped her. He whispered to her of beauty and grace, of sex and love. With every brush of his skin against hers, with every breath, every word, every kiss, he transported her to a place she had never imagined, a place of sensations so intense she could scarcely breathe.
When Mr. Rossi’s fingers first touched her calf, Emily jumped. She had been so overwhelmed by his lovemaking that she hadn’t even noticed when he began working his hand under her skirt. He was feathering his fingers along the inside of her knee, and she felt her thigh muscles loosening, her legs dropping open in anticipation. Wanton, the word rolled through her mind, and she tensed under his touch.
“Don’t. Just relax.” His words were a whispered groan against her breastbone. “It’s going to be so good. I’ll make it good.”
He stroked along the inside of her thighs, and Emily trembled. She wanted this, wanted his touch, wanted to know if there was more pleasure to be had. Somehow, she knew there was, knew he would be the one to bring her to heights she had never even imagined. Sighing, she tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his face up to hers. Then, he was kissing her and he was hot and thick against her palm and his hand was tugging at the tie on her pantaloons. And when they were loose, he slipped inside and brushed over her sex.
For a long moment Emily’s breath was caught in her lungs before escaping on a moan so quiet it was almost a sigh. The stroke of his fingers against her swollen flesh was more than she had ever imagined it could be and yet not enough. She was so aroused, so sensitive to even the slightest pressure, that his touch, while exquisite, was almost painful.
With her eyes closed, Emily could hear the blood rushing past her ears, could feel her heart racing beneath her breasts, fluttering like a bird in a cage, could feel the same thundering beat between her thighs. It seemed that her pulse was driven by every press of his palm against her mound, by the slip and slide of his calloused digits between the lips of her sex; in fact, all her attention was focused just there, at the place where Mr. Rossi’s finger was slowly, steadily pushing into her body.
He was kissing her, short, hard presses of his lips to her lips, to her cheeks, to her throat and chest. When he reached her breasts, he used his tongue and his teeth, nipping and soothing her nipples until they were standing up in hard, tight peaks. Then his mouth was on hers again, his tongue thrusting between her lips in a beautiful counterpoint to the thrusts of his finger into her vagina. Push and pull, in and out, and Emily chased him, her mouth clinging to his, her tongue slipping between his teeth to slide against his, her hips rising and falling with every slow, slippery push of his hand.
She could feel it building, the need like a razor’s edge against her skin. The ache between her legs was spreading down the insides of her thighs and up into the pit of her belly. Opening her legs just a bit more, she pushed back against his hand, forcing him as deep as their bodies would allow. As if from a great distance she heard him moan, heard him say her name, but nothing mattered except the delicious tingle that was beginning just where his thumb was pressing against a tiny spot at the top of her vulva.
And then it exploded. The tingle and the heat turned into a blend of pleasure and pain that rippled through her entire body in waves. Light and sound, even time seemed to expand and contract with every pulse of her muscles. Every sense was on high alert. She could smell the earthy musk of her release, could hear a mewling sound that she realized was coming from her. And then, with a shout that bordered on triumphant, Mr. Rossi thrust hard against the hand that was still gripping his engorged penis. His semen, thick and hot, ran down over her thumb and fingers. His smell, tangier and sharper than hers, drifted on the thick air. Emily forced her eyes open then, watching his face as she slipped her thumb over the head of his penis, smearing the viscous white fluid across his still throbbing flesh.
Mr. Rossi’s eyes slid open and he stared down at her with something akin to wonder in his eyes. Gently, he slipped his finger from her body, and Emily had to bite down on her lip to stop the whimper that almost escaped. Still, he must have read her reaction in her eyes, because he smiled before raising his hand to his mouth and sucking his finger inside. Emily didn’t know if she should be mesmerized or horrified. Honestly, all she did know at that moment was that she wanted to do this with him again. As many times as possible.
Without a word, he retrieved his undershirt and used it to clean her hand. Suddenly, Emily realized just how she must look. Her skirts were up around her thighs and her bodice was around her waist. Her breasts were on display. He must think she was as shameless as she was beginning to feel. With her free hand, she began to tug at the top of her dress.
Mr. Rossi laid a hand over hers. “Don’t.” He shook his head, dark eyes full of emotions she couldn’t quite decipher. “You are so beautiful.”
“What must you think of me?” She tugged ineffectually against his grip.
“Oh, Emily,” he bent until his mouth just brushed her ear, his breath tickling her. “I think of you all day, every day, in more ways than you could begin to imagine. I have been so patient, needing to touch you, wanting to see you just like this. And now…” He swallowed. “Now that I’ve tasted you, I find I only want more.”
The rumble of his voice, the gossamer brush of his mustache over the curve of her ear, the warm caress of his breath had her melting again. The ache between her thighs was back - not as strong but still present. Suddenly, instead of trying to pull away from him, she was guiding his hands to her breasts and arching into his touch.
His hands shook as the raked along her sides and across her stomach. His kiss was hungrier, harder, more demanding than it had ever been and Emily found herself responding in kind. Her fingers dug into the firm muscles of his back, and she used her teeth to nip at his bottom lip. It seemed that the more he asked the more she was willing to give, and the more she wanted in return.
With a groan, Mr. Rossi pulled away from her and stood up. He took a second to steady himself after kneeling on the floor for so long. Then he reached down and tugged her to her feet.
“I’m going to take you to bed now.”
Emily didn’t have time think about what he said before she was lifted from her feet, her body held against his close to his chest. He carried her across the room and through the door into the bedchamber. Stopping beside the bed, he let her down slowly until her feet once again touched the ground.
The heat in his eyes warmed her, set her blood to boiling so that she didn’t even feel the chill of the room. With little effort, he worked her dress up until he could lift it over her head. Then, with hands that were hot against her skin, he began plucking at the ties on her petticoat. And when he dipped his head and placed a hot, open mouth kiss against the top of her breast, time blurred for Emily.
Soon, without quite remembering how it happened, she was naked and sprawled across the bed with Mr. Rossi stretched out beside her. And he was naked, gloriously naked and warm and touching her from head to toe. The only sounds in the room were of the fire snapping in the hearth and their ragged breathing.
His scent surrounded her; soap and sweat and warm skin mingled to create an odor that was uniquely his. And underlying that were the scents of arousal, both hers and his, their two aromas blending on the cool air.
Mr. Rossi was sucking her nipples, his body pressing hers in to the bed, his erection hard against her hip. Emily’s back was arched, her fingers tangled in his hair, her body instinctively riding the hard muscles of the thigh he had pressed between her legs.
When he began peppering kisses along her ribcage and over the soft skin of her stomach, Emily simply tightened her fingers in his silky hair and pressed up against his lips. His tongue drew a circle around her navel and then trailed lower and lower. Before she fully realized his intent, he had slipped between her thighs and pressed his mouth to her sex.
“Oh? Oh!” She moaned out, hips lifting off the mattress. She had thought his fingers felt good. And they had. But not as good as this. This was hot and wet and so incredibly wonderful. He ran his tongue along her lips in long broad strokes then pressed hungry, open-mouthed kisses there. With fingers that trembled, he spread her open and pushed his tongue inside her where his finger had been just a short while before, and Emily was sure she might just die from all the feelings tumbling around inside her.
Then he slid his mouth up and suckled.
Her cry was strangled, a gasping plea for God. Fingers twisting in the sheets, she spread her legs as wide as possible and pushed up into his mouth. She could feel his hands grasping her hips, knew he was trying to hold her still, but she was beyond the point of being able to stop her response. She hadn’t known, had never even imagined such intense pleasure existed. She was on fire, her whole body burning from the inside out. And she wanted more. Knew, in some deep recess of her mind, she would always want more of these feelings, of this man.
She could feel his fingers at her entrance, a gentle pressure that seemed such a contrast to everything else that was happening. He dipped inside then pulled away, over and over until she heard herself asking him for more.
“Please,” she whispered. “Oh, God, please.”
Slowly, tortuously, he pressed into her. His fingers - surely there must be more than one - stretching her in a way that had her holding her breath. He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes studying her face.
“Is this all right?” He placed a soft kiss just above her pubic hair. “Am I hurting you?”
Releasing the breath she had been holding, Emily willed herself to relax. “No,” she shook her head. “I want…” She trailed off; unbelievably embarrassed by the words she wanted to say.
Still watching her, Mr. Rossi began to move his fingers. It was the same in and out motion as before, but the way her muscles were stretching to accommodate him made it different. “Tell me what you want, Emily. Don’t be ashamed. There are no secrets here.”
Biting her bottom lip and rolling her hips against his hand, she held on for just another moment. Then the words came out on a rush of air. “More. I want more.”
And he gave her more. He took her body to the edge time and time again, only to hesitate there, refusing to push her over. And all the while, Emily desperately sought the release he seemed determined to withhold. By the time the orgasm took her, her body was slick with sweat and she was practically mindless with need.
Then, and only then, did he slide up until his face was even with hers, until his hips were pressed against her, until her breasts were flattened against his chest. Then, and only then, did he brush the hair out of her eyes and smile down at her and say, “I’m going to take you now, Emily.”
His voice was a rasp, almost unrecognizable, and the look in his eyes was both loving and predatory. When she nodded, unable to deny him anything, he kissed her. His mouth was slick with her juices and she was intrigued, and a little unnerved, by the very idea of tasting herself in such a way.
He was shaking, his body trembling every place that it touched hers. But his mouth was hot and hungry and his heart was slamming against his ribs so hard that she could feel it. And she knew, in a way that all women know, that his desire for her was almost beyond his control.
She watched the muscles of his jaw work as he reached between them and steadied his manhood at her opening. She watched his eyes slam closed and his nostrils flare as he sucked in air. She watched him until she felt the pain begin. Without realizing it, she must have made a sound, some little noise that told him she was hurting, because he stopped. Stopped breathing. Stopped moving. Just stopped.
But he wasn’t the only one who wanted this, who wanted to be joined in the most primitive way two people could be. Emily wanted it too. Biting her lip, she pushed her hips up, rocking against him, urging him on. He was watching her again, she could feel his eyes on her, and so she looked up at him. The question was there. And she answered it by rocking against him yet again. Suddenly, they were moving together, the rhythm of their bodies driving them closer and closer to the inevitable.
Then, with a press of his lips to her cheek and a whispered, “Relax. Let me.”, against her ear, Mr. Rossi pressed forward and he was inside her. And she wanted to weep.
Why had no one ever told her? All those women who had taken such delight in talking about their experiences, none of them ever talked about this. Maybe because there were no words that could adequately describe it. After all, how did one describe the joining of two souls?
His face was buried in her neck, his breath hot and damp against her, and every exhalation sent a shiver along her spine. There was a fine tremor moving just under his skin. Emily could feel it in her fingertips and against the insides of her thighs. She could feel him throbbing inside her, stretching her, molding her. And somehow she knew she would never be the same.
After pressing his lips to the side of her throat, Mr. Rossi lifted his head and looked down at her. “I’m not going to last long.”
Confused, Emily gave her head a slight shake. “It’s all right.”
Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth, sparkled in his eyes. “You say that now. But next time…” He trailed off then leaned down to brush his lips over hers.
Slowly, he began to move, and Emily realized he might be right. Next time, she would want this part to last forever. With her eyes closed, she concentrated on the way he felt buried inside her, the way he felt when he slid in and out. She concentrated on the sweet ache of having him there, of having him where no other had ever been, where no other would ever be
I love him, she realized, her eyes flying open in shock.
She wasn’t sure how it happened or when it happened, but it had happened. And she had no idea what to do about it.
Then he slipped a hand beneath her knee and raised it up until her leg was at his waist, and she didn’t have time to think about what a precarious position her heart was in. When he bent his head and dragged his tongue - rough and wet - over a nipple and she realized she would give him anything.
Emily gave herself over to the act of loving him; to the pounding of his heart against her chest, to the sweet press of his body into hers, to the way the sweat beaded along his hairline, to the way her heart seemed to swell with every stroke. She clung to the moment, to each and every sensation with every fiber of her being. She wanted to remember this time for the rest of her life, to look back in her dotage and know what it felt like to be young and adored.
That ache was back. Not as strong or as urgent as before, but still an ache that would soon demand relief. Under her hands, she could feel Mr. Rossi’s muscles tightening, his body trembling. The smooth ebb and flow of his stroke was quickly giving way to a more frenzied pace. His hips rose and fell, faster and faster, driving his body into hers, until, with a quiet grunt, he seemed to freeze there in her arms. His hips were pushing against her, grinding into her, and his breath was coming in short, harsh bursts. She could feel him pulsing inside her, and with a quiet sigh, she found her own release.
XXXXXXXXXXX
The lamps had been doused, and the fire was the only light left in the room. Emily was snuggled firmly against Mr. Rossi - her back to his front in the same way spoons might nest together. His arm was draped over her side, his hand resting possessively just under her breast. His breath puffed hot against the back of her neck.
Tentatively, still unsure of how she was supposed to behave after all the things that had just transpired, Emily ran her fingers over the exposed skin of his forearm. He was so warm and solid, the fine hairs teasing her fingertips.
Without thinking, perhaps emboldened by their intimacy, Emily blurted out the words she had been rehearsing for weeks.
“I would, sir, very much like for you to hire me to work at your paper.”
Authour: smacky30
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Pairing: Rossi/Prentis
Summary: The year is 1820 and Emily Prentiss is forced to marry in order to save her family from financial ruin. This part is a total Smutapaloosa. No excuses. :)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: This was written for mingsmommy who bid on me in thefandomaid auction to help Japan. Her prompt was 'circa 19th century - David Rossi is wealthy but untitled. The Prentiss family is titled but have lost much of their wealth and are burdened with a headstrong daughter. Bodice buster marriage of convenience.'
I want to give a shout out to mingsmommy and losingntrnslatn for putting up with me and doing my beta work. They are the bestest ever!
Valentine’s Day, and Emily had been married for just over six weeks. Those weeks had passed in a whirlwind of activity; teas and luncheons, plays and operas, and, of course, balls. Living in London was proving to be far more entertaining than she had ever imagined, but she missed her family terribly. She missed the quiet country mornings with the sun rising over the trees, painting the sky with pinks and oranges. She missed the hours spent in the gardens, reading or sketching. She missed JJ and Spencer and Cook and her father. Sometimes, when it was late at night and she couldn’t sleep, she even missed her mother.
Mr. Rossi’s home, while impressive, was lonely. Oh, the carpets were lush and the drapes made of rich fabrics. The windows were so clean they were practically invisible. Fireplaces added warmth, making even the formal parlor cozy and inviting. But there wasn’t enough laughter. It was as if the house were quietly waiting for something just out of reach. A sense of hushed expectancy surrounded Emily as she moved through the silent rooms.
The clock in the study chimed four times, signaling it was time for tea. With a quiet sigh, she tucked away the needlepoint she was working on and rose from her seat by the window. Soon Mr. Rossi would arrive, they would sit down and he would tell her about his day as the owner of London’s largest newspaper.
As if on cue, the slamming of the front door signaled his arrival. His voice boomed through the downstairs rooms. “Emily? I’m home.”
The smile that tipped up her mouth wasn’t as forced as it had been six weeks earlier. In fact, if she paid attention to the butterflies in her stomach, she would realize she was actually happy to see him.
“That’s what spending too much time alone will do,” she mumbled as she made her way to the foyer. “As well as making one talk to oneself.”
Mr. Rossi was standing just inside the front door, shrugging out of his topcoat. When he had passed it to Morgan, who turned out to be much more than a driver, he crossed the marble floor, his heels ringing against the stone. Even Emily had to admit the deep green waistcoat and black wool breeches suited him, although she tried to keep the admiration for his appearance out of her eyes.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rossi.” His grin was only slightly mocking, his brown eyes gleaming with good humor. “How was your day?”
It was the same every day. He called her Mrs. Rossi and asked about her day. Oddly, the routine of it was soothing. Emily never thought she needed or wanted routine in her life. When she was living in the country all she wished for was a little excitement. Now, the very idea of the predictable made her feel safe.
Emily shook her head and fought against returning his smile. “Lady Emily,” she corrected , without heat. “And my day was fine.”
Stepping closer, Mr. Rossi rested his hands at her waist. His body barely brushed against hers, and she held herself rigid to prevent any unnecessary contact. Staring down at her, he murmured, “Kiss me, Emily.”
Again, it was the same thing he had said every day since they arrived at the London house. He never asked for more than a kiss. Never. But he wanted her to kiss him anytime he asked. Oh, he would not force her. She knew, because in the beginning there were a handful of times she had refused. Now, she can’t remember why she told him no. There was no reason, really. It was more to retain some semblance of control over her own destiny than to rebel against him. That he seemed to understand and to accept her desire for control both irritated and intrigued her.
Anticipation fluttering through her, she raised her hands to his shoulders, leaned forward and fitted her mouth to his. He tasted of pipe smoke, both bitter and sweet. He tasted familiar. Even as his hands tightened on her waist, even as his lips parted against hers, she wondered when finding comfort in their daily routine had become her truth.
With a quiet grunt of what sounded like approval, Mr. Rossi flicked his tongue along her bottom lip. He had done that more and more often over the past couple of weeks. At first, Emily had recoiled. The very idea of his tongue inside her mouth disgusted her. But, with a patience that surprised her, he persisted. Gently, he coaxed until Emily not only allowed the kiss, she found herself participating.
She can remember vividly the first time his tongue swept into her mouth and slipped over hers. Surprised at the heat and roughness of it, what she had thought would be revolting suddenly became the center of her world.
Standing there in the foyer, she willingly parted her lips, willingly allowed him to deepen the kiss. His hands on her waist pulled her closer, and she went without hesitation. Then her body was pressed against his, her breasts flattened against his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck, her hands brushing through the silky strands of his hair. And she ached; her heart and her breasts and between her legs all ached in the most pleasurable way.
Confused by her body’s reaction, Emily quickly pulled away. “I wish you wouldn’t do that here.” She fought against the desire to wipe her mouth, fought against the urge to kiss him again. Instead, she lifted her head and gave him her haughtiest stare.
For just a second, irritation flared in his eyes. Then a lopsided grin slid over his mouth and a familiar twinkle lit his eyes. “It’s my house. I will do as I please.” Holding out his arm he waited for her to take it. “I’m starving; let’s take our tea in the study today.”
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Emily perched on the edge of the tufted leather chair and watched as the maid placed the tea tray on the table.
“Would you like me to pour, my lady?” Kate stood, hands clasped in front of her and awaited Emily’s instruction.
Smiling warmly, Emily shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll take care of it.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Bobbing a curtsey, Kate hurried from the room and closed the door quietly behind her.
Emily leaned forward, and with deft movements, poured tea into two paper thin china cups. Fragrant steam wafted around her as she added a lump of sugar to each cup and stirred, the spoon never making contact with the delicate china. Finally, she passed one to Mr. Rossi and took one for herself. After taking a sip, she placed her cup and saucer carefully on the table to her side and let out a quiet sigh.
“Would you care for a scone?” she asked, already reaching for one of the plates on the tray.
When he nodded, Emily placed a scone on the plate then added several spoonfuls of clotted cream and a heaping spoon of jam, before holding the plate out for him to take. He plucked it from her hand, a thoughtful look on his face.
Pausing in the process of preparing a scone for herself, Emily watched him nervously. “What? Is there something wrong?”
“No, nothing is wrong.” He shook his head slowly. “When did you learn how I take my tea and how many spoons of cream to put on my scone? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were interested in my likes and dislikes.”
Flustered, Emily dropped the spoon into the bowl of jam, the metal clattering noisily against the edge. “I…” she swallowed, silently cursing the heat she could feel along her cheekbones. “We’ve done this almost every day for six weeks. It doesn’t take a brilliant mind to figure it out.”
“Ah, Lady Emily, you wound me.” He chuckled and lifted his cup for a sip of tea.
She settled back in her chair and used the edge of her fork to cut off a bit of scone. Just before raising the bite to her mouth, she let her eyes rake over him. “You look perfectly healthy to me. I doubt my words have had any effect on your ego, my lord.”
His laughter was sharp and startling. “Sparring with you has become one of the highlights of my day.”
Not sure what to make of that, Emily merely popped the forkful of scone into her mouth and chewed slowly. Sometimes she was sure he disliked her as much as she did him. Then he would do or say something that intimated he cared about her, at least a tiny amount. Those were the times she lost sight of why she was married to him and allowed herself to think about having something more.
She swallowed and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Tell me about your day.”
Emily listened intently as he gave her the news from Parliament, where things were in a state of upheaval, as the members tried to keep up with the ever-changing needs of the people it was designed to govern. Unlike the fanciful conversations she’d been forced to endure with other men, conversations about nothing more important than the weather, Mr. Rossi talked to her. He seemed to enjoy answering her questions and hearing her opinions. It wasn’t until Kate returned to collect the tea try that Emily realized how much time had passed.
“Oh my!” She turned to look at the clock sitting on the mantle. “I should get ready for dinner.” She rose, running a hand over her hair, feeling the loose strands around her face. “I had Cook set a table in the back parlor. If that’s acceptable.”
“Whatever you wish.” He stood and laid a hand on her arm, holding her in place. “I have something for you.”
Without ceremony, he moved around behind the desk, pulled open a drawer and withdrew a package wrapped in plain paper tied with a single ribbon. Handing it to her, he urged, “Open it.”
“But I didn’t get you a gift.”
“Ah, but I got one for you.” When she made no move to open the package, he continued, “It’s not a contest, Emily. Now open your gift.”
Flustered, she tugged on the end of the bow. When it was loose, she slid it off the package and dropped it on the desk. Then, with fingers that trembled, she spread the edges of the paper. Reverently, she lifted the leather bound volume from its wrapping and ran her fingers over the cover. It was smooth and cool against her skin. Opening it, she allowed her eyes to flutter closed as she inhaled deeply. The smells of paper and leather and ink assailed her; smells she had always associated with escape from her everyday world. Finally, she opened her eyes and read the title.
“Frankenstein?” It was the novel people were just beginning to whisper about. Published two years earlier by an anonymous author, there were a very limited number in print. That he had taken the time to track it down, that he understood she would rather have this than anything published by Jane Austen, spoke volumes about Mr. Rossi.
Her voice shaking, Emily looked up at him. “I…I don’t know what to say.”
A shadow passed over his face. In a flat voice, he said, “If it isn’t to your liking, I can always get you something else.”
“No!” Emily’s yelp seemed to startle him almost as much as it did her. “No,” she repeated more calmly. “I… Nobody has ever given me something so perfect.”
Mr. Rossi drew in a deep breath and gave her a lopsided smile. “I thought we could read it together.” He dragged a hand over his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers. “In the evenings. Something to pass the time.”
It struck Emily that she had never seen him look as unsure as he did at that moment. Maybe, she told herself, he really was concerned she wouldn’t like the gift. But that seemed ridiculous. He was still the most arrogant man she had ever met. A simple gift couldn’t possibly make him doubt himself. Giving a mental shrug, she called a smile to her face.
“That would be lovely.” Emily realized she meant it. It would be nice to read to him and have him read to her, to share their impressions, to spend time together. Confused by the emotions rolling around just below her skin, Emily cradled the book to her chest defensively. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“Go up and get changed. I’ll have Cook hold dinner for another hour.” When she would have left the book, he shook his head. “Take it with you. Maybe we can start reading tonight.”
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
A fire was burning brightly in the fireplace of the sitting room of the master suite when Emily retired there after dinner. The pale yellow drapes were drawn across the windows, hiding the rainy night from her gaze. Settling onto the settee near the hearth, she debated on beginning to read, then decided to wait for Mr. Rossi, who was downstairs in the study having an after dinner whiskey. With a resigned sigh, she picked up the needlework she had abandoned days earlier and began to ply the fabric with needle and thread.
It was mindless work, and she took the opportunity to let her thoughts wander. Over the past couple of weeks, she had begun to formulate a plan to relieve her boredom. She was confident she had worked everything out in her mind: all the arguments, all the benefits, all the drawbacks. She had an answer for every possible question Mr. Rossi might raise. The problem was finding the right time to broach the subject.
Distracted, Emily jumped as the needle pierced her finger. Reflexively, she raised her hand to her mouth and sucked at the drop of blood that had appeared there. Suddenly, she was assailed by a memory from their wedding night. At the time, she hadn’t really thought much of it, at least not as an indication of his feelings for her.
Emily was standing beside the bed, uncertainty making her reluctant to crawl beneath the covers. She watched in silence as Mr. Rossi moved about the room dousing the lamps, puddles of shadow following in his wake. Finally, he turned and saw her hovering there.
Shoving his hands on his hips, he stood there, clad in nothing more than an undershirt and y-fronts, bare legs firmly planted. His entire body canted toward her in a pose that was nothing if not confrontational. “Emily, I’ve already told you there is nothing to fear from me. Get into bed.”
“I…” She swallowed, grateful that he couldn’t see her blush in the dimness of the room. “Shouldn’t there be blood?”
For a long moment he stood there, his brow drawn down in confusion. Then he began to chuckle. The chuckle turned into a belly laugh. At that moment, she wanted to hit him. To pummel him. How dare he make fun of her, humiliate her?
“Stop it!” She hissed the words at him, venom in every syllable. “If all you can do is stand there and laugh then I will let the servants believe whatever they want.”
“What?” he shot back. “That you weren’t a virgin?”
She crossed the room then, hands clenched into tight fists. “I will have you know that I, unlike some people, come into this…union…never having lain with anyone.”
“Are you jealous?” His lips twisted up in a smirk and the usual teasing glint was missing from his eyes.
Barking out a shocked laugh, she shook her head. “You are insane. Being jealous would imply that I care one wit about what you do.”
He opened his mouth to retort then seemed to lose the will. Running a hand through his hair, he looked as her with eyes as flat and emotionless as a serpent’s as he asked, “Do you have a pin?”
For several seconds she simply stared at him. The change of subject served to let the air out of her sails. But the look in his eyes troubled her in a way she couldn’t quite pinpoint. If she didn’t know better she would think she had hurt him with her barb.
“What kind of pin?” She took a step back, her mind racing to figure out what he would be doing with a pin.
“A needle, a pin, something sharp.” He looked at her then as if she were daft. “Something I can use to prick my finger.”
“What? Why?”
“Well,” he bit out, “our options are limited. I can stick my finger and smear blood on the sheets. Or I can stick yours.” When she instinctively shoved her hands behind her back, he nodded. “Well, there’s one other option.”
“I have a hat pin.” Emily dashed across the room and pulled a hat box from atop the wardrobe. Lifting the lid, she extracted the pin and held it out for him to take.
She watched as he calmly took the pin from her and jabbed it into the pad of his thumb, wincing as the tip penetrated his skin. When blood appeared, he crossed to the bed, drew the covers back and rubbed his thumb on the cotton, leaving a dark red stain.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Rossi’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she jumped at the sudden intrusion.
Yanking her finger from her mouth, Emily balled her hand into a fist in her lap. “I’m fine.”
“Let me see.” He crossed the room, his long legs carrying him quickly to her side. He sat down beside her and took her hand in his; he uncurled her fingers and stared down at the drop of blood welling from the tiny hole in her index finger. Without hesitation, he bent his head and touched his lips to her fingertip.
Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air in the room. Emily wasn’t sure how or why, but it was gone, and with it, her will to protest. She knew she should pull away, should be outraged at the intimacy. Instead, she found herself trembling as his mustache brushed over her skin. Then his tongue laved her finger, and the feelings from earlier were back. Vaguely, she wondered if this was lust - this fullness in her breasts, this hollow weight in the pit of her stomach, this hot tingle in her most feminine place.
She could feel his eyes on her, watching her, could feel his lips curve into a smile. When he drew away, she bit her bottom lip to stop the whimper of protest that rose in her throat. The glint in his eyes said he knew a secret. More specifically, he knew her secret. Jerking her hand away, Emily turned her head to study the fire.
When did this man’s touch become something her body responded to? When did this man’s touch become something she wanted instead of abhorred?
Mr. Rossi placed a rough finger against her cheek and turned her face to his. “You are a beautiful woman, Emily. One day you shall cease to fight me, and I will make you feel more than you ever thought possible.”
She wanted to be angry, but there was something in his voice, a sincerity that told her he wasn’t teasing or bragging. There was longing in his look, gentleness in his touch. For that moment, Emily allowed herself to believe he might actually want her for more than just the social benefits their marriage could afford him.
“I’m sure I feel what any woman feels.” She tried for haughty, wanting nothing more than to put this entire instance behind them. But the words sounded weak and unsure, even to her.
“Are you?” His voice was soft and warm. More than words, his question was a caress. “You know what it feels like to make love to a man?”
Once again, Emily braced herself for the rush of anger such words should have engendered. She waited for it, hoping to use it to put some distance between them. Once again, it failed to come. Lust, hot and sweet, like warm honey, rolled through her veins. Trapped by his gaze, she struggled to draw in a breath. He reached out and trailed a finger over her mouth, and she was shocked at the rightness of his skin against hers. She had kissed him hundreds of times, and none of them had felt as intimate as this one touch.
“Kiss me, Emily.”
Deep and slightly uneven, his words slid over her. He made no move to touch her, but the hint of challenge in his voice and the hot glint in his eyes was more than enough to have gooseflesh rising on her arms. She shivered. Not because the room was cold. She neither noticed nor cared about the temperature. No, she shook from the force of her wanting, and from the conflict that wanting caused.
Drawn to him, unable to break the spell he was weaving around her with his voice and his eyes, Emily turned her body to his. She expected him to reach for her, wanted him to take the decision away from her. But he waited, allowing her to make the decision. Still she wavered, her body swaying against the pull of his, hoping against hope this aching need would pass.
“Emily.” He murmured her name, and she felt each syllable pull at her.
Fear gripped her; fear of the unknown, fear of opening herself up to this man, fear of being hurt. It was this fear that kept her rooted in place when every fiber of her being was screaming at her to kiss him, to take the first step on this path with him. Gripping her skirt with trembling hands, Emily closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, hoping to steady herself.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Don’t you want to read this evening?” Even to her, the question sounded inane. She knew neither of them had any desire to read or play one of the board games they normally engaged in. There was too much electricity in the air to allow either of them to concentrate on such mundane things. Tonight, no matter how she tried to avoid it, she was going to allow him more than a simple kiss.
Mr. Rossi shook his head, a rueful smile playing about his full mouth. “No.”
She swallowed hard, and forced her fingers to loosen their hold on her skirt. On legs that wobbled dangerously, Emily leaned toward him, until her breasts brushed against his chest, until she could feel his thigh pressed against her skirt. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she kissed him.
He tasted of whiskey, and Emily wondered if just that could make her intoxicated. Surely, that was the only way to explain the lightheadedness that had her clinging to his shoulders and parting her lips under his without a second’s hesitation. In the back of her mind, she cautioned herself to slow down. But her body refused to listen. She pressed closer, sliding her hands around to the back of his neck, and wondered at the quiet moan that escaped him.
Mr. Rossi settled one hand at the small of her back and used the other to cup the back of her head. His strong fingers cradled her while he used his mouth to ravish hers - gentleness and savagery in everything thing he did. Every move of his lips, every stroke of his tongue tugged at an invisible string that ran straight through her center to the secret place between her thighs. What had started as a tingle was now an ache.
Without warning, he tore his mouth from hers and trailed his lips along her jaw to her ear. “Do you trust me?”
Before she could form the word his mouth was on hers, and she could tell this kiss, unlike all the others before it, had purpose. She hadn’t realized he was holding back in their prior exchanges, until now. But there was subtle dominance in his touch and his kiss was proprietary. His hands were in her hair, fumbling to release the pins, tugging at the strands until it fell around her shoulders. And all the while, he never stopped kissing her: tiny nips with his teeth, long needy sweeps of his tongue, and soft lingering presses of his lips to hers. Emily had never known there were so many kinds of kisses; each of them speaking to her in a way the others could not.
When finally she felt his fingers at the ribbons holding the bodice of her dress, Emily stiffened. But he was there, stroking his hands along her arms, soothing her. He whispered assurances, promising to ask no more than she was willing to give. His words and his touch continued to stoke the fire that was roaring through her veins, and before she realized what was happening, his mouth was running along the tops of her breasts.
He was looking up at her as his teeth grazed the soft skin of her chest. She could see the need blazing in his eyes, and his desire fed her own. She wanted to touch him, to have him touch her. In fact, if he didn’t do something to help ease the ache that was beginning to consume her, Emily was afraid she might just die from the wanting.
Everywhere he touched burned; her cheek, her throat, her shoulders, the delicate skin along her collarbones. Emily clung to him, her hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into the fine linen of his shirt. She had her eyes closed so tightly she could see colors swirl behind her lids. So concentrated was she on the way he was making her feel, she failed to notice him working her bodice down below her breasts.
Mr. Rossi paused in his ministrations, and nervous, Emily opened her eyes. He was looking at her, his gaze hot and heavy against her skin. She had seen her body in the mirror thousands of times over the course of her life. But she had never thought of how it would look to someone else. Never thought of how her breasts, full and firm and nicely rounded with nipples just a few shades different from her pale skin - the light pink of a blush - would look to a man. At that moment, with her dress and chemise around her waist, Emily was so self-conscious she barely resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands.
He loomed over her, pressing her against the arm of the settee. The carved wood was cutting into her back, and she wondered vaguely if she might have a bruise there later. Slowly, reverence in his every move, he bent his head and nuzzled the valley between her breasts. His mustache tickled while his afternoon beard scraped her delicate skin. Turning his head slightly left and then right, Mr. Rossi kissed each breast in turn.
While she was trying to catalogue the sensation of his warm lips against her skin…against that skin…he was sliding to the floor to kneel beside the settee. Then his hands were on her. One arm supported her while his other hand explored her body. His palm brushed over her nipples, his fingers lightly squeezed her breasts. And his mouth? His mouth ravaged hers. If she had been thinking clearly, been thinking at all, she would’ve used the word plundered. But she wasn’t thinking, only feeling.
Emily couldn’t process it all at once. She tried; her mind struggled to catalogue each touch, every kiss. But it was happening so fast, and yet, not fast enough. She wanted him to slow down, to let her absorb it all, and she wanted him to hurry, because the ache was unbearable. Her breasts felt swollen, tight and hard and…
“Oh, God!” she gasped as his mouth left hers to wrap tightly around a nipple. Then he began to suck, his lips tugging and releasing over and over until she wanted to weep from the sheer beauty of what he was doing for her.
Unconsciously, she arched her back and threaded her fingers through his hair, drawing him as close as possible. Instinct, something primal and dark and a little dangerous, had her clenching her thighs and rolling her hips in an effort to ease the delicious discomfort between her legs. She had never known, never imagined, it would be like this. The sharp bite of need that was concentrated at her very center, the knowledge that only his touch could bring her relief.
In a move that bordered on violent, he jerked himself away from her. With shaking hands, he began tugging his shirt over his head. Emily stared up at him with wide eyes, afraid to look away, lest he disappear. When the garment was nothing more than a pile of snow white linen on the floor, he removed his undershirt and dropped it as well. Then he took her hands in his and placed her palms against his chest.
As soon as she touched him, his eyes slammed closed and he tilted his face up toward heaven, his lips moving as if in prayer. With his flushed cheeks and mussed hair he looked untamed, and Emily felt a frisson of fear move through her. Then he looked down at her and smiled that crooked smile, and she was lost in the feel of him once again.
Curious, Emily allowed herself to look at him the way he had looked at her. So different from her own soft curves, he was broad and muscular. His skin was warm and alive under her fingers. The smattering of hair tickled her hands as she slid them over him. She brushed over the flat discs of his nipples, intrigued by the hiss of his indrawn breath.
All her attention was focused on the textures of Mr. Rossi; smooth and rough, soft and hard, his torso was a tactile feast that she was intent on partaking of. She was so focused, so concentrated she didn’t realize he had unbuttoned his pants until he took her hand and guided it to his exposed penis. Shock ran through her and Emily jerked her hand away.
“What are you doing?” Emily stared up at him, horrified, deliberately keeping her eyes on his face.
“Emily,” he groaned. “Please touch me.”
She couldn’t help it, she let her eyes lower, bobbing down and then up for a quick glimpse. Not sure what she expected to see, Emily couldn’t deny that what she saw made her want to touch him. But more than that, she wanted to look at him. She wondered what that said about her, that she could be interested in seeing him naked. Hands clenched into fists, pressed tightly against her abdomen, she looked.
He’s beautiful, she realized. His manhood jutted out at her from a nest of dark curls. The shaft was dark red, angry looking, and the tip flared out like a blunt sword. The skin was stretched so tight around the head that it had begun to slide back, exposing smoother skin so engorged it was almost purple. And she wanted to touch it, to test the weight of it, to know if the skin was a satiny as it appeared.
“I…” She swallowed hard, refusing to meet his eyes. “I don’t know…”
Gently, he took her hand in his. “I’ll teach you.”
When she nodded, he used his hand to wrap hers around his erection. For a second or two, or maybe more, Emily simply held him in her hand. So many things were running through her mind as she tried to sort out what she was feeling. He was hot and heavy against her palm, his heat burning into her, marking her as his in some invisible way. Without thinking, she tightened her fingers around him.
“Yes,” he hissed, his head dropping forward until his chin rested on his chest. “Just like that.”
Unsure of what to do, Emily trailed her fingers along his length, tracing the thick vein along the underside of his shaft, and he urged her on. She skimmed a fingernail around the head, and he stopped breathing. When she squeezed again, his hips jerked against her hand and he groaned. Again, she thought, allowing his reactions to guide her through this uncharted territory. Emboldened, Emily moved her fingers over his velvety skin with more pressure, more assurance. She felt him tremble and, in that very second, began to realize her power over him. With heavy-lidded eyes she watched his face, intrigued and even more aroused by the play of emotions there.
He wasn’t idle. His hands roamed her body; her breasts, her stomach, her waist…everywhere. With his hands and mouth, he worshipped her. He whispered to her of beauty and grace, of sex and love. With every brush of his skin against hers, with every breath, every word, every kiss, he transported her to a place she had never imagined, a place of sensations so intense she could scarcely breathe.
When Mr. Rossi’s fingers first touched her calf, Emily jumped. She had been so overwhelmed by his lovemaking that she hadn’t even noticed when he began working his hand under her skirt. He was feathering his fingers along the inside of her knee, and she felt her thigh muscles loosening, her legs dropping open in anticipation. Wanton, the word rolled through her mind, and she tensed under his touch.
“Don’t. Just relax.” His words were a whispered groan against her breastbone. “It’s going to be so good. I’ll make it good.”
He stroked along the inside of her thighs, and Emily trembled. She wanted this, wanted his touch, wanted to know if there was more pleasure to be had. Somehow, she knew there was, knew he would be the one to bring her to heights she had never even imagined. Sighing, she tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his face up to hers. Then, he was kissing her and he was hot and thick against her palm and his hand was tugging at the tie on her pantaloons. And when they were loose, he slipped inside and brushed over her sex.
For a long moment Emily’s breath was caught in her lungs before escaping on a moan so quiet it was almost a sigh. The stroke of his fingers against her swollen flesh was more than she had ever imagined it could be and yet not enough. She was so aroused, so sensitive to even the slightest pressure, that his touch, while exquisite, was almost painful.
With her eyes closed, Emily could hear the blood rushing past her ears, could feel her heart racing beneath her breasts, fluttering like a bird in a cage, could feel the same thundering beat between her thighs. It seemed that her pulse was driven by every press of his palm against her mound, by the slip and slide of his calloused digits between the lips of her sex; in fact, all her attention was focused just there, at the place where Mr. Rossi’s finger was slowly, steadily pushing into her body.
He was kissing her, short, hard presses of his lips to her lips, to her cheeks, to her throat and chest. When he reached her breasts, he used his tongue and his teeth, nipping and soothing her nipples until they were standing up in hard, tight peaks. Then his mouth was on hers again, his tongue thrusting between her lips in a beautiful counterpoint to the thrusts of his finger into her vagina. Push and pull, in and out, and Emily chased him, her mouth clinging to his, her tongue slipping between his teeth to slide against his, her hips rising and falling with every slow, slippery push of his hand.
She could feel it building, the need like a razor’s edge against her skin. The ache between her legs was spreading down the insides of her thighs and up into the pit of her belly. Opening her legs just a bit more, she pushed back against his hand, forcing him as deep as their bodies would allow. As if from a great distance she heard him moan, heard him say her name, but nothing mattered except the delicious tingle that was beginning just where his thumb was pressing against a tiny spot at the top of her vulva.
And then it exploded. The tingle and the heat turned into a blend of pleasure and pain that rippled through her entire body in waves. Light and sound, even time seemed to expand and contract with every pulse of her muscles. Every sense was on high alert. She could smell the earthy musk of her release, could hear a mewling sound that she realized was coming from her. And then, with a shout that bordered on triumphant, Mr. Rossi thrust hard against the hand that was still gripping his engorged penis. His semen, thick and hot, ran down over her thumb and fingers. His smell, tangier and sharper than hers, drifted on the thick air. Emily forced her eyes open then, watching his face as she slipped her thumb over the head of his penis, smearing the viscous white fluid across his still throbbing flesh.
Mr. Rossi’s eyes slid open and he stared down at her with something akin to wonder in his eyes. Gently, he slipped his finger from her body, and Emily had to bite down on her lip to stop the whimper that almost escaped. Still, he must have read her reaction in her eyes, because he smiled before raising his hand to his mouth and sucking his finger inside. Emily didn’t know if she should be mesmerized or horrified. Honestly, all she did know at that moment was that she wanted to do this with him again. As many times as possible.
Without a word, he retrieved his undershirt and used it to clean her hand. Suddenly, Emily realized just how she must look. Her skirts were up around her thighs and her bodice was around her waist. Her breasts were on display. He must think she was as shameless as she was beginning to feel. With her free hand, she began to tug at the top of her dress.
Mr. Rossi laid a hand over hers. “Don’t.” He shook his head, dark eyes full of emotions she couldn’t quite decipher. “You are so beautiful.”
“What must you think of me?” She tugged ineffectually against his grip.
“Oh, Emily,” he bent until his mouth just brushed her ear, his breath tickling her. “I think of you all day, every day, in more ways than you could begin to imagine. I have been so patient, needing to touch you, wanting to see you just like this. And now…” He swallowed. “Now that I’ve tasted you, I find I only want more.”
The rumble of his voice, the gossamer brush of his mustache over the curve of her ear, the warm caress of his breath had her melting again. The ache between her thighs was back - not as strong but still present. Suddenly, instead of trying to pull away from him, she was guiding his hands to her breasts and arching into his touch.
His hands shook as the raked along her sides and across her stomach. His kiss was hungrier, harder, more demanding than it had ever been and Emily found herself responding in kind. Her fingers dug into the firm muscles of his back, and she used her teeth to nip at his bottom lip. It seemed that the more he asked the more she was willing to give, and the more she wanted in return.
With a groan, Mr. Rossi pulled away from her and stood up. He took a second to steady himself after kneeling on the floor for so long. Then he reached down and tugged her to her feet.
“I’m going to take you to bed now.”
Emily didn’t have time think about what he said before she was lifted from her feet, her body held against his close to his chest. He carried her across the room and through the door into the bedchamber. Stopping beside the bed, he let her down slowly until her feet once again touched the ground.
The heat in his eyes warmed her, set her blood to boiling so that she didn’t even feel the chill of the room. With little effort, he worked her dress up until he could lift it over her head. Then, with hands that were hot against her skin, he began plucking at the ties on her petticoat. And when he dipped his head and placed a hot, open mouth kiss against the top of her breast, time blurred for Emily.
Soon, without quite remembering how it happened, she was naked and sprawled across the bed with Mr. Rossi stretched out beside her. And he was naked, gloriously naked and warm and touching her from head to toe. The only sounds in the room were of the fire snapping in the hearth and their ragged breathing.
His scent surrounded her; soap and sweat and warm skin mingled to create an odor that was uniquely his. And underlying that were the scents of arousal, both hers and his, their two aromas blending on the cool air.
Mr. Rossi was sucking her nipples, his body pressing hers in to the bed, his erection hard against her hip. Emily’s back was arched, her fingers tangled in his hair, her body instinctively riding the hard muscles of the thigh he had pressed between her legs.
When he began peppering kisses along her ribcage and over the soft skin of her stomach, Emily simply tightened her fingers in his silky hair and pressed up against his lips. His tongue drew a circle around her navel and then trailed lower and lower. Before she fully realized his intent, he had slipped between her thighs and pressed his mouth to her sex.
“Oh? Oh!” She moaned out, hips lifting off the mattress. She had thought his fingers felt good. And they had. But not as good as this. This was hot and wet and so incredibly wonderful. He ran his tongue along her lips in long broad strokes then pressed hungry, open-mouthed kisses there. With fingers that trembled, he spread her open and pushed his tongue inside her where his finger had been just a short while before, and Emily was sure she might just die from all the feelings tumbling around inside her.
Then he slid his mouth up and suckled.
Her cry was strangled, a gasping plea for God. Fingers twisting in the sheets, she spread her legs as wide as possible and pushed up into his mouth. She could feel his hands grasping her hips, knew he was trying to hold her still, but she was beyond the point of being able to stop her response. She hadn’t known, had never even imagined such intense pleasure existed. She was on fire, her whole body burning from the inside out. And she wanted more. Knew, in some deep recess of her mind, she would always want more of these feelings, of this man.
She could feel his fingers at her entrance, a gentle pressure that seemed such a contrast to everything else that was happening. He dipped inside then pulled away, over and over until she heard herself asking him for more.
“Please,” she whispered. “Oh, God, please.”
Slowly, tortuously, he pressed into her. His fingers - surely there must be more than one - stretching her in a way that had her holding her breath. He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes studying her face.
“Is this all right?” He placed a soft kiss just above her pubic hair. “Am I hurting you?”
Releasing the breath she had been holding, Emily willed herself to relax. “No,” she shook her head. “I want…” She trailed off; unbelievably embarrassed by the words she wanted to say.
Still watching her, Mr. Rossi began to move his fingers. It was the same in and out motion as before, but the way her muscles were stretching to accommodate him made it different. “Tell me what you want, Emily. Don’t be ashamed. There are no secrets here.”
Biting her bottom lip and rolling her hips against his hand, she held on for just another moment. Then the words came out on a rush of air. “More. I want more.”
And he gave her more. He took her body to the edge time and time again, only to hesitate there, refusing to push her over. And all the while, Emily desperately sought the release he seemed determined to withhold. By the time the orgasm took her, her body was slick with sweat and she was practically mindless with need.
Then, and only then, did he slide up until his face was even with hers, until his hips were pressed against her, until her breasts were flattened against his chest. Then, and only then, did he brush the hair out of her eyes and smile down at her and say, “I’m going to take you now, Emily.”
His voice was a rasp, almost unrecognizable, and the look in his eyes was both loving and predatory. When she nodded, unable to deny him anything, he kissed her. His mouth was slick with her juices and she was intrigued, and a little unnerved, by the very idea of tasting herself in such a way.
He was shaking, his body trembling every place that it touched hers. But his mouth was hot and hungry and his heart was slamming against his ribs so hard that she could feel it. And she knew, in a way that all women know, that his desire for her was almost beyond his control.
She watched the muscles of his jaw work as he reached between them and steadied his manhood at her opening. She watched his eyes slam closed and his nostrils flare as he sucked in air. She watched him until she felt the pain begin. Without realizing it, she must have made a sound, some little noise that told him she was hurting, because he stopped. Stopped breathing. Stopped moving. Just stopped.
But he wasn’t the only one who wanted this, who wanted to be joined in the most primitive way two people could be. Emily wanted it too. Biting her lip, she pushed her hips up, rocking against him, urging him on. He was watching her again, she could feel his eyes on her, and so she looked up at him. The question was there. And she answered it by rocking against him yet again. Suddenly, they were moving together, the rhythm of their bodies driving them closer and closer to the inevitable.
Then, with a press of his lips to her cheek and a whispered, “Relax. Let me.”, against her ear, Mr. Rossi pressed forward and he was inside her. And she wanted to weep.
Why had no one ever told her? All those women who had taken such delight in talking about their experiences, none of them ever talked about this. Maybe because there were no words that could adequately describe it. After all, how did one describe the joining of two souls?
His face was buried in her neck, his breath hot and damp against her, and every exhalation sent a shiver along her spine. There was a fine tremor moving just under his skin. Emily could feel it in her fingertips and against the insides of her thighs. She could feel him throbbing inside her, stretching her, molding her. And somehow she knew she would never be the same.
After pressing his lips to the side of her throat, Mr. Rossi lifted his head and looked down at her. “I’m not going to last long.”
Confused, Emily gave her head a slight shake. “It’s all right.”
Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth, sparkled in his eyes. “You say that now. But next time…” He trailed off then leaned down to brush his lips over hers.
Slowly, he began to move, and Emily realized he might be right. Next time, she would want this part to last forever. With her eyes closed, she concentrated on the way he felt buried inside her, the way he felt when he slid in and out. She concentrated on the sweet ache of having him there, of having him where no other had ever been, where no other would ever be
I love him, she realized, her eyes flying open in shock.
She wasn’t sure how it happened or when it happened, but it had happened. And she had no idea what to do about it.
Then he slipped a hand beneath her knee and raised it up until her leg was at his waist, and she didn’t have time to think about what a precarious position her heart was in. When he bent his head and dragged his tongue - rough and wet - over a nipple and she realized she would give him anything.
Emily gave herself over to the act of loving him; to the pounding of his heart against her chest, to the sweet press of his body into hers, to the way the sweat beaded along his hairline, to the way her heart seemed to swell with every stroke. She clung to the moment, to each and every sensation with every fiber of her being. She wanted to remember this time for the rest of her life, to look back in her dotage and know what it felt like to be young and adored.
That ache was back. Not as strong or as urgent as before, but still an ache that would soon demand relief. Under her hands, she could feel Mr. Rossi’s muscles tightening, his body trembling. The smooth ebb and flow of his stroke was quickly giving way to a more frenzied pace. His hips rose and fell, faster and faster, driving his body into hers, until, with a quiet grunt, he seemed to freeze there in her arms. His hips were pushing against her, grinding into her, and his breath was coming in short, harsh bursts. She could feel him pulsing inside her, and with a quiet sigh, she found her own release.
XXXXXXXXXXX
The lamps had been doused, and the fire was the only light left in the room. Emily was snuggled firmly against Mr. Rossi - her back to his front in the same way spoons might nest together. His arm was draped over her side, his hand resting possessively just under her breast. His breath puffed hot against the back of her neck.
Tentatively, still unsure of how she was supposed to behave after all the things that had just transpired, Emily ran her fingers over the exposed skin of his forearm. He was so warm and solid, the fine hairs teasing her fingertips.
Without thinking, perhaps emboldened by their intimacy, Emily blurted out the words she had been rehearsing for weeks.
“I would, sir, very much like for you to hire me to work at your paper.”