Julia Quinn - When He Was Wicked

She shook her head.

“Do you want to?”

She nodded.

One of his hands left her hips and found the back of her head, pulling her down until they were nose to nose. “I’m not a gentle pony,” he said softly. “I promise you, you will have to work to keep your seat.”

“I want it,” she whispered.

“Are you ready for me?”

She nodded.

“Are you certain?” he whispered, his lips curving just enough to taunt her. She wasn’t sure what he was asking, and he knew it.

She just looked at him, her eyes widening in question.

“Are you wet?” he murmured.

Her cheeks grew hot-as if they weren’t already burning, but she nodded.

“Are you sure?” he mused. “I should probably check, just to make certain.”

Francesca’s breath caught as she watched his hand curve around her thigh, moving toward her center. He moved slowly, deliberately, drawing out the torture of anticipation. And then, just when she thought she might scream at it all, he touched her, one finger lazily drawing circles against her soft flesh.

“Very nice,” he purred, his words echoing her own.

“Michael,” she gasped.

But he was enjoying his position too much to allow her to rush things along. “I’m not sure,” he said. “You’re ready here, but what about… here?”

Francesca nearly screamed as one finger slipped inside of her.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “And you like it, too.”

“Michael… Michael…” It was all she could say.

Another finger slid into place next to the first. “So warm,” he whispered. “The very heart of you.”

“Michael…”

His eyes caught hers. “Do you want me?” he asked, his voice stark and direct.

She nodded.

“Now?”

She nodded again, this time with more vigor.

His fingers slid out, and his hands found her hips again, guiding her down… down… until she could feel the tip of him at her opening. She tried to move her body down onto him, but he held her in place. “Not too fast,” he whispered.

“Please…”

“Let me move you,” he said, and his hands gently pushed at her hips, edging her down until she felt herself being stretched open by him. He felt huge, and it was all so different in this position.

“Good?” he asked.

She nodded.

“More?”

She nodded again.

And he continued the torture, holding himself still, but moving her body down atop his, each impossible inch of him sliding into her, stealing her breath, her voice, her very ability to think.

“Slide up and down,” he commanded.

Her eyes flew to his.

“You can do it,” he said softly.

She did, testing the motion, moaning at the pleasure of the friction, then gasping as she realized that she was sliding farther down onto him, that he wasn’t yet entirely embedded within her body.

“Take me to the hilt,” he said.

“I can’t.” And she couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly. She knew she had done so the night before, but this was different. He couldn’t possibly fit.

His hands tightened on her, and his hips arched slightly up, and then in one mind-numbing jolt, she found herself seated directly atop him, skin to skin.

And she could barely breathe.

“Oh, my God,” he groaned.

She just sat there, rocking back and forth, unsure of what to do.

His breath was coming in fits and starts, and his body began to writhe under hers. She grasped his shoulders in an attempt to hold on, to keep her seat, and as she did, she began to move up and down, to take control, to seek pleasure for herself.

“Michael, Michael,” she moaned, her body beginning to sway from side to side, unable to hold itself up, unable to maintain strength against the hot tide of desire sweeping across her.

He just grunted, his body bucking beneath her. As promised, he wasn’t gentle, and he wasn’t tame. He forced her to work for her pleasure, to hold on tight, to move with him, and then against him, and then…

A scream ripped from her throat.

And the world quite simply fell apart.

She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. She let go of his shoulders as her body straightened and then arched, every muscle growing impossibly taut.

And beneath her, he exploded. His face contorted, his body lifted them both off the bed, and she knew that he was pouring himself into her. Her name was on his lips, over and over, decreasing in volume until it was the barest of whispers. And when he was done, all he said was, “Lie with me.”

She did. And she slept.

For the first time in days, she slept deeply and truly.

And she never knew that he laid awake the whole time, his lips at her temple, his hand against her hair.

Whispering her name.

Whispering other words as well.

… Michael will do what he wishes. He always does.

– from the Countess of Kilmartin to Helen Stirling, three days after the receipt of Helen’s missive

The days that followed brought Francesca no peace. When she thought about it rationally-or at least as rationally as she was able-it seemed as if she should have found some answers, should have sensed some sort of logic in the air, something that might tell her what to do, how to act, what sort of choice she needed to make.

But, no. Nothing.

She’d made love to him twice.

Twice.

To Michael.

That alone should have dictated her decisions, convinced her to accept his proposal. It should have been clear. She had lain with him. She might be pregnant, al-though that did seem a remote possibility, given that it had taken her a full two years to conceive with John.

But even without such consequences, her decision should have been obvious. In her world, in her society, the sort of intimacies in which she’d engaged meant only one thing.

She must marry him.

And yet she couldn’t quite summon the yes to her lips. Every time she thought she’d convinced herself that it was what she had to do, a little voice inside of her argued for caution, and she stopped, unable to move forward, too scared to delve into her feelings and try to figure out why she felt so paralyzed.

Michael didn’t understand, of course. How could he, when she didn’t understand herself?

“I shall call upon the vicar tomorrow morning,” he’d murmured at her ear as he helped her mount a fresh horse outside the gardener’s cottage. She had awakened alone sometime in the late afternoon, a brief note from him on the pillow beside her, explaining that he was taking Felix back to Kilmartin and would return shortly with a new mount.

But he had only brought one horse, forcing her once again to share the saddle, this time perched behind him.

“I’m not ready,” she’d said, a sudden rush of panic filling her chest. “Don’t go see him. Not yet.”

His face had darkened, but he didn’t allow his temper to rise any further. “We will discuss it later,” he’d said.

And they’d ridden home in silence.

She tried to escape to her room once they reached Kilmartin, mumbling something about needing to bathe, but he caught her hand, his grip firm and unyielding, and she found herself alone with him, back in the rose drawing room of all places, the door shut firmly behind them.

“What is all this about?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” she stalled, trying desperately not to look at the table behind him. It was the one upon which he’d perched her the night before, then done unspeakable things to her.

And the memory alone was enough to make her shiver.

“You know what I mean,” he said impatiently.

“Michael, I-”

“Will you marry me?” he demanded.

Dear God, she wished he hadn’t just come out and said it. It was all so much easier to avoid when the words weren’t right there, hanging between them.

“I-I-”

“Will you marry me?” he repeated, and this time the words were hard, with more of an edge to them.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I need more time.”

‘Time for what?“ he snapped. ”For me to try a little harder to get you pregnant?“

She flinched as if struck.

He advanced upon her. “Because I’ll do it,” he warned. “I’ll take you right now, and then again tonight, and then three times tomorrow if that’s what is required.”

“Michael, stop…” she whispered.

“I have lain with you,” he said, his words stark and yet strangely urgent. ‘Twice. You are no innocent. You know what that means.“

And it was because she was no innocent-and no one would ever expect her to be-that she was able to say, “I know. But that doesn’t matter. Not if I don’t conceive.”

Michael hissed a word she never dreamed he’d say in her presence.

“I need time,” she said, hugging her arms against her body.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. To think. To muddle through. I don’t know.”

“What the devil is there left to think about?” he bit off.

“Well, for one thing, about whether you’ll make a good husband,” she snapped back, finally goaded into anger.

He drew back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Your past behavior, to start with,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “You haven’t exactly been the model of Christian rectitude.”

“This, coming from the woman who ordered me to strip off my clothing earlier this afternoon?” he taunted.

“Don’t be ugly,” she said in a low voice.

“Don’t push my temper.”

Her head began to pound, and she pressed her fingers to her temples. “For God’s sake, Michael, can’t you let me think? Can’t you give me just a little time to think?”

But the truth was, she was terrified to think. Because what would she learn? That she was a wanton, a hussy? That she had felt a primitive thrill with this man, a soaring, scandalous sensation that had never been there with her husband, whom she’d loved with every inch of her heart?