It’s—
“I’ll show you,” he said, his voice catching because her hair against his cheek was as soft as spun silk and he just wanted to eat her. To lick her. It could rain on them and he would lick every drop from her body and keep her warm.
But the gentleman in him was shouting No. Still.
“Show me what?” Her whisper was languid, sweet. “Simeon?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to help with my lacings?”
Madness fought with the plan, fought with civility, fought—and lost. “No.”
That was definitely disappointment in her eyes.
“When I—” What word was he supposed to use? Not cock and not pizzle. “This is is my prick.” The word fell harshly from his lips.
She surprised him; she’d probably always surprise him. She laughed. “The bawdy prick of noon!”
“Shakespeare was very fond of punning and pricks.”
“I like that word,” she said, reaching out. It was unfortunate that his brain stopped working the moment her cool fingers began running over him, touching him, tightening.
He tried. “When I—” The words were lost in a groan.
“Your naked weapon is out,” she said, gurgling with laughter. But he couldn’t join her in a game of Shakespearean quotes, not when his body was on fire. He jerked in her hand and she laughed again, the triumphant sound of a woman who’s discovered a power she didn’t understand she had.
“When I come—” he said, pulling himself together.
“When you what?”
“Come. Oh God, Isidore, if you keep doing that I am going to come.” He leaned into the pillar at his back. The marble was chilly and gave him some sanity.
“Do,” she breathed, swaying closer to him. Her hand was trapped between the silk of her skirts and the rough hair of his belly. But he didn’t want to frighten her, to have her disgusted.
He pushed her back. “Just watch, this time.”
Her eyes were huge, excited. He managed to pull his thoughts back from his groin. “In order for us to be successful between the sheets, we have to understand what makes the other person feel pleasure.”
She opened her lips but said nothing. Still, there was something in her eyes that made him keep going. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask you to show me.”
“Show you what?”
“What you find pleasurable,” he confirmed. “My body isn’t nearly as interesting as yours, but there are points that—” He put a thumb over his own nipple. “This isn’t as beautiful nor useful, but it feels pleasure.”
Her mouth curled in a little smile that affected him much more than his own touch on his body. He moved his hand down, deliberately, slowly, wrapped his fingers around his length. Slid his hand. Took his pleasure from the way she shifted back and forth, as if she was feeling heat between her legs, as if she were remembering the afternoon.
“It looks larger than it did earlier,” she whispered.
His body moved instinctively toward her, passionate to establish a rhythm that would satisfy and daze her, drive her to the pleasure he had felt.
“So when you lose control, what happens?”
The question hung on the air. He cleared his throat. “I eject fluid that contains my contribution to a future child.” And: “I wouldn’t describe it as losing control.” He let his hand fall away from his body.
She put her hand on him, and he instantly shuddered. The fire touched his spine, raced down his legs like a premonition of the future. “If I keep doing this—” she demonstrated—“wouldn’t you lose control?”
“No.” But it was a gasp.