“I doubt that, duchess. However, I made it clear that all you would have was a week. This is your duty, we cannot put it off for as long as you feel unprepared to handle it, or else our partnership might be for naught.”
“I told you that I am fine.”
He rolled his eyes, clearly growing irritated. “Perhaps I would feel more inclined to believe you if you did not have the posture of a calf sent to the slaughter house. It might help us both ifyou contribute more to the activity than simply laying stiffly as though you are a cat that was left out in the snow.”
Phoebe glared up at him, partly ashamed because she knew he was right, but even more so because she knew she could not really help herself. She had worked herself into a tense posture and could not seem to regain the calm, casual form her body held at some point.
And she could not very well ask him for help because she did not think he would.
Edward sensed her dilemma anyway and sighed deeply, as though he could not fathom having to deal with any of this on a night like this, which only made her even more embarrassed.
Her feelings quickly changed when he reached out then and touched her – just his hand, open and warm, laid flat against her collarbone with a gentleness that she had not been expecting and which undid quite a lot of her composure at once. She hardly had enough time to alarmed, because that same hand slid over her shoulders to the back of her neck, guiding her gently to lay against the pillows as his other hands lifted her legs onto the bed.
His hand remained braced along the side of her neck for a moment, then it returned to her chest and stayed there, as if he were simply learning the warmth of her skin. Not knowing what to do with this new position, Phoebe resolved to not to worry so much about what was to come next, felling her breath shift and slow.
“There,” he murmured, “You see. There is no need for all of that.”
“All of what,” she snapped, but noticed her voice came out less icy than she intended.
“The shield.” His hand moved, slowly – across her collarbone, along the curve of her shoulder, down her arm. “You have been wearing it since you came into this room. Since before that, I suspect.”
“You are reading quite a lot into a person simply lying in a bed.”
“I am reading you,” he replied, simply. “You are not that difficult to read, when you are not trying to be.”
Phoebe thought of several responses to this and said none of them, because his hand had moved again and was now tracing a slow, unhurried path along her side, from the curve of her waist to the slope of her hip, and it was becoming genuinely difficult to think.
He was certainly trying not to rush. That realization unnerved her greatly, as she had carried the idea that the evening would go along a direct path, with a general flow of activity that would bear a steady – if not fast-paced – momentum. She had prepared herself for something purposeful. This was something else entirely. He seemed to have all the time in the world, and he seemed to intend to use every moment of it, and Phoebe was not entirely sure her initial preparations would help her survive his intentions.
He leaned over her with his hand warm at her hip, and stared down at her with the same dark attention in his gaze, and Phoebe felt the last of her careful stiffness begin to give way.
“Tell me if anything is wrong,” he instructed.
“I will,” she nodded because she was worried he would stop if she did not respond.
“Good.” He pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, just beneath her jaw, and she closed her eyes.
Edward's hands were very sure. Not forceful, but certain, as each touch was done deliberately, with intention behind each caress and grope.
“Relax,” he murmured against her skin as his lips over her the swell of her breasts, his tongue darting out to lick a nipple. “You are thinking too much.”
“I am not thinking anything,” she said, which to be fair was quite true at that point.
She felt his smile against her skin rather than saw it. “Good.”
His mouthed and nipped at her breasts, paying them a generous amount of attention that was further eating away at Phoebe’s ability to think. She exhaled deeply as his tongue circled a nipple and he sank his teeth into the tender flesh, the bite just on the precipice of pain and feeling confusingly pleasurable as well. Herhands, which had been resting uncertainly at her sides, were suddenly settled against his shoulders, and she took the comfort offered by his warm and solid flesh beneath her fingers.
While his mouth could not get enough of her bosom, one of his hands left a trail of heat at its wake as he caressed along her side, to her torso and lower, until it was nestled between her legs. He tapped at her mound with a finger and her legs spread for him, a reaction that pleased him greatly and he rewarded her by teasing her entrance with that finger.
She could feel it, how moist she was, shuddering when he dipped his fingers past her folds, exploring the caves of her womanhood, smiling as she quickly found herself lost in the throes of pleasure. Just as she was about to surrender to it, he took his fingers away and she bit her lip to keep herself from whining in complaint. Still, her disappointment must have shown on her face because he smirked, moving over her to settle between her legs.
The implications of his actions caused her breath to momentarily cease and all she could do was watch as he parted her legs, then raise his hands to undo the fastenings of his breeches. Just enough to retrieve his member and the sight of it made her shiver with curiosity and uncertainty.
He stroked himself once, twice, his eyes finding hers as he did it one more, as if he was giving her one final chance to rethink the situation. When she did not move, he seemed to realize he had his answer.
“Still with me?” he asked quietly anyway, braced above her and spreading her legs even further.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice quaking slightly beyond her control.