But she only lifted her gaze to his, pulse racing, but resolute. “This is not about them. This is for us. For our pleasure. There is nothing shameful in that.”
He cursed softly, dragging a hand over his face, torn between fury and hunger. “God help me, you will be the ruin of me.”
And yet, when she turned again with her arse raised high, her opening glistening, as if begging for him, he could not breathe. The sight of her—so unguarded, so wanton—made his blood race.
Still, he hesitated. He told himself it was indecent, degrading, wrong. But then she looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes dark with need, her voice calm, edged with command: “Please, William. Take me like this.”
The last of his restraint shattered. With a feral growl he grabbed her by the hips, his hands kneading the sweet curves of her bare bottom. He guided himself to her slick entrance, and with a groan, pressed inside.
She whimpered, her palms digging into the mattress, arms straining with effort. He was deeper than before, filling her until she thought she might break. The sharp edge of pain made her shudder, but beneath it was a dark, molten pleasure, raw and consuming.
“Christ—Jane,” he groaned, his hands clamping tight to her waist. He thrust again, harder, and she cried out, her body jolting forward. Each stroke drove deeper, pounding into her until her cries blurred between agony and ecstasy.
He had never known this with anyone. No matter how many revels, no matter how many nights with women whose bodies he had taken or bought, nothing compared to this—her. Everythrust sent fire through him, her tight heat clutching at him, dragging him to the edge of madness.
Her arms wobbled, her whole frame shaking beneath him, yet she still pushed back against him, desperate for more. “William—please—harder—”
He lost himself. His rhythm turned frenzied, slamming into her with a force that left her gasping, his lungs burning, his pulse thundering in his ears. Her cries rose higher, sharper—until his fingers found her swollen nub rubbing in time. It didn’t take long. She broke apart around him, trembling, her core milking him so hard he nearly roared.
The blinding force of his own release came upon him at once, tearing a guttural cry from his throat. He buried himself to the hilt, his seed spilling deep within her as his body convulsed in helpless waves. He clung to her hips as though he might drown, every nerve alight, his vision gone white from the sheer intensity of it.
When at last he stilled, he collapsed forward, gathering her into his arms, his breath ragged against her hair. He had never meant to take her like this. But now, spent and undone, he knew the truth. He had wasted years in pursuit of lesser pleasures, chasing a fire that had never truly burned. But this—her—left him scorched to the soul.
* * *
It was mid-September, and already the nights were turning cooler. After passion had spent them both, they lay tangled in the quiet. Jane rested with her head on his chest, listening to the hard thud of his heartbeat beneath her ear. His hand traced slow patterns over her shoulder, her back, as though he could not stop touching her even in stillness.
A stray lock of hair slipped across her cheek. He brushed it back with his fingers, his gaze following the movement as though he might never forget it.
“I cannot promise every night,” he said at last, voice low, heavy with reluctance. “Not with Ravensby and Beaufort coming to visit.”
Jane kept still, though her heart sank.
“When I was younger,” William continued, “the Earl of Ravensby was a kind of mentor to me. You must know of my past—Charlotte blames him for all of it. She’s wrong, of course. There’s only me to blame. But even so, she hates him.” His mouth tightened faintly. “He married three years ago—has two sons by now, and he insisted to visit. I could not outright refuse him.”
His hand lingered at her temple, thumb stroking idly. “And the Viscount Beaufort… we were at Eton together. Then Cambridge. He, Andrew, and I—we were inseparable for a time. His wife died, before I left for the war. He has not remarried yet, though he must soon. He needs an heir for his estate.”
The weight in his tone made her chest ache.
“They mean to stay a while,” he said finally. “It’s hunting season, and we have not seen one another in years. You must understand—I cannot slip away too often without arousing suspicion. But I will come when I can. I’ll find a way.”
Jane turned her face and kissed his palm softly. “Then I’ll wait,” she whispered.
But as his arms tightened around her, Jane could not quiet the unease curling in her chest. For over two months now, they had gone undiscovered—her chamber lay beside the schoolroom and nursery, rooms empty at night. Yet autumn stretched ahead, and secrecy was a fragile thing.
Chapter 16
The morning was dim with clouds. Two candles burned on Jane’s desk, casting a flickering glow over Margaret’s slate. She was bent over her work, tongue caught between her teeth in fierce concentration.
“Now, Lady Margaret,” Jane said gently, “who met William the Conqueror at Hastings?”
“King Harold,” Margaret answered with a triumphant grin. “And he was shot with an arrow—straight through the eye!” Jane bit back a smile at her glee.
The door burst open. Charlotte swept in without so much as a knock, her silk skirts trailing the scent of lavender. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering with annoyance.
“Charlotte!” Margaret exclaimed, delighted, half-rising from her chair. “Have you come to quiz me too? Miss Ansley says I’m very learned. I know all about the Norman conquest!”
Charlotte gave her sister a fleeting smile, but her gaze slid past her to Jane, glinting like a blade. “Quiz you? My dear, I daresay even Norman kings are preferable to enduring one moment with that vile man.”
