Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

20. Georgiana

20

Georgiana

G eorgiana wondered if Fitz felt it, too. How something about what they had just done, something about being in his arms, was different. Right. She hadn’t lied to her husband; she wasn’t a blushing virgin. She had sucked a prick or two in her twenty years of life. But never had it been anything more than a physical act, slaking lust, fulfilling a desire, a sexual experiment. But with Fitz? She had almost gone and done something completely embarrassing like cry afterwards. She had been so utterly overcome. Still was.

Maybe it was the way he had called her Gigi, a pet name that only existed for her with him. Or maybe it was the way he had instantly reverted into caretaker afterwards. There had been no thought for himself. He’d reverently cleaned away her tears, the evidence of what they had just shared, and then she was in his arms. His lips dusted over her, and it was like all the pieces of her, the broken pieces she hid deep inside, fit perfectly in his arms.

She ran her hands over his upper chest, a small twinge of disappointment piercing through her. She wished she had gotten to explore more of him. She plucked at his linen shirt hiding what she was sure was a delectable physique.

“Is something amiss?” he murmured.

“No.” She glanced up at him and the words on her lips, the thoughts in her brain, died a swift death. Nothing remained but gleaming sated eyes darkened to a rich mahogany—intoxicating, entrancing. And that was what this man seemed to have done to her—pulled her into a spellbinding trance one only read about in folklore. Their breaths mingled, warm whisky and sweet cinnamon overwhelming her senses. Fitz overwhelming her senses.

Her fingers twitched, crisp linen dragging over her fingertips, breaking the hold he had on her. She cleared her throat and cleared away the headiness of whatever had just passed between them.

“I was just wondering if your body is as delightful as my fingertips have determined it to be.” She smiled cheekily at him. “That and, to be frank, holly is not very comfortable to cuddle with.”

His cheeks, already flushed from orgasm, bloomed a deeper hue. “I’m happy to remove it and, urm, make you more comfortable and satisfy your curiosity.”

Her gaze went to his, and she smiled. Her fingers found his cravat. “May I?” But she was already loosening the knot and pulling the neckcloth free. He chuckled, a low rumble reverberating into her. She stilled, her eyes flicking to his. “You have a lovely laugh.” And now his ears matched his cheeks.

“Me?” His lips twitched. “My laugh is usually as strangled as my throat trying to form words.”

She nearly had his waistcoat undone—not a simple task with the giant wreath of holly on it—and then moved up to the buttons that closed the V of his shirt. “You don’t seem to be strangling overmuch right now.” She pushed off him and stood. “There, now off with it.”

He shrugged out of his waistcoat and then reached behind his head for his shirt. “I’m chocking it down to languidness and temporary insanity,” came his muffled response inside his shirt as he pulled it over his head.

A shy grin peeped from under his hem. “I’m sure I’ll be bumbling again soon. And I’m still blushing, so there is that.”

But Georgiana barely heard his words. Because she was struck dumb . She stepped forward, hands trailing over each little square of muscle on his abdomen. “How do you look like this?” she whispered. “I thought you did Italian translations for a living.” She looked up at him, but didn’t stop touching him. Couldn’t. His skin twitched and quivered under fingers, hot to the touch.

“I-I take it you approve?”

A slight stumble, but she wasn’t sure if it was because her fingers were perhaps tickling him or if her bold exploration had brought his nerves back. She nodded, her gaze falling to the large, hard discs of his chest. Her fingers traced the delineated muscle, circled his nipple. He hissed in a breath between his teeth.

He was broad and all lean muscle. Not bulky, not like a blacksmith or a dock worker. But there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. She leaned side-to-side, searching for it. Poked and prodded. Not. One. Bloody. Ounce.

“I s-swim,” he finally answered her earlier question. “We have a bathing pool here at Thornfield Hall, heated with numerous fireplaces so it can be used during all seasons.” His breath caught when her hands traveled over the triangular muscles where his shoulders met his neck. “I find that it is somewhat thera-peutic.” He cleared his throat. “For anxiety, when I get in my head.”

She tilted her head and studied him, his amber eyes now avoiding hers. “It would appear you swim quite a lot,” she murmured.

He rolled his lips in, his fingers tapping at his thighs, like he didn’t know where to put them. “I’m in my head quite a lot.”

Her palms coasted down his arms to his wrists. She slowly brought his hands to her hips and stepped closer to him. His chin dropped down, hers tilted up, their gazes locked. She gripped his biceps to keep herself from falling backwards. Falling for him.

“I don’t mind,” she said, her words barely audible.

His strong amber brows pinched.

“The nerves, the awkwardness, the stutters and stumbles,” she clarified. “If you get lost in your head and need time to come back out… I’m a very patient person, Fitz.” She had been patiently waiting her entire life to be free from her lonely existence. Being patient with her husband would be no task at all. And she found…she quite wanted to know what that patience would bring.

His lips coasted over hers. “How did we get here?” he asked, his voice soft with what sounded like awe.

She pulled away and sent him a cheeky smile. “I believe my breasts might be to blame for that.”

He stiffened against her, and she blinked, unsure of what caused the instant tension. And it wasn’t a good tension. He cleared his throat and stepped back, grabbing his shirt.

“I should probably get back to my work,” he said, throwing his shirt back over his head.

She slowly backed away. Was that hurt in his eyes? But whatever for?

“I—” He shook his head and seemed to shake away whatever upset had overcome him. “Thank you for speaking with me, Gigi,” he said softly.

And then he was sitting and picking up his quill, and she was leaving, wondering how, after experiencing something that had felt so right, she suddenly felt as though everything was wrong. But he had called her Gigi again. So she was going to hold on to that.