her bare knee.
“Enlighten me,” Della said, some of the starch wilting from her tone.
“I’d rather kiss you.” Ash started slowly, alternating between glancing touches to her breasts and further boldness beneath her skirts. By the time he had eased her dress and chemises aside, her skirts were rucked up past her knees.
He paused, because he needed a pause, and because he wanted to imprint the image of Della on his memory.
“You cannot stop,” she said, gaze on the glass ceiling. “If you stop now, I will throttle you.”
She didn’t even try to cover herself, but lay in a wanton sprawl, one bare breast peeking from layers of cream lace, a pale knee thrust up from her skirts and petticoats.
“I am not stopping,” Ash said. I am falling in love, all over again.
Della turned her head to regard him, some confusion in her gaze. “I would rather—”
He silenced her with a kiss, and with forays north of her knee that ended in a delicate exploration of her most intimate flesh. He asked questions tactilely—May I? and Like this?—and Della answered with sighs and subtle movements of her hips. By the time he had two fingers hilted in her heat, she had set up a slow, demanding rhythm.
There being a shortage of hands in such a situation, Ash used his mouth on her breasts, counterpointing her undulations and ignoring his own rising desire. Amid the sheer loveliness of being intimate with Della came the thought: At least I’m good for this.
He shoved it aside like the serpent in paradise that it was.
Della unraveled on a soft, happy groan, her body clutching at his fingers as she held him in a fierce embrace. She did not ease her grip on him until long moments later, when she lay back, her chest rosy, her skirts rucked to her thighs.
“Gracious days, Ash Dorning.” Her smile was dreamy and sweet. “If you applied yourself to Greek as you did to the housekeeper’s lessons, you would have taken a first, I’m sure.”
He removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “This next part isn’t something the housekeeper had to teach me.”
Della watched while he unbuttoned his falls and brought himself off in a few quick strokes. That she was observing, half naked and replete, made Ash’s pleasure that much more intense. When Ash had tidied himself up and stood to rebutton his falls, Della propped herself on her side and stroked a finger down the length of his softening cock.
“You have surprised me, Ash Dorning.”
That she would be so bold surprised him—and delighted him. “Pleasantly, I hope.”
“Wonderfully. That thing you did with your thumb…” She rolled to her back and rested her forearm across her forehead, as if she’d had too much cherry cordial. “I have become the greatest admirer of your right hand in all of Britain. I am quite fond of your mouth too.”
Ash finished buttoning himself up, and in defense of his best intentions, he drew Della’s skirts down over her knees. He used a watering can to rinse off his fingers and returned to the sofa to find Della sitting up, her bodice once again modestly tucked and tied.
“That was not what I had planned,” she said as Ash took the place beside her.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. On our wedding night—” He’d withdraw, and use sheaths, and generally ensure no baby resulted. The thought was a trifle lowering, but then, he’d have a wedding night with Della, and that was not lowering at all.
Della interrupted him by taking his hand. “That was better than what I had planned. I hadn’t realized… Well, suffice it to say my Greek education will benefit from further association with you.”
“You’d like to nap for a bit, wouldn’t you?”
She shifted to curl up on the sofa with her head in his lap. “I would like to tear the clothes from your body and swive you witless. Had planned on it, in fact.”
Ash stroked her hair, not quite sure what to make of her plans for him. The sense of vague unease returned, along with a worry that Della was inordinately eager to consummate their engagement. Perhaps Chastain had shaken her confidence. Perhaps she was simply that most delightful of women, a lusty lady.
They were to be married, and at that moment, Ash was content to stroke Della’s hair and plan his interview with her brother.
Chapter Eight
“Now see here, William.” Torvald Chastain drew himself up to his full height—five inches less than William’s own six feet—and rocked back on his