Sophia James - Seduction in Regency Society - One Unashamed Night

Here. With Taris Wellingham. For this one storm-snowed freezing night.

‘Thank you.’ The words slipped out without recognition as to what she had said. A beholden contentment that broke through all that she had believed of herself or all that a husband steeped in damning religion had believed. In just one touch Frankwell’s hold on the tenure of her moral pureness was gone, replaced simply by comprehension and relief.

She smiled as his fingers began to unlace her bodice and the thin lawn fell away.

‘Thank you?’

The restraint that Taris was trying to hold in check broke, the swollen want between them demanding nothing hidden or reserved. Running his fingers down the curve of her arm, he gathered the ties on her lacy chemise and unravelled them, her face tipping up to his own.

He imagined her eyes, surprise and lust in equal measure; he imagined her mouth, the feel of her lips full and tender. When his hands cupped her breasts and held the flesh in his palms, he took a shaky breath out, for this woman did not wait for him to do all the work. No, already her fingers skimmed the waistband of his trousers, slipping into the skin that lay underneath and feeling his erection with as much care and vigilance as he was giving to her.

A balanced taking.

No missish virgin or paid whore. No money between them or commitment sought. Only feelings.

‘Ahhh, Beatrice-Maude,’ he whispered as she pushed the material covering him downwards and her fingers came to other places, more hidden. No green or frightened girl either.

Equal measure!

Touch for touch! Stopping only as his mouth fastened upon her nipple and tasted, the sweet sound of bliss in her voice as she expelled her breath and enjoyed.

The dampness of her skin, and her stark utter heat. The way her hips rocked against his own, asking, wanting, needing more.

His head rose to her mouth, and his fingers felt the way, her chin, her nose, the lay of her eyes and her forehead. No colour but shape, and crowned with a pile of darkened curls. That much at least he could see!

‘Let me take you, sweetheart. Let me take you further.’ His voice did not seem like his own.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Much further…’

Her heavy breasts swayed as he brought her up with him, the fall of her legs opening beneath her chemise. His hand crept under it to her stockings, which he removed, and then to her drawers, lacy pieces of nothing, the unsewn seam leaving easy access.

‘Now,’ she cried and not quietly either. ‘Right now.’ The sweat between them built, the cold of this barn a far-off thought, no time for careful restraint or the foreplay that he was more used to. No time for any of it as he lifted her on to him and drove home, again and again and again, a life-filled, raw loving that was all that was left to seek release.

Which they did!

She had died and gone to heaven! She swore she had. She swore that if her life were to end now, this very, very minute she would leave a happy woman. A fulfilled woman. A woman who finally knew what it was novels spoke of in their flurry of adjectives and superlatives.

This. Feeling.

Spent and replete and waves of ecstasy still sweeping across her. And tears when she began to cry.

Not quietly either. But loudly. Loud tears of wonderment and relief. She just could not stop them.

‘Did I hurt you? Are you hurt?’

She waved away his worry and tried to smile.

‘No. It was wonderful. So wonderful.’ Bruised with happiness and finality. Understanding what it was she had not experienced before.

He lay back against the scratchy grey blanket in the year’s new hay and began to laugh.

‘You are crying…because it was wonderful?’

She nodded, the sniffs now lessened as she sought for her chemise balled beside them in order to blow her nose.

‘I didn’t know…’ no, she could tell him none of her past for she did not want him feeling sorry for her ‘…that a hay barn could be such a sensual place.’

Before her he lay like a prince devoid of clothes and inhibitions. A Greek god fallen into her lap by the will of a Lord who had finally answered her daily prayers.

A whole twelve years of them to be precise, and not more than a month after the death of Frankwell Bassingstoke!

Perhaps that was all the time needed for a powerful deity to recognise the sacrifice she had made to care for her given husband, to obey him, to yield to the orders he had been so fond of giving.

Perhaps Taris Wellingham had been sent in recompense, the gift of this night easily making up for the hardship of her past decade.

His finger traced the upward turn of her lips.

‘You are a puzzle, Mrs Bassingstoke,’ he said, his voice rich with the rounded vowels of a well-to-do upbringing. ‘And one that I cannot, for the life of me, quite fathom.’

She stayed silent, enjoying his touch as he splayed open her palm and drew a spiral inside before tracing upwards to the sensitive folds of her neck and the outline of her lips.

When his hand cupped the back of her nape and he pulled her down across him she went willingly, his mouth taking what she offered in a hard twist of desire. Seeking. Finding. The taste of him masculine and fierce, though for the first time she was frightened, frightened of the need that welled in her, wanting, wishing this was real and binding her to eternity.

‘No.’ She pulled back and he did not stop her, did not hurt her in his insistence or his demand. Actions so unlike Frankwell that her fear subsided.

‘I should not exact anything you do not wish to offer.’

Quiet words from an honourable man, his need felt easily against her stomach, yet still he gave her the choice.

Her head dipped down and she ran her tongue across his lips, her fingers splayed against his chest as she held him still.

As if sensing her need for control, he remained motionless even as her touch cupped the full hardness of him.

‘My turn now,’ she whispered and stroked his warmth, teasing as he writhed. ‘Not yet,’ she added as he moved up against her. ‘Or yet,’ she repeated as she sat astride him and guided the fullness to a place that was only hers to offer. Home. Replete. Abundant. ‘But now.’

The feel of him made her tip back her head and cry out his name, no longer quiet as her voice broke against the wind and the rain and the wild sound of trees. The storm of sex was now inside her too, reaching, reaching and breaking languid sweet in her belly, her fingers and toes stretched tight against the ripples, urging them on for longer, unfastened by any ties of right or wrong.

Only feeling.

Only them.

When the last of the contractions had ceased she lay against him, joined by flesh and the slick wetness of their lovemaking. His hand claimed her, lying over her bottom, skin to skin, the cold air diminishing their heat. The length of her tresses was bound in his other fist, fettered in nakedness, lost in the glory.

‘Bea?’ Whispered.

‘Yes.’ Whispered back.

‘Bea-yond anything.’

Her laughter took his body from her own.

This was what she had missed all of her life. Just this. No meanness in it or bad temper. No righteous lecture on the innate evil of all women’s nature.

Beyond. Anything.

When his fingers crept into the space his body had just left, she opened her legs wide and all that was wonderful before began again.

She was asleep. Catching dreams from the early dawn. He did not wish to wake her, but he had to, for the winds had fallen and the sky was lightening. At least that much he could see and feel. They would be here soon. Everybody. The world. Reality.

The sun and the light and the damming affliction of his soul.

He would not be able to see her. He did not know the lay of this barn, the traps and the pitfalls. And she would know all of what he wasn’t, so carefully hidden in the dark.