Angel in Scarlet (Bound and Determined #4)(30)

And had she been responsible for what had happened? Had she done that to him?

She watched as he pulled a cloth from the pocket of his coat and cleaned himself. A part of her wanted to offer to help. She wanted to feel him, to know the touch of his skin, the softness, the sweetness. A thousand questions formed in her mind, and yet she knew she would speak not a single one.

He looked up at her, his eyes hooded and heavy. “Well?”

Again, no words came. She forced her lips into the slightest of smiles but knew he could tell that it was fake.

“Honesty,” he said.

She opened her mouth. “I don’t know. I know that is not a true answer, but it is as honest as I can be. My understanding of what happened is sorely lacking.”

“Well—” he began.

She cut him off. “I do understand what happened physically—at least to some extent. I am not completely ignorant. I know that what just happened could cause a child if it happened in my body. And I know that men enjoy it, although I must confess it did not look entirely enjoyable. But I don’t understand the feelings of it. I don’t understand what I saw on your face. And I don’t quite understand how that is supposed to happen in my body—although from listening to the married women, I gather that part is not difficult, if sometimes painful.”

“It should never be painful, except perhaps the first time. I must admit I have avoided virgins and therefore have no true knowledge, but I know that the breaking of the maidenhead is not always easy, although I do believe that proper preparation can minimize the pain.”

Proper preparation? She was not sure she wanted to know what that meant. Or maybe she did? She had to admit she was as curious as a cat. “I have heard differently. Many women speak of pain.”

“And do they also speak of pleasure?”

“Some do,” she admitted.

“And which do you believe? I cannot believe you would be here if you thought there would be only pain.”

She bowed her head, unsure. “My best friend is recently married, and it is clear that she enjoys the act—more than enjoys it—but she doesn’t reveal much. She says I must wait until marriage—although I know that she did not. I do not understand why the moment a woman becomes married she believes that all others must wait. I know that she was curious and pursued things before she wed. Would it not be much simpler if she would just explain it all to me?” She leaned back, in a gesture of exasperation.

Colton laughed, and then he suddenly focused on her chest.

Her breasts were still bare. How had she forgotten such a thing? How could she be sitting here having a conversation while her breasts stared out at the world?

His nostrils flared as he stared, and that other part of him, his penis, jerked. Did the thing move on its own? And was it growing? She had not paid enough attention to it after the event, other than to notice that it seemed smaller, but now it was rapidly returning to its previous size.

His eyes still did not move from her breasts, from her nipples. His lips parted. His tongue came out to wet them.

She became aware of the heaviness of her breasts. How could she have ignored them? They ached and begged. It seemed an odd way to describe the sensation, but she did not know any better. Her breasts wanted something, needed something. Even without his direction, she moved her hands back to them, lightly stroking the underside, feeling their heat.

She looked down at herself. The tips were hard and straining, harder than she could remember them ever being. She brushed her fingers over the tips and gasped at the sensation. So sensitive. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to pull her dress up over them. She brushed again.

Pleasure and pain.

Was this what Colton had felt when it happened? She remembered the look on his face and brushed herself again, letting her nail abrade the silken tip. It was definitely not comfortable; if she had to put it to words, “pain” would definitely be one—and yet she wanted more, so much more. She brushed again, harder, firmer. It did feel good, but not quite good. And the more she played, the more she felt the need to play more. It was like eating chocolate, where each bite only made you want the next—until you were sick.

Was what he had felt some type of sickness? Perhaps what led up to it was so good that one did not mind the hurt at the end. That might make sense of the different ways that women reacted.

She looked back at Colton. He was still focused on her breasts, intent on the movement of her hands. He panted slightly, and he had begun to stroke himself again. His penis strained, fully enlarged now, the tip beginning to shine.

And he was engrossed by her, by what she was doing. There could be no mistaking that.

His pupils were huge, his breathing hot and heavy. And all because of her.

Her own sense of excitement grew.

God, she wanted. She wanted. She wanted.

Her thighs pressed tight—and then released. And then again.

She squirmed upon the bed, trying to find comfort.

She pulled at her nipples, still watching Colton.

It felt so good. And yet it was unbearable. She felt as if she were reaching for something just out of sight. If only she could see it, see her goal, perhaps she could grasp it. She wet her fingers with her mouth and then brought the moisture to her nipples. Ahh, the cool felt good, soothing—and yet it was not enough.

She wet them again, making them slick and shiny.

“Fuck,” Colton moaned, gripping himself tighter.