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She is lucky, she is so, so lucky—her husband! What a fine figure of a man! She looks at him and cannot believe it. That Knightly is now her Knightly, he is her George, and whenever she wants him, she can have him. That he is always as she likes.
“Emma,” he says. They are in the study, having been left alone for now. The maid saw how he was looking at her and hurried out of the room, murmuring something about being needed in the kitchen. George touches her hand, his fingertips rough and calloused against her palm. “My dearest Emma.”
Emma, he says, her name pressed like a prayer between his lips. She wraps her hands in his hair. His eyes—so clear—are focused on her own.
The solar is cold. She must admit her father was right, how the house so often has a draft. But he wraps his hands around her hips, his thumbs pressing into the bone. She thrills in it. She cannot care about drafty air.
“George,” she says—a gasp, a sigh, a shiver. He is so warm against her. He kisses the tip of her nose.
“The fire,” he says. “Shall I call for a footman?”
She casts a glance at the fire, which is low, more embers than flame. “Perhaps,” she says. “But we have already chased off the housemaid.” His fingers press in harder. She has become quite hot.
Oh, she remembers what it was like to want him, before he was hers. A pulse low in her stomach, throbbing between her legs. She didn’t know. Every time they spoke—she didn’t know what it was like, this yearning.
They are as alone in the house as they will ever be. Her father is in his study and the servants are now elsewhere. They gave the housekeeper the day off. The solar is empty, gloriously so, and her husband’s hand is on her waist and moving lower.
“I do not think you should call for the footman,” she says.
“Mm?” He leans in, and she can feel his breath on her throat. She shivers again: nothing to do with the footmen or the lack thereof. “Would it be inappropriate,” he says. “Would it be compromising.”
They have been married six months now—six wonderful months, six months she couldn’t have dreamed of. It is wonderful and terrible and it makes her ache. He looks at her and she goes all-over flames. She looks at him through lowered lashes and he says he cannot contain himself, gets his hands on her like he will never let her go.
“If I may remind you,” she says. “We did marry.”
“Ah.” He cups her, squeezes. “You are entirely correct.”
“We had a lovely luncheon.” His hand is moving, now, and she cannot help but arch into it. “I believe you were in attendance.” Six months and he’s learned every part of her, knows how to make her cry out and whine. She would be ashamed, she should be ashamed, and she isn’t, not when he needs it as much as she does.
“Emma,” George says, and he hikes her skirt up over her hips.
Well. They have done this in her rooms, and his rooms, and the gardens, and once the ballroom after a soirée, and in this solar. She is no stranger to how much he wants her. She worried she was insatiable, that she wanted him too much to be proper, but he has always reciprocated, welcomed her in return.
She should say something —his name, or a plea. She is not ashamed of either. But all she can do is press herself to him, bare skin against starched wool and cotton. He is dressed quite properly today, waistcoat and cravat and one of his nicer pairs of boots. She thought about changing out of a loose morning gown and failed to do it. But it benefited her, did it not? The fabric is bunched around her waist now and it will hardly wrinkle.
Emma tips her head up so they can kiss, and is surprised by how ferocious it is, the depths of passion in his mouth on hers. His hand between her legs is gentle, a tease, but his kiss is all-consuming. She spreads her legs wider and braces herself on his lap and he rewards her by slipping two fingers inside her, swallows her moan with his lips.
“I would feel you,” he says, and urges her to rock her hips against his hand. The heat is concentrated at her core now, throbbing low. His other hand is in her hair now, tangled in it, tugging locks out from her coiffure. She’ll look a right mess. Anyone who looks at her will know what George has done to her.
“Please,” she says. To think she begs so prettily for him now, and how he is helpless in the face of it. “Please, can you—please, please.” She manages to undo the buttons at the front flap of his breeches, wraps her hand around his length. The hitch in his breath is gratifying. She shifts, and sinks down onto him.
It takes him by surprise, she can tell. George’s voice shakes when he says her name again, and perhaps this is not the most elegant way to come together, but she doesn’t care. He runs a hand down her back, tracing the lines of her spine, then cups her backside, urging her to move. She does, meeting his thrusts, reaching for him and kissing him until they’re both gasping for air. His fingers are back at her core, circling and circling, too clever by half. “I,” Emma starts, and draws breath. She intends to say something, but she cannot—not when he’s touching her like this, when she’s on the edge, so close to tumbling over.
“You can,” he murmurs. “For me, you can,” and she spirals down. When she comes back to herself he is looking at her with that same sense of awe as the first time they did this, on their wedding night (their wedding afternoon, if she’s being honest).
Emma kisses his jaw, then the soft skin underneath his ear. “Follow me, then,” she says, and he gasps out her name, and he does.