Now that there was precisely no fabric between them, even his hand on her waist felt more potent than any physical contact had before. She lay back as he had suggested, and for a moment she felt that the soft solidness of the bed under her made her less exposed – but then his lips were trailing over her body and she had never felt so tender to the touch. “Oh,” she breathed, but not in protest: it felt nice, it felt good. Certainly Jack had – fondled her breasts through her dress before, when they were kissing and all tangled up together, but this was that sensation on a new and entirely different scale.
Jemima had never felt less in control of her body than now, with his mouth and his hands and his legs hot against her skin, her heart pounding; she angled her head back, arching her neck and her body more into his without meaning to. She liked this, she thought, but she felt a little bad just – laying there and wanting more, when it seemed he was putting in all the effort. But too late: her lips had formed the plea without any permission from her mind. “You can – keep going. Please.”
The only lingering hesitation was – not about him, but once again that she really might end up being memorably and mortifyingly bad at this. But it would be worse if she didn’t do anything, she decided; so, choosing action over thought, she curled her arms up around him again to keep him closer, her fingers digging gently into his back and her legs pressed flush against him. There was an odd feeling inside, swooping knots in her gut that had gone lower than ever, a warmth right down to some core of her and even between her legs (– and if she somehow wet herself now, in the middle of this, she would simply have to throw herself off the Sanditon pier and pray she didn’t come back a ghost).
Jemima had never felt less in control of her body than now, with his mouth and his hands and his legs hot against her skin, her heart pounding; she angled her head back, arching her neck and her body more into his without meaning to. She liked this, she thought, but she felt a little bad just – laying there and wanting more, when it seemed he was putting in all the effort. But too late: her lips had formed the plea without any permission from her mind. “You can – keep going. Please.”
The only lingering hesitation was – not about him, but once again that she really might end up being memorably and mortifyingly bad at this. But it would be worse if she didn’t do anything, she decided; so, choosing action over thought, she curled her arms up around him again to keep him closer, her fingers digging gently into his back and her legs pressed flush against him. There was an odd feeling inside, swooping knots in her gut that had gone lower than ever, a warmth right down to some core of her and even between her legs (– and if she somehow wet herself now, in the middle of this, she would simply have to throw herself off the Sanditon pier and pray she didn’t come back a ghost).
