The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,91
had burned low and sultry in the grate. She tugged the cream shawl off her shoulders, draping it over the back of the chair. Penelope’s eyes strained to trace Agatha’s shape beneath the nightgown. Staring, but not ashamed to be caught this time.
The smile Agatha tossed back over her shoulder was wry and knowing. “Do you manage all your trysts so practically?”
Penelope licked her lips. “Why don’t you share a few with me, and find out?”
Agatha let out a bark of laughter, then bit it back when the sound bounced too boisterously off the walls. “I’m glad to hear this isn’t just about tonight,” she said more softly. She took one step forward, and another, making Penelope’s heartbeat skip from a trot to a canter. “It’s been a long time for me, Flood.”
Penelope gulped. “Does that mean you want to go fast, or slow? Because if you are out of practice, and want to move slowly, we can do that.”
Agatha took another, very deliberate step nearer, putting her only an arm’s reach away.
Penelope couldn’t seem to get enough air no matter how rapidly she gasped for it. Her voice was thready with desire. “But if you’re feeling impatient—or needy—or desperate—Lord knows I am—”
Agatha bent down and took Penelope’s mouth, smothering the rest of her words.
The first kiss had been a surprise. This was a seduction. Agatha licked into her, breath and heat melting away the cold of the door at Penelope’s back. One of Agatha’s hands trailed up the long line of Penelope’s neck and fingers threaded into her hair, pulling to tilt Penelope’s head back. “No pins?” Agatha murmured.
“Prefer to keep it short,” Penelope answered, half reply and half moan. “People only think I pin it up on account of how it curls.”
“Handy,” Agatha murmured. She tightened her grip, holding Penelope in place.
Penelope whimpered again, as pinpricks of not-quite-pain lit like stars in her scalp. She was slightly but inescapably in Agatha’s control, and it made her whole body sing. Penelope’s hands dropped away from the door handle, plucking at the ties of her own winter robe.
Agatha’s mouth slanted harder against hers, little scrapes of teeth and long strokes of her tongue sending fire through Penelope’s veins. Penelope reached out, tugged open the knot of Agatha’s wool dressing-gown, banded an arm around her waist, and pulled.
Agatha’s long body jerked forward and came up tight against Penelope’s soft, plump shape.
They both shuddered at the contact. Agatha’s free hand flattened against the door by Penelope’s head. “Dear god, Flood,” she groaned, a low tone that Penelope felt in every inch from throat to thighs. She wanted to rub herself against that sound—instead, she undulated and rubbed as much of herself as she could against Agatha, layers of warm linen sliding and shifting between the creases and curves of their bodies.
“I knew you’d be trouble,” Agatha laughed, and took Flood by the wrist to tow her inexorably toward the bed. They scrambled together beneath the blankets, an absolute tangle of limbs and cloth and racing, hungry hearts.
Penelope snuggled up against Agatha and pressed her mouth to the base of her neck, just above her collarbone where her night rail gaped obligingly. Agatha shivered. “Still cold?” Penelope whispered.
“Still talking?” Agatha replied, in a voice equal parts amused and strained. She shifted, sliding one leg in between Penelope’s, who sighed happily and hooked one thigh high over Agatha’s hip. Heat bloomed between them; Agatha groaned again and pinned Penelope’s shoulders to the bed with eager hands.
With neither patience nor grace, they stripped one another. The rise and fall of blankets as they flung nightclothes to the floor let in flashes of warm light to illuminate the shapes revealed: the soft expanse of Penelope’s belly, the raindrop curve of Agatha’s breast with a dark nipple puckered by cold. Penelope raised her head and sucked happily on that nipple, while her hands grasped their fill of Agatha’s solid hips. The hands on her shoulders flexed, pressing flesh against bone; it was impossible to say who was holding on more tightly.
On top, Agatha wriggled, pressed close but still eager to get closer. Penelope gave a mischievous flick of her tongue—making Agatha gasp—and slid a hand into the dark curls between the other woman’s legs. Agatha froze, panting, her sex slick and hot against Penelope’s fingers. “Flood, please,” she hissed.
“Please stop?” Penelope whispered teasingly.
Agatha shook her head, convulsive. “Please more.”
“Anything you like,” Penelope purred, and slid one strong, calloused finger into Agatha’s cunny.