To Have and to Hold (Finders Keepers #4)

Chapter Thirteen

Cecily found that now it had come to it, being intimate with her husband for the first time in a long time, she did not want to wait. As he kissed her, she moved against him. Her experience had taught her certain things—no matter how unwilling to learn she had been, she could not have missed his preoccupation with her breasts. The way his gaze had lingered, feasted. The way his hands always came up to cup them, fingers swiping over her nipples in an attempt to induce her to respond.

A wave of shame flooded her, but not because of what they were doing. Rather, because of how she’d been with him.

The instant he felt her tense, he pulled back and away. His eyes glittered, his breath already coming fast, but he held her gently, as though she were made of glass. “We don’t have to,” he said, a frown touching his eyes as he searched her expression. “Or we can go slowly. I—”

“I don’t wish to go slowly.” She took his hand and placed it on her breast, feeling the way his fingers flexed, the slight hitch in his breath. Heat pooled in his eyes, matching the heat that throbbed between her legs.

Want .

Everything about this felt new, even though they were dancing to an old, familiar tune. All because she no longer resisted the response of her body to him.

“I’m sorry I made you feel as though I didn’t want you,” she whispered.

“Sweetheart—”

“Today will be different.”

He trailed his finger down her neck, pausing at the neckline of her gown. “Today, I would like to teach you what—what it can be like.”

Teach her. She liked the sound of that. “I’ll prove a willing student.”

“If you would ever like to stop, you must tell me.”

“I will, but Percy, I won’t want to stop.”

“An easy promise to make before we’ve begun.”

She smiled, pressing up against him so his hardness pushed against her stomach. “I want you,” she said, watching at the way his eyes darkened at the words. His tongue moistened his bottom lip, and she shuddered at the thought of its liquid heat against her skin. “And I think—I know I love you.”

The corner of a smile tilted his mouth as he kissed her jaw. “Are you certain, Circe?” he murmured, and something warm erupted in her chest. “Are you certain you love me, sweet witch? Or are you saying whatever is necessary to lure me into bed?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Is it working?”

“I think you should say it again.”

Happiness. She hadn’t known it would be so potent, or make her feel so giddy with it. “I love you, Percy Somerville.”

He nipped her collarbone in reward. “Good.”

“I love you, husband.” His erection throbbed against her, and she smiled. Evidently he liked the way she said that a lot . “Husband,” she repeated, and he twitched again.

“I love you, wife.” He picked her up and carried her to the bed, plopping her down on the mattress with surprising ease. Then again, she had always been particularly small against him. She loved that feeling of smallness now. Her softness against his solidness. His weight on her. Between her legs.

Then he flipped her, so she lay on her stomach. “Wife,” he murmured. “Wife.”

“Husband.” Cecily gasped as his fingertips brushed her spine. Slowly, slowly, he undid the back of her dress. Then the laces of her stays. She expected him to turn her back around, but instead he kissed the back of her neck, moving her hair aside until he reached skin. At the same time, a hand explored her legs, sliding underneath her skirts.

Infuriating pressure. Infuriating man to take so long to give her what she’d finally admitted her body wanted.

“You are so beautiful,” he said against her skin, and briefly allowed her to feel what she was doing to him, his hips grazing her backside.

“Then why are you taking so long?” she complained.

“Impatient, love?”

“Yes.”

He laughed softly, and cupped her bottom before easing her dress up her legs. She wore too many layers, but he removed them with ease, and she helped, drawing herself up so he could tug them free. Her hair fell messily around her face when he had done, and she glanced over her shoulder at him, grinning through the tangled red that obscured her vision.

“An enchantress indeed,” he said, a little hoarse as he brushed her hair aside. “You know, it was your hair I noticed first.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” He turned her, sitting her shoulders against the pillow and leaning over her to kiss her mouth softly. Then, as she arched her back against him, longing for the feel of something against her aching breasts and sensitive nipples, he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth, where she met it with hers. He groaned.

“I want your clothes off,” she said as she broke away, almost astounding herself with her boldness.

His smile turned into a smirk. “Be my guest.”

Intriguing. She had never been the one to remove his clothes before—most times, he’d been wearing very little, and had removed it before joining her. How bizarre that four years of marriage had given her no better understanding of men’s clothing. She fumbled with the buttons of his coat and waistcoat, tossing them aside. He helped her remove his shirt, tugging it over his head. Then came his breeches, her work already impeded by the large bulge that distorted the material. More than that, as she unbuttoned his falls, he made a noise that could only be described as a hiss every time her fingers passed over it.

She experimented by doing it again, and he sucked in a breath, the sound coming from his chest almost a rumble. Then, through the material of his breeches, she took hold of his length. Squeezed.

He caught her wrist. “Peace, my love,” he said with a wry smile. “Let’s finish your education in men’s clothing before all your hard work goes to waste.”

She frowned, trying to piece together the meaning of his words, but he merely gestured to the half-finished buttons. She completed them—there were only three—and he helped her remove them.

Then he sat before her, naked as she, and took her hand, toying with her fingers. “I know I am not as young as I was, or as spry,” he said, tenderly, “but I will show you pleasure if you allow me that right.”

Cecily leant in, pressing her mouth against Percy’s, her other hand running down his chest until she encountered the wet tip of his erection. “I always found you handsome,” she said, her breasts brushing his chest. This time, she was the one to suck in a breath. “Even if I could not admit it to myself at the time.”

He urged her closer with a hand to the small of her back, and she obeyed, finding a way of sitting with her legs around his waist, their bodies pressed together with no room between them, her sensitive centre rubbing against his length. Every contact sent a burst of pleasure through her like sparks.

He kissed her, and she relaxed against him, no longer thinking about her figure, and whether he would find its sharp angles appealing. All she thought about was their bodies, and what they could do to one another. What they already did. What she wanted .

He broke away, panting, and she had the impression that even though they were barely moving, barely rocking against one another, he was already close.

And she—yes, she felt the way her body tightened in anticipation of her climax’s arrival. As though he held the reins of her pleasure, and with each flick, he commanded it closer.

“Is this good for you?” she asked, moving against him and matching his rhythm. This position was both heaven and torture; they were so close that she could not move very far, but each tiny motion turned to fire in her veins.

Her hips tilted, and he almost slid inside.

The need to be filled swallowed her whole, and she whimpered in frustration.

He brushed a curl back from her eyes, and she realised he was trembling, too.

“We should discuss children,” he said.

The incongruity of the statement took her entirely by surprise. One did not, she presumed, engage in these kinds of activities and think about children. Or, indeed, or anything other than one’s partner.

He laughed at the expression on her face, and the movement almost slipped him inside her again. With what appeared to be great effort, he shifted, and the rub of his hardness through her slickness made her shudder, thoughts scattering.

“If you do not wish for children yet, then that changes—ah—things.” His words sounded strained now. “How we should go about this.”

“You’ve never asked before.”

“Forgive me.” He kissed one freckled shoulder. “I ought to have done.”

Children. Instinctively, she thought about her mother, and her movements stilled, ardour dampened. She hadn’t considered children, except to assume they would inevitably have some, and then to assume that they would not, given his lack of dedication in that area. This was . . . unexpected.

And yet, when she considered it, her heart thrummed at the thought of bearing Percy’s children. Perhaps she would have a red-haired girl with the soul of a dreamer and her father’s patient eyes—and heavens above, she wanted that. Wanted it more than she could ever have articulated.

“Yes,” she said, and canted her hips. He slid in, just a few inches, and both their bodies tightened at the intrusion. The pleasure. The overwhelming sensation of being stretched. “Please.”

“I should have readied you,” he said hoarsely. “I intended to go slowly and show you everything, but—” He slid in another inch, and she ground against him, needing more, needing so much more, needing everything he had to give.

“I’m ready, I’m ready for you.”

He gave a shaky laugh, forehead against hers. “You barely so much as know what that means.”

She had vague, undefined memories of Percy readying her before, using his fingers on her—and on one occasion, his mouth, until she had wiggled away from him and begged him never to do that again. She also recalled the way her body had reacted. Its wetness. The dull edge of desire that she’d tucked away, trying to force herself to forget.

Now, that edge was honed and sharp.

“I’m ready,” she insisted, and shifted closer, that final movement seating him fully in her.

They both took a moment to breathe, sharing each other’s air. Then she kissed him—or perhaps he kissed her—with enough clumsiness that their teeth clacked together. They both laughed a little, but breathlessly, their bodies undulating as they found a rocking rhythm. Him inside her, filling her and stretching her, the pressure just enough that she thought she would explode, the sensation gathering in her lower belly. His kiss mimicked the roll of his hips, the give and take, the slick pleasure of it. They were joined so deeply, she lost track of where she ended and he began, and perhaps that was the beauty of it—beauty she’d never considered before, because her marriage to Percy had never felt like a union until recently. And this, she understood now, was the greatest union of all.

Once, she might have been ashamed of the noises she made, the way she sank her teeth into his shoulder, and the way that only inspired him to take her faster. Harder. More and more until her vision blurred and the tension in her limbs tightened beyond all reason, until she hovered on a precipice, coiled so tightly she knew she might snap.

“Cecily,” Percy groaned into her skin. Dimly, she registered that it was damp, and that they were both covered in a fine mist of sweat, but it seemed an unimportant detail at the present. “Are you close, my darling?”

Yes. She hovered on a knife’s edge. Every small, vital movement bringing her closer, but she didn’t want to fall.

“Cecily.” His voice was more urgent now, fingers digging into her thighs as he brought her to move still faster against him. “I need you to come for me.”

Her inner muscles trembled, and again as though he held the reins, at his command she tumbled off her cliff into somewhere weightless and empty, filled only with pleasure so bright and shocking, she hardly felt the way she shuddered around him, or the way he said her name and thrust into her one final time as he found his own release, spilling inside her.

When she back into herself, she found him stroking her hair and smiling faintly. Her thighs shook, and he held her tightly.

“That was . . .” She didn’t have the words to describe how that had been. Incredible, awe-inspiring, wonderful didn’t quite seem to do it justice. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, love.” He kissed her hair. “I enjoyed myself as well.”

“And now I may be in danger of conceiving a child?”

“Danger isn’t perhaps the word I would use, but there is a chance, certainly. Have you changed your mind?”

She shook her head. “No. I think it would be charming to have a child with you.”

He laughed, open-mouthed and delighted. And she laughed with him, enjoying the shudder of his chest, the way his mirth reverberated through her body.

“I think I must be dreaming,” he said, and kissed her again. “Can this be real?”

“I don’t think my imagination is so vivid.”

“Nor mine, though it comes close.” His fingers trailed up and down her spine. “I’ve dreamt about this so many times.”

“Then perhaps we can make those dreams come true?” She raised her brows.

“Perhaps, though you must afford this old man a little time to recover.”

“You have not behaved like an old man much of late.”

“You make me feel young again,” he said, and the smile that spread across his face was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. She traced the lines that flared from the corners of his eyes. To think she’d ever assumed she could not want him, crave him, love him.

“I love you,” she said quietly, and his gaze turned serious, though no less lovely. A warmth so bright that it bathed all the parts of her life she would rather forget. Even if she had the choice, she would not have exchanged it for a thousand years, for a younger husband, for anything other than this, right here, with him.

He touched the ring on her finger, the one she had always worn even when she thought she didn’t want to be married. Then he returned his gaze to her face. “I, Percy Somerville, take thee, Cecily Somerville—”

“What are you doing?” she protested. “We’re already married.”

“—To be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward,” he said, speaking over her, his thumb still across the polished gold on her third finger, “for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.” His smile deepened. “You see. I have not forgotten.”

“I hope you will do your fair share of having,” she said, teasing even as her heart swelled. “And holding.”

“Mm, and loving, I think.”

“From this day forward,” she murmured. “Until the end of time.”

He laughed and kissed her again. “A little ambitious, my darling, but I’ll do my best.”