Page 42 of A Foolish Flirtation

“No, but the next part might,” he said, reaching down to position his cock against her warm, moist entrance. He had to bite back a moan as he felt his cockhead notch just right and start to sink into her. She was so warm and delightfully wet. Emmeline took a sharp breath, and he froze at once. “Too much?” he asked.

“No, no, all is well,” she urged, squeezing her arms tight around his back.

“My brave Ballentine,” he murmured, then he adjusted his hips and thrust right into her.

Her cry was drowned out by his own grunt of satisfaction as he closed his eyes to savor the feeling. He shuddered. God. It was good. It was almost too good. He could come at this moment, he realized with surprise. It would be almost a relief to just come in a rush, then lie in her arms.

He could not allow such a thing, of course. Unless she would rather it was over with. He opened his eyes and beheld her. “Emmeline?” he whispered.

Her eyes were bright with tears, but they did not fall. Instead, she gave him a shaky smile and he felt something stir in his chest. Something that had lain dormant for a long, long time. Maybe for as long as ten years.

“It only hurts a bit,” she whispered, “but I do not mind it at all.”

Fuck. That was all it took. He lowered his head with a gasp and came hard, emptying himself into her like a green boy with his first fuck. What the hell? God, the relief of it though. He could have wept. Instead, he lay there feeling dazed and oddly grateful.

After a moment, he felt Emmeline’s hand hesitantly brush across his shoulder blades. He should move off her, he realized, instead of lying slumped over her like a felled oak. He should, but he did not want to. Not remotely. Emmeline’s flesh was so soft and welcoming. He wanted to luxuriate in her forever and never to part. Still, his spent body must be heavy, and no doubt she was uncomfortable, though she voiced no objection.

At last, he mustered the strength to withdraw and roll off her, stretching out beside her on the mattress. Neither of them spoke for a long while. Then Emmeline stirred, sat up, and started rearranging her nightgown into a more decent state. “I am going to have to take a wash,” she whispered almost apologetically as she did up her buttons. “Do you want to come along? I could show you where the bathroom is. It’s a shared one, I’m afraid, though we should not bump into anyone at this hour.”

This talk of shared bathrooms was oddly jarring. He was sorely tempted to tell her to undo her buttons and like back down again. She wanted to wash between her legs, he guessed and felt…strange about it. Still, he did not want her uncomfortable or to see her leave the room without him.

“You will have to lend me your robe,” he said, “as I did not bring anything.” This seemed to take her aback, but she did fetch him a velvety garment with mercifully few flounces. He guessed in the dark it might be taken for a man’s. He rose from the bed, still feeling giddy and light-headed after the strength of his orgasm.

He slipped the robe on and tied the belt as Emmeline donned her slippers and a shawl and collected a drawstring bag. “Come here,” he said, picking up the candle which had practically guttered and holding his other hand out to her. She took it and together they crept along the hall, unlocked the door, and then went out into the corridor beyond.

“It’s this one,” she whispered, halting before a door. “Will you go in first?” she asked awkwardly, for all the world as though he were her guest rather than her husband.

“I am not leaving you out here in a draughty corridor, Ballentine,” he said, pulling her in behind him and fastening the door.

Emmeline seemed a little shy about sharing the contents of her toiletry bag with him, which was ridiculous considering they had just shared their bodies. Still, he did not really mind, he realized as he sniffed her rose-scented soap and inspected her face flannel as she filled the basin on the washstand from a large jug on the windowsill. There were five lined up there all in a row.

“The water’s cold, I’m afraid. The copper in the scullery won’t be lit until tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll survive a little cold water,” he assured her, though the prospect of dousing himself in it was far from enticing. He wondered if she and Miss Pinson were obliged to run up and down the stairs with jugs of water to fill the bath.

There were three leaning against the wall, ranging in size. He wandered over to them, inspecting the smallest one which looked to be no more than a Parisien sponging bath, while the largest was a tub of decent size.

“Did you want to use the sponge bath?” Emmeline asked, turning her head.

“No, you’re right, it’s too cold right now. I should like to see you use it, though not today.”

“Me?” She lowered her washcloth to stare at him in surprise.

He nodded. “Crouched over it with your hair pinned high on your head. You would look just like a bathing Venus,” he said, imagining her pouring water over her plump curves, her eyes half-closed as they had been while he pleasured her with his fingers. Not in this cold, tiled bathroom though. Such a scene deserved a more luxurious setting. His own private bathroom perhaps, at Vance Park.

Emmeline colored hotly and returned to her much more practical ablutions. When she was done, he replaced her at the sink as she brushed and tamed her hair into a braid which hung over her shoulder. He watched her in the mirror as he completed his own wash.

Then they retraced their steps, the candle burning very low at this point. When Emmeline turned the key in the door to her rooms, it seemed very loud, and they exchanged a conspiratorial look, no doubt hoping they had not woken Miss Pinson.

Once they had climbed back into her bed, he reached for her at once, drawing her into his arms and brushing a stray lock of her hair from her face. He let his fingers trail down her cheek and neck, lightly tracing her rounded shoulder.

“What color would you say your hair is?” he asked in a low voice. “Sometimes it looks dark gold and other times it looks quite coppery.”

“A reddish sort of light brown, I suppose,” she murmured, making him frown.

“It’s no such thing. It is some shade that lies between Titian red and Venetian blond,” he corrected her. “Light brown indeed! When we get to Vance Park, I must show you my collection of Venuses.” He looked thoughtful. “Some of them resemble you very much.”

“Venuses?” He nodded. “Are they very fleshy?” she asked suspiciously, surprising a laugh out of him.