Lead Demon

Twinnem

When the door closed, Seven put down his glass of wine and came to me, twining his fingers in my hair and tugging gently to dislodge in moments what it had taken the girls nearly thirty minutes to achieve. He tossed the rope of pearls aside. My hair tumbled over my shoulders, and Seven’s nostrils flared as he took in my scent. Wordlessly he pulled my body against his and bent to fit his mouth to mine.

But there were questions that needed to be asked and answered first. I drew away.

“Seven, are you sure . . . ?”

Cool fingers slid underneath my ruff, finding the ties that connected it to my bodice.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

The stiffened linen came free from my neck and fell to the floor. Seven loosened the buttons that kept my high neckline clasped tight. He bent his head and kissed my throat. I clutched at his doublet.

“Seven,” I repeated. “Is this about—”

He silenced me with another kiss while he lifted the heavy chain from my shoulders. We broke off momentarily so Seven could get it over my head. Then his hands breached the crenellated line of pickadils where sleeves met bodice. His fingers slid among the gaps, searching out a weak point in the garment’s defenses.

“There it is,” he murmured, hooking his index fingers around the edges and giving a decided yank. One sleeve, then the other, slid down each arm and onto the floor. Seven seemed entirely unconcerned, but it was my wedding gown and not easily replaced.

“My gown,” I said, squirming in his arms.

“Stephanie.” Seven drew his head back and rested his hands on my waist.

“Yes?” I said breathlessly. I tried to reach the sleeve with the toe of my slipper and push it where it was less likely to be crushed.

“The priest blessed our marriage. The entire village wished us well. There was food, and dancing. I did think we might draw the night to a close by making love. Yet you seem more interested in your wardrobe.” He had located still another set of laces that fastened my skirts to the bottom of the pointed bodice, about three inches below my belly button. Lightly, Seven swept his thumbs between edge of the bodice and my pubic bone.

“I don’t want our first time together to be about satisfying your father.” In spite of my protests, my hips arched toward him in silent invitation while he kept up that maddening movement of his thumbs, like the beating of an angel’s wings. He made a soft sound of satisfaction and untied the bow hidden there.

Tug. Rasp. Tug. Rasp. Tug. Rasp.

Seven’s nimble fingers pulled on each crossing of the laces, drawing them through the concealed holes. There were twelve in all, and my body bowed and straightened with the force of his attentions.

“At last,” he said with satisfaction. Then he groaned. “Christ. There are more.”

“Oh, you’re nowhere near through. I’m trussed up like a Christmas goose,” I said as he lifted the bodice away from the skirts, revealing the corset below. “Or, more accurately, an Advent goose.”

But Seven wasn’t paying any attention to me. Instead my husband was focused on the place where my nearly transparent high-necked smock disappeared into the heavy reinforced fabric of the corset. He pressed his lip

s against the swell. Bowing his head in a reverential pose, he took in a jagged breath.

So did I. It was surprisingly erotic, the brush of his lips somehow magnified by the fine lawn boundary. Not knowing what made him stop his previously single-minded efforts to get me unclothed, I cradled his head in my hands and waited for him to make his next move.

At last Seven took my hands and wrapped them around the carved post that held up the corner of the canopy. “Hold on,” he said.

Tug. Rasp. Tug. Rasp. Before he was finished, Seven took a moment to slide his hands inside the stays. They swooped around my rib cage and found my breasts. I moaned softly as he trapped my smock between the warm, pebbled skin of my n*****s and his cool fingers. He pulled me back against him.

“Do I seem like a man interested in pleasing anyone but you?” he murmured into my ear. When I didn’t immediately answer, one hand snaked down my stomach to press me closer. The other remained where it was, cupping my breast.

“No.” My head tilted back into his shoulder, exposing my neck.

“Then no more talk about my father. And I’ll buy you twenty identical gowns tomorrow if you will stop worrying about your sleeves now.” Seven was busily ruching up my smock so that the hem skirted the tops of my legs. I loosed my grip on the bedpost, grabbed at his hand, and placed it at the juncture of my thighs.

“No more talking,” I agreed, gasping when his fingers parted my flesh.

Seven quieted me further with a kiss. The slow movements of his hands were causing an entirely different reaction as the tension in my body rose.

“Too many clothes,” I said breathlessly. His agreement was unstated, but evident in the haste with which he slid the corset down my arms. The laces were loose enough now that I could push it over my hips and step out of it. I unfastened his breeches, watched him with great care and carefulness, while Seven unbuttoned his doublet. These two items had been joined at his hips by just as many crossed laces as my bodice and skirt.

When we were both wearing nothing more than hose, I removed my smock, and Seven his shirt, we paused, awkwardness returning. It was both great and exceedingly weird.