Leave a Widow Wanting More by Charlie Lane

Chapter 15

Lying on such a hard man should be uncomfortable, unpleasant. It wasn’t. Not even with his person digging into her stomach. Even that was pleasurable, stirring feelings in her she’d thought long dormant. He not only resurrected old feelings, he introduced her to new ones. Never in her life had she felt so playful with a man, so determined to get her way, so sure he would let her have it.

He invigorated her. No, he intoxicated her. Really! What had she been thinking with the buttons? Too ridiculous. Expedient, yes, but ridiculous.

And yet, she’d never felt so close to anyone as she’d felt when she’d laughed in his arms and he’d laughed with her. That feeling—that closeness, comfort, intimacy—was the most intoxicating of all, a fine wine that went straight to her head. And her heart.

She felt nervous, shy even. Absurd. She’d just barreled into the man and knocked him onto the bed. Shy? Impossible! But true. She curled into his warm, hard chest and breathed in his scent. Leather and citrus.

Then he flipped her. She looked up when her back hit the mattress to find Henry poised above her. “Stay there. No more tackling or button ripping. Be still.”

Why not? His eyes promised she wouldn’t regret it. She nodded.

He stepped away from the bed, his hand reaching for the waistband of his pants. He tugged the hem of his shirt free and lifted it over his head, and oh my sweet Gutenberg, his naked chest was like nothing she’d seen before. Not even the statues at the British Museum boasted such glorious musculature. If he thought like a scholar, he looked like … what? A dockworker? A farmer? A man who labored day and night. And there he was, constantly harping about being old. If he recognized his age, apparently age did not recognize him. She snorted.

He looked up from unbuttoning the rest of his fall. “What?”

But now her attention caught on his narrow hips rising out of the lowered waistband of his sagging pants. If only he’d finished the job and let them fall entirely, then she’d be able to—

“Sarah?”

“Oh, uh, yes?”

“You snorted.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, yes. It’s just you’re … ah … rather well put together for a scholar, and—” She couldn’t help it. “And an old one at that.”

He arched an eyebrow and flicked free one last button, letting his pants fall and stepping out of them. “I don’t feel old tonight, Sarah-mine.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say he didn’t look old, and he’d better not expect the same defiance of the natural course of human aging in her own body, but he was done with talking. His body pressed hers to the mattress, and his lips pressed to her collarbone. His fingers wrapped around the ruined edges of her gown, tugging it down. She sat up and tugged as well, eager to be as free from restriction as he was.

When her ruined gown lay heaped on the floor and only her shift remained, she dove for the head of the bed. More accurately, she dove for the edge of the covers and wiggled beneath them.

Henry yanked the bedclothes back. “I don’t think so, Lady Eaden. You’ve had your look. Now it’s my turn.”

Sarah warmed from head to toe. “I—” She gulped. “I’m not young.”

This time, he snorted. “What are you? Not yet forty? A spring chicken, my dear.”

She shook her head. “Women don’t age as well as men.” She grabbed the covers back and pulled them up to her chin. “I’ve carried a child.”

His eyes softened, and he sat on the edge of the bed. His palm, large and searing even through the sheets, found the curve of her belly. “Do you have lines here?”

She nodded once. Really, it wasn’t that bad. The marks had been red and angry at first, but they had healed to silvery slivers. “How do you know?”

“Emmeline had them, too, after Nora, and more after Pansy and Calliope.” His face darkened for a moment, his jaw hardened. Then he blinked three times in rapid succession and relaxed. His palm moved in soothing circles over her belly. “You’re small here.” His lips quirked up and his voice deepened. “And curvy in all the perfect places.”

Sarah had known he desired her, but to see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, feel it in the heat of his palm … she inched the quilt away from her face, then lower. His eyes grew hungry and his hands slipped upward, knotting in the edge of the sheet and pulling it all the way off her. She wouldn’t be a coward about this. She’d been bold up till then, and she’d continue in the same vein. She grabbed the hem of her shift, sat up, wiggled until the shift passed her bottom, pulled the garment over her head and tossed it to the floor, all the while training her eyes on Henry’s hungry gaze.

“Beautiful,” he breathed. His hand found her breast, cupping it and stroking it from the side all the way up to the edge of her nipple. The sensation sent a wave of tingles to every nerve in her body, and she arched into his hand.

“Again,” she begged.

But his hand disappointed, dropping lower to skim over her ribs. His thumb dipped, for just a moment, into her naval before he sought out the slightly raised streaks across her hips. He traced them, his caress shivered across her skin and pierced deeper. Could you feel a touch in your heart? She didn’t ponder the question long. His lips found hers, pushing her head into the pillow. Their tongues tangled, and Henry groaned into their kiss. His hips bucked forward, and she felt the long, hard length of him on her bare skin.

He was long and hard everywhere as her fingers quickly discovered. The crisp curls on his chest rubbed against her skin, and she traced it down a thin line all the way to his abdomen. Lower.

She hesitated.

And in her moment of indecision, his hands grasped her hips and flipped their bodies again, so she lay atop him.

“Arg!” Sarah plastered herself to his chest. “Are you done with your gymnastics, sir?”

He chuckled, kissing her ear. “Not by far.”

“Good.” She sat up and found the new position more than acceptable. She could look down at his smiling, handsome face, his gold-white hair. While the hair on his head was still more gold than white, the hair on his chest was whiter. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so, but she kept the comment to herself. He wouldn’t appreciate such an observation at such a time. His hips lifted, rubbing against her heated center. “Oh!” Pleasure shot everywhere, and her head fell back on her neck.

He ground up again. “Yes?”

“Oh!” If he did that one more time she would shatter. She would die. She’d never felt anything like it. “Henry, what are you doing to me?” Was that her voice, low, husky, amazed?

He gave her an answering smile then flipped them again.

“You could give a girl warning!”

“Mmmm.”

Henry had the right of it. Mmmm perfectly encapsulated the moment. In fact, Sarah could only think in single-syllable sounds because his hands kneaded her breasts, his fingers played with her nipples, and his lips traced patterns down her neck, her shoulder, then back up again to settle at her lips. Thank Gutenberg!

Why had her first husband denied her this pleasure? She’d never been overly concerned about her looks, but perhaps she had not appealed to James, though she certainly appealed to Henry. He touched her everywhere, welcome fingertips lingering on grateful skin.

And his every kiss, every caress transformed her into a being of pure pleasure and … and something else. Another new sensation built low in her belly. She pressed into it. Something had to happen. The pressure must dissipate or … or she didn’t know what! She gulped in breaths and focused on his body rather than the heat wriggling through her.

She was better situated to do what she’d hesitated to do before. She grabbed him.

His hips bucked against her. “Sweet Zeus!”

She chuckled, pulling her hand up his shaft then back down in a motion she remembered James enjoying. The man hadn’t objected to her touching him, but he’d never reciprocated.

Henry, moaning beneath her, wasn’t such a selfish lover.

“I can’t …” he breathed in her ear. “It’s been too long. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Yes.” She needed to join her body to his.

His fingers drifted over her hips and between her legs.

How could she feel so light and heavy at the same time? How could his fingers, poised at the very center of her, make her feel so shivery, so sublime?

She bit his shoulder lightly and ground her hips upward.

Henry may trade in words and ideas, but he knew when to act. He placed his hips over hers, keeping one hand between them. His fingers moved, stroking her, seeking something. She knew exactly the moment he found what he sought. The almost unbearable pleasure tightening inside her shook her whole body.

He swallowed her scream with a kiss. As he slid into her, filling all her empty spaces, she shattered in his arms. He drew slowly away from her, and she clenched him back, but her arms felt weak, heavy, so she let them fall to the side as he plunged into her once more. Slowly, he pulled away then came back to her, and as he moved within her, the pressure built again. Impossible.

She pressed her head into the mattress and arched her back off the bed. “Henry,” she moaned, finding the strength to reach for him, to wind her arms around him and find his deliciously muscled rump. She squeezed.

“Minx,” he gasped, driving harder, faster than before. The pressure built more quickly than before. Then she shattered and fell limp beneath him once more. Again? But he still moved within her faster and faster until he, too, cried out—roared, more like—and slumped forward. He breathed fast and heavy in her ear.

Sarah traced the curve of his spine. “That’s what I’ve heard so much about, then.”

“My expert lovemaking?”

“No.” She chuckled. “That … sensation. Like I was breaking into a million pieces.”

“You’ve never felt that before? Not with your first husband?”

She shook her head. “I’ve read about it. Hopkins has an interesting collection of books stored in a back room.

“Fanny Hill? The Marquis de Sade?”

She flushed and nodded.

He pushed the hair from her face, his eyes intense. “Did you like those books?”

“Some of them. I like what you did to me more.”

“Would you like to feel it again?”

She yawned. “Yes, please. But not right now.” She’d started the day as Mrs. Sarah Pennington, impoverished widow. She’d ended it as Lady Eaden, well-sated wife and mother of six. Six!

Henry rolled off her. “It’s been a long day. You need sleep.”

Sarah turned, nuzzling into his ready embrace. For years, she’d gone to sleep cold or hungry or both. Worry had chiseled away at what little comfort she’d managed to scrape together. No more. In Henry’s arms, she felt safe, protected … loved, even.

Loved? An illusion created by the miraculous things he’d made her feel. Amazing how the pleasure still coursed through her, transformed now into a soothing haze.

Henry pulled her closer, murmured something indistinct into her ear.

Sarah tried to pay attention through the sleep that piled on her like drifts of snow. “Hm?”

His words fell slowly, as if he were already falling asleep. “I said I’ll leave you be.”

He wanted to leave. He’d always want to leave. It’s why he’d brought her. She’d do well to remember it.

But she could keep him tonight if nothing else.

She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight. “My lion,” she murmured. Words were hard. His arms were nice. She wondered as she drifted into sleep if he would let her tame him.