He lifted his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest at the same time as his thick, hard erection pointing toward her.
He turned away for a moment and then came back.
“Here,” he said, sliding something into her hand. “This is a sheath.”
It was made of a flexible material. Not of animal intestine, as she’d been expecting.
“Vulcanized rubber,” he told her, as if he’d followed the chain of her thoughts, “and if you ask me about the process at this moment, you’ll owe me two ices.”
She couldn’t help but smile in the darkness.
“Here’s my prize. I want you to help me put it on.”
She slid her hand over his penis. It was long and smooth, the shaft firm to her touch.
“It rolls.” His hand came over hers, adjusting the rubber over the head of his cock. It was dark and swollen; she touched it tentatively, and then, when his breath hissed in, with more firmness.
“God, Violet.”
It seemed almost a shame to cover that magnificence—but she did, sliding the material over the head and then down. She reached the end of the sheath—and then realized there was nothing else to do.
Nothing but…
He leaned down and kissed her again, a leisurely kiss, as if they weren’t on the brink of intercourse, as if his limbs weren’t tangled with hers. It was a kiss that made her believe they had all the time in the world.
Lies, those kisses. They had only tonight.
But she let his kisses whisper sweet falsehoods to her. She even allowed herself to believe them—to give herself up to the gentle touch of his hands, the rub of his bare chest against her ni**les, the brush of his c**k against her hip, then her thigh. She let herself sink into a dream in which this might happen on a regular basis.
Not every day; that bore too much risk. But maybe once in a crescent moon, once in a few weeks. Often enough to shine light into the darkest recesses of her memories and sweep away her fears.
By the time he entered her, thrust after patient thrust, it seemed inevitable. Inevitable that he should fill her so. Inevitable that her pleasure would come so swiftly. Inevitable that they should find each other’s hands, clenching them together. It was inevitable that they should join, his hips seeking hers, hers rising to his.
“I love you,” he whispered to her.
I love you, she told him with her caresses, I love you. Her hands twined with his, her body nestled against his. She hoped he could hear how much she loved him. That he’d remember that in the lonely nights that followed.
He never slammed into her. He took her, rocking against her, pushing, coaxing her along until his every motion elicited her gasps, that spark of pure pleasure floating in the air as if struck by a flint.
She caught fire beneath him. Even then he didn’t speed up. He continued through her every last sob, taking every inch of pleasure from her until she was worn out. Only when she was completely sated did he take her hard, his hands holding her hips in place, his thrusts growing harder, faster, his breath becoming ragged—
He pulled out of her and groaned, his hips still pumping.
She could scarcely think, and he’d done it precisely as he’d promised—wearing a sheath, pulling out before the moment of crisis. Not an iota more risk than was necessary. She’d known that he would. Sebastian would never have lied to her about such a thing.
She couldn’t return the favor.
Instead, she reached out and wound his hair around her fingers, bringing her mouth close so that she might brush her lips against his.
One truth. She could give him one truth, even if he wouldn’t believe she’d meant it come the next morning.
“I love you,” she said.
He kissed her back. “I know.”
IT WAS ONLY NATURAL, Sebastian told himself, that Violet would be a little nervous this morning.
The magistrate’s court in Cambridge rarely saw more than college pranks conducted under the auspices of cheap wine, or thefts from the aforementioned inebriates.
These magistrates had no doubt had more than their share of run-ins with the aristocracy, but this—a charge laid against a countess, and on such grounds—was a novelty, and novelty drew crowds. People lined the wooden benches, chattering amongst themselves. They were packed so close that the temperature in the room was not just summer-morning uncomfortable; it was hellishly hot.
Violet didn’t look at him—not even a hint of a glance, a reassuring flicker of her eyes in his direction. She sat ten feet in front of him, but she felt desperately distant.
The morning started precisely as Sebastian had predicted. The magistrates entered; the crowd rose. Court was called into session, and the eldest of the three men stood.
“While it is true that the Countess of Cambury, a peeress of the realm, is not subject to our jurisdiction on matters of felony charges, the privileges of peerage do not extend to misdemeanors. Upon agreement of the prosecutor, the indictment has been amended to reflect only the lesser charges.”
There was a flurry. A paper was passed to the barrister; Violet peered at it over the man’s shoulder. Sebastian’s shoulders tensed. This was precisely what they had most worried about, after all—that they would choose to charge Violet with something mild rather than allow her to slip through their fingers.
And that was when Sebastian realized that something was deeply wrong. He had known Violet was uneasy—sitting too straight, pinching her lips together. He’d expected her to be even more unsettled by this development. But when the magistrate announced that, she smiled—a tight, fierce smile.
Under the circumstances, it was completely baffling. This was the worst possible outcome. Why was she smiling?
“How does the accused plead?” the magistrate asked.
The barrister beside her blew out his breath. Violet stood.
“As I have just been presented with an amended indictment,” she said, “I should like to make sure I understand the charges.”
This wasn’t what they’d talked about. She wasn’t supposed to say that. She was supposed to blame him, to throw herself on their mercy. It made no sense for her to say that.
Her voice was clear and carrying. It reminded him of the way she’d spoken last night: confident and strong. Her head was held high; her hands were relaxed at her sides.
She looked marvelous, but Sebastian felt a cold pit growing in his stomach. Something was wrong. Horrifically wrong.
“You may ask questions,” the magistrate said.
“I see now only two charges on the indictment,” Violet said. “The first is that I did speak of lewd and lascivious subjects in a public gathering yesterday evening.”