Free Marrying Winterborne by Lisa Kleypas

drooping fabric, and he trapped her hand in his firm, warm grip. “Oh please . . .”
    But he wouldn’t let go, only nuzzled across the freshly revealed skin, the white curve, the shell-pinkaureole. A ragged sigh escaped him. He let the tip of his tongue trail across the roseate peak, painting it with heat before taking it into his mouth and flicking until it ached and tensed even more, and then he moved to her other breast. Dazed by the wicked pleasure, lost in him and what he was doing, Helen inched closer, needing more closeness, more . . . something . . . but then through the thin layer of her chemise, she felt an unexpected protrusion, a kind of swollen ridge. Startled, she wrenched backward.
    Rhys lifted his head. Embered light from the hearth played across the damp surface of his lower lip. “No, don’t pull away,” he said huskily. His hand slid over her bottom and gently eased her back to him. “This is”—he took an uneven breath as her hips settled tentatively against his—“what happens to me when I want you. There, where it’s hard . . . that’s the part that goes inside you.” As if to demonstrate, he nudged against the cradle of her pelvis. “Understand?”
    Helen froze.
    Dear Lord.
    No wonder the sexual act was such a secret. If women knew, they would never consent to it.
    Although she tried not to look as aghast as she felt, some of it must have shown in her expression, because he gave her a glance of mingled chagrin and amusement.
    â€œIt’s better than it sounds,” he offered apologetically.
    Although Helen dreaded the answer, she worked up the courage to ask timidly, “Inside where?”
    For answer, he moved over her, spreading her beneath him. His hand coasted over her shrinking body, caressing the insides of her thighs and stroking them apart. She could scarcely breathe as he reached beneath the hem ofthe chemise. There was a light touch between her legs, his fingertips delving into the patch of intimate curls.
    She went rigid at the peculiar feeling, the circling pressure that found a hollow place and began to push inward. And then, unbelievably, her body gave way to the silky-wet wriggle and glide of his finger as he . . . No, it was impossible.
    â€œInside here,” he said quietly, watching her from beneath a sweep of ink-black lashes.
    Moaning in confusion, she twisted to escape the invasion, but he held her firmly.
    â€œWhen I enter you”—his finger sank to the last joint, retreated an inch, slipped in again—“you’ll feel pain at first.” He was stroking places she had never known existed, his touch clever and gentle. “But it won’t hurt after the first time, ever again.”
    Helen closed her eyes, distracted by the curious sensation that had awakened inside her. Ephemeral, elusive, like a hint of perfume lingering in a quiet room.
    â€œI’ll move like this”—the subtle caresses acquired a rhythm, his finger nudging in, and in, her inner flesh becoming silkier and more slippery with each sinuous penetration—“until I spend inside you.”
    â€œSpend?” she asked through dry lips.
    â€œA release . . . a moment when your heart begins to pound, and you struggle in every limb for something you can’t quite reach. It’s torture, but you’d rather die than stop.” His mouth lowered to her scarlet ear, while he continued to tease her relentlessly. “You follow the rhythm and hold on tight,” he whispered, “because you know the world is about to end. And then it does.”
    â€œThat doesn’t sound very comfortable,” she managed to say, brimming with a strange, squirmy, guilty heat.
    A dark tendril of laughter curled inside her ear. “Comfortable, no. But an unholy pleasure, it is.”
    His finger withdrew, and she felt him stroke along the delicately closed seam of her sex. Parting the soft crevice, he began