She had been frantically considering the other options – she hadn’t drunk anything else since the champagne earlier, so it shouldn’t be that; and her monthlies had always been regular and weren’t even due, so surely it couldn’t be that either – when, before she could stop him, his hand ventured there.
Jemima didn’t hear his breath, because hers had hitched as well at the same moment; she tensed for a split second in surprise, preparing to be embarrassed at whatever was happening to her in that unmentionable part of her... but she couldn’t be embarrassed, because the moment he had pulled back she missed his touch there.
(Did that make her a terrible person? Should she be touching him instead? He was her husband now, but they barely knew each other, and weren’t in love, and no one had ever suggested to her that this would be exhilarating for a woman, unless she was a harlot.) At any rate, thankfully, Jemima didn’t need to ask for more – she just gave a pleased gasp when he moved back there, pressing herself against him as best she could. She was struggling to make sense of the sensations of this new intimacy – it felt as though her body understood what she wanted better than she did, and she could only cede to its will. At the same time, it felt a little like an indignity: like she was an instrument sitting there for years, untuned – and someone else had just waltzed along and started striking up entirely new chords.
Jemima thought she finally understood where this was going, though, and she was too far in to be daunted by it now. “It’s alright,” she breathed, because he had seemed to turn tentative earlier, and, arm curled around his shoulder she rested a hand at the nape of his neck, surprising herself in sincerely wanting to kiss him again. “I’m ready now.”
Jemima didn’t hear his breath, because hers had hitched as well at the same moment; she tensed for a split second in surprise, preparing to be embarrassed at whatever was happening to her in that unmentionable part of her... but she couldn’t be embarrassed, because the moment he had pulled back she missed his touch there.
(Did that make her a terrible person? Should she be touching him instead? He was her husband now, but they barely knew each other, and weren’t in love, and no one had ever suggested to her that this would be exhilarating for a woman, unless she was a harlot.) At any rate, thankfully, Jemima didn’t need to ask for more – she just gave a pleased gasp when he moved back there, pressing herself against him as best she could. She was struggling to make sense of the sensations of this new intimacy – it felt as though her body understood what she wanted better than she did, and she could only cede to its will. At the same time, it felt a little like an indignity: like she was an instrument sitting there for years, untuned – and someone else had just waltzed along and started striking up entirely new chords.
Jemima thought she finally understood where this was going, though, and she was too far in to be daunted by it now. “It’s alright,” she breathed, because he had seemed to turn tentative earlier, and, arm curled around his shoulder she rested a hand at the nape of his neck, surprising herself in sincerely wanting to kiss him again. “I’m ready now.”
