The tension between them was building from chapter to chapter. He was glancing at her tenderly when she wasn't looking. She was daydreaming about his curly locks. He had been caught stealing looks at her heaving bosom as they strolled the grounds together. She had blushed furiously when she caught one of those looks, and had almost fainted as she imagined his eyes staring into hers and his cherry lips brushing lightly on the smooth skin of her hand . . . Something was definitely about to go down.
And then it happened. Finally, they managed to escape the eyes and ears of family members and chatty girlfriends and were alone in the secluded drawing room . . . one feverish soft little white hand was clasped in the firm, but slightly quivering palm of the other's and . . . and . . .
"Tell me," he said, kneeling in front of her and undoing her dress, beginning at the hem, "how do you want me to love you?"
She'd never been asked this before. Had always thought she'd want this. But now she didn't know what to say. Self-pleasure had become such a part of her because of the failings of men.
"Do anything you want," she said. "Explore me . . . teach me about myself."
She let out a gurgle when his hands touched her thighs, gliding steadily toward her hips, shoving before them a thin wave of flesh, which broke over her pelvis. He withdrew his palms to her knees then struck out again, continuing to massage her as he spoke.
"When you touch yourself," he began, "what do you imagine?"
She closed her eyes. "I'm a three-hundred-year-old mahogany table . . . and I'm being polished, and the slightest scratch would ruin my value." She licked her fingers and stroked her belly.
"Okay," he whispered in her navel, "my tongue is a length of silk."
He began with her toes, each one, separately, then worked his way over her instep, around her ankles, over her shins and calves to her knees. He used his hands to wax her breasts as he trailed kisses up her thighs, oiled them with kisses, all the way up to the dampness where they lost a bit of their firmness and became soft, almost chewable--there, in the crevice where the smell of sweat, piss, and feminine lotions combined to make a powerful aphrodisiac. Insinuating his hands beneath her, he took the offer of her upthrust hips and rolled her panties beneath her pelvis. Waiting for him was his supper--what looked like a wet mango with a narrow gash where it had smacked the ground after falling from the tree. Nectar was pooled around the nick. He licked it.
Okay. That's not exactly how the 19th century version of their encounter went, at least not in the pages of the book where our quivering, blushing pair exist. Their encounter was more like this:
(Picking up from feverish soft white, and firm trembling). He kneeled before her, stared up into her melting blue eyes, and whispered (almost too inaudibly for readers to catch), "I adore you."
I know. I let out a long, satisfied sigh too.
Happy Valentine's day to you, you, and you and if you don't have a reciprocal pair of eyes to stare into, then read a pristinely sexy 19th Century romance novel and continue to hope for yours. He'll come. She'll come. Trust me.
What's your romance?