The Midwife and the Marquess

Chapter 8: A Dream

The sound of a door opening and closing softly behind him.

Muffled footsteps padding across carpeted floor.

A flat sound followed by delicate tinkling as something was placed somewhere to his left.

The feeling of arms encircling him. The warmth of another body. The smell of rosemary and a soda and mint tooth scrub.

A voice, whispering in his ear. He could not hear it over the noise.

All this, barely noticeable in the periphery of his consciousness.

She moved her lips over his ear and along his jaw, down his neck. The feeling jolted him to awareness like a bolt of lightning. He turned his head and saw her. Her lips were pink rose petals and the bridge of her nose was speckled with stars. Her eyes were deep, endless pools of every emotion he dared not stir up inside himself. There was water in those eyes. Why was she crying?

Slowly, the cacophony in his head began to dim, quiet and die. His exhausted fingers slowed, then stopped altogether. He could hear what she was saying now.

"It is enough," she said, laying a staying hand on top of his. "It is enough now."

Evan realized he was dreaming in the disembodied way that only happened when one was both simultaneously entranced by the dream and frustrated by it. He reveled in the dream, in the memory, while at the same time knowing he would come to regret indulging this side of himself come waking.

His lips met hers and his composure broke, snapped as easily as a dry twig, like brittle porcelain crashing to the ground and shattering into a thousand shards. Impossible to collect and put back together again once broken, yet undeniably satisfying to break.

In a blur, he was up on his feet and she was bent back in his arms. He had never kissed a woman like this before. His kisses with Cecilia had always been chaste, appropriate. She had been a young lady and he her gentleman suitor. Promised to each other. Beholden to that promise.

But no more. She was gone. Dead and buried deep underground in a pit as cold and endless as the black hole her loss had made in his heart—

Evan changed the dream. He did not want to relive this part. The memories of Cecilia were like precious gemstones, stored away under lock and key only to be opened on special occasions. And it would be inappropriate to bring her into this picture. No, another woman was to be the star of this show. She had, quite literally, rocked his world, if only for one night.

—He kissed her with a ferocity he had never felt before, and miracles of miracles, she kissed him back, playfully, indulgently. She nudged his lips with her nose until they parted. Then she licked her way into his mouth. He moaned as she felt her way around the inside, gliding her tongue against his in hungry, lapping motions.

He pushed deeper and held her tighter. Her fingers entangled in his hair. He stumbled and staggered, overwhelmed with it all, until he had her up against the wall. Her arms, which had been wrapped around his neck, flung back against the blue wallpaper. Their kiss broke and she panted, sharp, hot breaths against his head as he bent down to her neck.

"Wait," she breathed.

He relinquished her neck of his mouth and leaned back. Shame struck him and he half expected to be pushed away or slapped and for her to run from him cursing his very name. What she did instead astounded him. She had already flung her apron to the side and was unfastening the hook and eye of her skirt. It, along with her petticoat, fell to the ground around their feet in a pool of black wool. He watched as her fingers deftly undid button after button of her matching bodice. She slid the garment off and stood before him, her shoulders rolled back and her chin raised so that she looked down at him with half-lidded, lustful eyes.

He soaked in the sight of her. She was still wearing her rough woolen stockings, worn linen chemise and practical corset, but with every heaving breath her cleavage crested deliciously over the top, threatening to spill out.

Slowly she brought her arms back around his neck and he returned to her, their lips meeting, his hands moving up her body, savoring the contrast of every luscious curve and jut of bone.

Her allure was like nothing he had ever seen, ever experienced before. He was consumed by it. Drunk on her scent and every sound she made and the feel of her.

Evan could feel the tension in his body, the part of him that was in the future, lying alone in his bed. The part of him that was aware this was a dream. His hand wandered down until it grabbed at his throbbing erection, the tension momentarily easing as he moved it, before building to something bigger, inescapable, terrible in its power over him.

He asked her something and she replied and suddenly her nipple was in his mouth, supple and tight and absolutely delicious. His hand kneaded her other breast and she sighed in encouragement, her voice a siren's call leading him to his doom. He pushed his thigh between her legs, rubbing at that forbidden place and suddenly his shirt was flung over his head and he was lying on the lush blue and silver carpet, pulling his trousers off.

She was on top of him, leaning over him and kissing him again. Her chemise was pulled up around her thighs. His hands caressed them, soft yet firm, and moved around to cup the round mounds of her perfect bottom. His fingers slipped in between the gap, exploring. He met something wet and slick and a jolt of pleasure shot through him so forcefully that he compulsively bucked into her, feeling her hand between them, opening the flap of his smallclothes.

Fuck. Evan threw one arm over his closed eyes, his other working relentlessly at his swollen flesh. He was nearly there, but forced himself to find pace with the memory.

He stilled, floating in the eternity that was the moment she pulled his cock from his smallclothes and pushed it between the folds of her sex. She broke their kiss and sat up, her body lifting just enough to set his tip against her opening. He opened his eyes to find her looking down at him, her head tilted slightly to the side, a pleased smile playing on her lips.

A wicked glint in her eyes.

Suddenly she bore down on him, and he knew he was the one being consumed. Every inch of his being was focused on the connection between them. He could feel her. She was so wet and tight and it felt so, so good. He bucked into her again and cursed, his hands tightening around her supple flesh.

She stilled and became quiet, her face turned down and half hidden under the hair that had begun to fall from her coiffure. He took a hand and swiped the strand behind her ear, asking her what was the matter. She shook her head and the moment of reprise melted away as she began to move, slowly at first, in gentle up-and-down rocking movements, her hands braced on his hips.

Soon she was moving faster and he took her hands in his, intertwining their fingers so that she pressed her palms against his, holding herself up as spasms of pleasure visibly shook her body. Her thighs trembled against his and he could feel the tension building in her body at the same time as in his. He was so close, yet he watched her, edging the precipice just enough so that when she finally pulled him over the edge, he came, falling helplessly alongside her.

Her name, one he had never had cause to say out loud before, played on his lips as he pleaded for her to finally come to him. A grunt and yell of ecstasy escaped her. She arched and became rigid, her head thrown back. He caught her around the hips, moving to help them float gently back to earth. Together.

His body reacted to the memory of the first time he'd made love to a woman. She'd been long cemented as just another memory, but now that memory was taking a very particular, very present part in his life again. He groaned into the crook of his elbow as he strained and felt his seed spill over onto his groin and into his still-pumping hand. Abruptly he stopped, unable to bear it any longer, and he laid there, panting, for the devil knew how long.

His arm uncurled from around his face and groped for his discarded smallclothes from the day before. He cleaned himself and upon remembering Maria helping with the laundry, promptly stuffed the cloth between the mattress like a shame-filled, randy youth.

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and held his head in his clean hand. He groaned in what was a mixture of self-loathing and helplessness. It was getting worse. What the fuck was he going to do?