Julia Quinn - What Happens in London

She was standing before him in her chemise and corset, the pale fabric glowing softly in the moonlight filtering through the uncurtained upper half-moon of the room’s only window. She looked so beautiful, so ethereal and pure-he found himself wanting to stop and drink in the sight of her, even as his body burned for closer contact.

He shrugged off his own coat, then loosened the folds of his cravat. Through it all she just stood there, silently watching him, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement. He undid the first few buttons on his shirt, just enough to pull it over his head and, with whatever last grasp on rational thought he had left, he laid it neatly on a chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle. She let out a little giggle, clasping her hand to her mouth.

“What?”

“You’re so neat,” she said, looking almost embarrassed to be pointing it out.

He glanced pointedly over his shoulder. “There are four hundred people on the other side of this door.”

“But you’re ruining me.”

“I can’t do it neatly?”

Another snort of laughter burst from her mouth. She reached down, picked up her dress, and handed it to him. “Would you mind folding this as well?”

He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Wordlessly, he reached out and took it.

“If you are ever short of funds,” she said, watching him lay the dress over the back of a chair, “there are always opportunities for a conscientious lady’s maid.”

He turned, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a wry salute. He tapped his left temple, close to his eye, murmuring, “Blind to color, if you recall.”

“Oh, dear.” She clasped her hands together, looking terribly proper. “That would be a problem.”

He took a step toward her, his eyes devouring her. “I might be able to make up for my lack with excessive devotion to my mistress.”

“Loyalty and fidelity is always prized amongst servants.”

He came close, very close, until his lips were almost touching the corner of her mouth. “And amongst husbands?”

“It’s very prized amongst husbands,” she whispered. Her breathing was growing erratic, and just the touch of it on her skin made his blood race.

His hand went to the ties of her corset. “I am very loyal.”

She nodded jerkily. “That’s good.”

He tugged on the ribbon, first undoing the bow, and then slipping his finger under the knot below. “I can say ‘fidelity’ in three languages.”

“Really?”

Really, and he didn’t care if she knew. He planned to make love to her in all three, but for the first time, he thought he would stick to English. Well, mostly.

“Fidelity,” he whispered. “Fidelité. Vyernost.”

He kissed her then, before she could ask more. He would tell her everything, but not now. Not when he was shirtless, and her corset was undone and sliding from her body. Not when his fingers were working the two buttons of her chemise, unhooking the straps that held it in place over her shoulders.

“I love you,” he said, leaning forward to place one kiss on the hollow over her collarbone.

“I love you,” he said again, moving up to the elegant line of her neck.

“I love you.” And this time he whispered it, hot at her ear as he let go of the straps and allowed her last garment to fall from her body.

Her arms came to cover herself, and he kissed her once, lightly, on the lips as his fingers moved to the fastening of his breeches. He was aching for her, hot and heavy with need, and he had no idea how he got his boots off so fast, but before he could even take another breath, he’d lifted her into his arms and was carrying her over to the divan.

“You should have a proper bed,” he murmured, “with proper sheets and proper pillows…”

But she just shook her head, clasping her fingers behind his neck to pull him down for a kiss. “I don’t want to be proper right now,” she said, whispering the words into his ear. “I only want you.”

It had been inevitable. He’d known that for some time now, since the moment she’d slyly asked him if he planned to propose. But even so, something seemed to tip at that moment, sending him over the edge of restraint, transforming this from a seduction to sheer madness.

He set her down on her back and immediately covered her body with his. The touch was electric. They were skin to skin, pressed up against each other with breathtaking intimacy. And he wanted so much just to bury himself inside her, to have her, to know her, but he could not allow himself to rush. He did not know if he could bring her to completion; he’d never made love to a virgin before, and he had no idea if it was even possible. But by God, he would make this good for her. When they were through, she would know that she had been worshipped.

She would know that she was loved.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, kissing her on the lips before moving to her throat.

He heard her breath, raspy, excited, and perhaps a little confused. “What do you mean?”

He cupped her breast with his hand. “Do you like this?”

He heard the swift intake of her breath.

“Do you?” he asked softly, trailing his lips down to the base of her neck.

She nodded, quick frantic movements. “Yes.”

“Tell me what you like,” he said again, and his mouth found the tip of her breast. He blew a little air on it, then circled the edge with his tongue before finally capturing her with his lips.

“I like that,” she gasped.

So do I, he thought, and he moved to the other side, telling himself it was for balance. But really it was for him, and for her, and because he couldn’t bear to leave one inch of her untouched.

She arched beneath him, pressing up against his mouth, and he slid one of his hands down, wrapping around her bottom. He squeezed, then moved, his fingers finding the soft skin of her inner thigh. And when he squeezed again, his fingers were close, so close to the very center of her, so close that he could feel her heat.

His mouth moved back to hers just as his fingers found her, stroked her, entered her.

“Harry!” she cried out, surprised, but not, he thought, upset.

“Tell me what you like,” he said again.

“That,” she managed to get out. “But I don’t…”

He moved deeper, in and out, her wetness making him burn with need for her. “You don’t what?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He smiled. “You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know what I don’t know,” she practically snapped.

He bit back a laugh, and his fingers stilled for a moment.

“Don’t stop!” she cried.

And so he didn’t. He didn’t stop when she moaned his name, and he didn’t stop when she grabbed his shoulders so hard he was sure he’d be bruised. And he absolutely did not stop when she convulsed around him, so fast and so hard that she nearly pushed him out of her.

A gentleman might have stopped then. She had climaxed, and she was still a virgin, and he was probably a beast for wanting to make love to her fully, but he simply couldn’t…not.

She was his.

But not, he was coming to realize, quite as much as he was hers.

Before she came down from her climax, before she could collapse from the power of it, he pulled his fingers out and positioned himself at her opening. “I love you,” he said, his voice husky and hoarse with emotion. “I have to tell you. I need you to know. Right now I need you to know.”

He pushed forward then, expecting resistance. But she was so excited, so well loved, that he slid inside with ease. He shuddered at the pleasure of it, of the exquisite joining of their bodies. It was as if he’d never done this before-his desire took over and he lost all control. And then, in what would have been shameful speed had he not just pleasured her, he cried out and stiffened, and then, finally, collapsed.

Olivia left first.

She wasn’t sure how long they had lain there on the divan, trying to regain their sanity, and then, once they were able to breathe normally, it had taken some time to right their appearances. Harry couldn’t get his tie folded with the same crisp precision as his valet had done, and Olivia had found that one handkerchief was not up to the task of…

Good heavens, she couldn’t even think the words. She did not regret what she had done. She could never; it was the most wonderful, amazing, spectacular experience of her life. But now she was…sticky.

Their departure was also delayed by several stolen kisses, at least two lustful glances that had threatened to send them right back to the divan, and one extremely mischievous pinch on the behind.

Olivia was still congratulating herself on that one.

But eventually they managed to look respectable enough to rejoin polite society, and it was decided that Olivia would depart first. Harry would follow five minutes later.

“Are you certain my hair looks presentable?” she asked as she placed her hand on the doorknob.

“No,” he admitted.

She felt her eyes widen with alarm.

“It does not look bad,” he said, with a man’s typical inability to accurately describe coiffure, “but I don’t think it looks precisely the same as it did when you arrived.” He smiled weakly, clearly aware of his shortcomings in this regard.

She rushed back over to the room’s lone mirror, but it was over the mantel, and even on her tiptoes she couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of her entire face. “I can’t see a thing,” she grumbled. “I am going to have to find a washroom.”

And so their plans changed. Olivia would leave, find a washroom, and then remain there for at least ten minutes, so that Harry could leave five minutes after she departed and arrive back at the ballroom five minutes before she arrived.