He felt it too—her tightness, the way her muscles clenched around him—and forced himself to pause, to let her adjust, to give her time to change her mind. “Jane—”
“Do not stop,” she muttered, steady even as tears pricked her eyes. “Please.”
He obeyed, pressing forward until he met that final barrier. He hesitated, even now. Then, with a single, careful thrust, he broke through, burying himself as far as he dared. Her cry tore through the stillness, part agony, part wonder. He gathered her close, whispering her name, holding himself utterly still as she shivered from the shock of their joining.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then she shifted—hesitant, curious—as the discomfort ebbed, replaced by a mounting, blooming heat. She drew a shaking breath and lifted her hips, urging him on.
He moved then—slow at first, rocking in and out, sliding in a little further with each stroke. The sting melted into something else—sharper, more vivid. Not a peak, not yet, but a sweet ache that made her flutter around him in pleasure.
The friction, the impossible fullness, the raw power of him—it was more than she had ever dreamed. She was transported, every nerve alive as he sank deeper, and kept hitting some secret place within her. “William—oh God—” she sobbed, her words breaking with need.
His mouth found hers again, ravaging. His rhythm picked up pace, each stroke hurling her higher, wringing cries torn between pleasure and pain. She clung to him, her world narrowed to the point where their bodies met. The fire he stoked burned hotter and hotter.
And when the climax came—when it shattered her utterly—it was with him sheathed fully within her. Her limbs woundaround him, her cries mingling with his groans as wave after wave took them both, binding them in a fevered, feral ecstasy.
He had meant to pull out, to keep at least that last shred of protection for her—but the moment she shuddered beneath him, moaning his name, there was no escape. His thrusts turned ragged, erratic. At last, he buried himself to the hilt and gave way, the release surging through him as though something of his very soul had been wrenched free.
When it passed, he collapsed against her, their bodies still joined, slick with sweat and spent desire. His voice came rough, uncertain. “Was this… all you thought it would be?”
She turned her face up to him, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from his kisses. He searched her gaze for shame—but there was none. Her eyes shone brighter than he had ever seen.
“Oh, William,” she breathed, and to his astonishment she laughed—lighthearted and joyous. “It was far better than anything I could have imagined. Good Lord—I see now why they fill our heads with sermons and fright us with the wrath of God. Because this—” she gasped as his spent manhood twitched inside her—“this is ruinously good.”
Her smile dazzled, blasphemous and innocent all at once. He stared at her as if seeing her anew, while his conscience gnawed at him, sharp and merciless. This was folly—madness—damnation itself.
But then her hands lifted to his face, tender, urgent. She drew him down into a kiss that wrecked him, and when her lips broke from his, her whisper scorched hotter still: “Have me again, William. I don’t think I could bear it if it was only once.”
He froze, staring at her. “Jane… are you mad?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “This is dangerous. Reckless. Already I have—”
Every protest died as he saw the blaze in her eyes. Desire, unashamed. Hunger that matched his own. His breath caught, and he knew—God help him—he was lost.
With a growl, he seized her mouth again, his body already stirring within her, readying to take her once more. Her answering cry was eager, unrestrained, as he drove himself into her again, sheathed in her heat, frantic, unstoppable, until nothing remained but the slap of flesh on flesh.
Chapter 15
Jane could not believe how unchanged the world appeared—how calm the nursery looked, how ordinary the day seemed. And yet she herself was transformed. She could still feel the tingle of his hands upon her skin, the soreness between her thighs, the faint scent of him clinging to her. Every breath reminded her of the night before. And still, the morning went on in its sameness.
“May I go to my riding lesson, Miss Ansley? I am finished with breakfast,” Lady Margaret’s bright voice rang out.
Jane smiled warmly. “Of course, darling. It is a beautiful day for it.”
The child skipped out, eager for her brother. But not half an hour later she returned, her face blotched with tears.
“What is it, my love?” Jane asked quickly, kneeling beside her.
“He said he must be left alone. He sent me away. And Charlotte told me not to trouble William with childish whiles. What did I do wrong, Miss Ansley?”
Jane’s heart tightened with anger. The world itself felt brighter after what had passed between them—yet he could show cruelty to the very child who adored him most?
“Where is his lordship?” Jane asked, her tone clipped.
“In the study. But don’t go—he will turn you away. He smells… funny. Like Mama after Christmas dinner, from the decanter.”
Jane rose at once, fury stiffening her spine. She strode straight there, almost running through the family wing and down two flights of stairs before thrusting the door open.
William sat slouched at the desk, a bottle of brandy at his elbow, his features shadowed with drink and shame. He looked up, eyes bloodshot, and muttered hoarsely, “You… you see what you’ve done to me? Look.”
Jane’s anger flared hotter. “What I have done? What about what you have done—to that poor child? She came back in tears! You will wash your face, sober yourself, and take her to her lesson at once.”
