He knelt before her, reverent. His fingers skimmed the curve of her thighs, his lips blazing a trail over her skin until she gasped. She clutched the bedpost behind her.
He licked at her core slowly, then with purpose, until her knees buckled. Only his grip on her hips kept her upright. Then, without a word, he guided her to the bed.
He stripped off his clothes with swift, deliberate movements, and joined her there. His mouth was on her again, brushing his tongue over every inch of exposed flesh until she trembled.
“Now you’re mine,” he murmured into her skin. “Truly mine. And whatever dreams I sacrificed to have you—Good God, you’re worth it.”
The words struck her deeper than she expected. She looked away. If he noticed, he didn’t ask. Instead, he kissed her again—slow and thorough—then moved between her legs.
She was wet. Eager. He lapped at her until she arched, until she gasped his name, until she forgot his cutting words. But he didn’t enter her. Not yet. Not until he made her come with his mouth, once—then again—until her thighs quivered around him and her hands fisted the sheets.
When he finally rose to his knees, he placed her legs over his shoulders with care, drawing her hips to his. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, voice hoarse.
“You won’t,” she whispered, flushed with need.
He pushed inside her slowly, inch by inch, groaning at the feel of her. She tightened around him, mouth falling open. He moved carefully, the rhythm deep but measured, watching her face for any flicker of discomfort. There was none. Only want. Only wonder.
She urged him deeper, her hips meeting his. The bed creaked. The room filled with the sounds of breath, of skin, of two people who had denied themselves too long.
When he came, it was with a groan torn from somewhere deep. Her release followed, like a wave cresting. He did not move for a long moment. Only looked at her.
Then he lay beside her and pulled her into his arms, as if the world outside did not exist. They had wed in secrecy. But here—now—he felt like there was nothing hidden between them. Nothing at all.
Chapter 39
She woke in the crook of his body, cocooned in warmth, her back curved against the hard line of his chest. She could only hear a blackbird singing somewhere beyond the window, its call clear and solitary in the morning quiet. His breath was steady against her nape, his hand curled loosely beneath her breasts. But it was the press of him—insistent, unmistakable—that truly woke her.
“Jane,” he murmured, low and gravelly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
She stirred, unsure if it was tenderness or want that laced his voice. Before she could answer, he eased her thigh forward and slipped between them, aligning himself in the cradle of her hips. His fingers moved over her belly, then down. She gasped, heat flaring at his touch.
“Stay still,” he breathed. “Just for a moment.”
He eased into her from behind, careful. She was slick and ready, but he held back, as if afraid to go too far.
“You won’t break me,” she whispered, half-turning her face toward him.
His lips grazed her shoulder. “You’re sure?”
She nodded, “I need more.”
His rhythm deepened, slow but sure, one arm wrapped around her body, the other bracing her thigh to angle her hips just so. The silence between them pulsed with the sound of skin on skin and the loud creak of the bed. His thrusts were steady, filling her completely as their pleasure built. Time seemed tostop; all she could feel was him inside her—the fullness, the sweet ache.
A soft moan escaped her, helpless and wanting. At the sound, he slid a hand between her legs, rubbing in time with each stroke. She couldn’t take it any longer. She came with a cry stifled in her arm, and he followed moments later, groaning against her throat.
When it was over, they lay there without speaking. His palm remained splayed across her stomach, possessive even in stillness.
“I wish I hadn’t sent the servants away,” he said at last, voice muffled against her hair. “But I didn’t want to worry about who might be listening. This house is small.”
She gave a tired smile, still catching her breath. “Not that small,” she murmured. “We had a drawing room to marry in. Could’ve been worse—we might’ve had to use the kitchen.”
He chuckled, then said, low and fervent, “God. I wish I could stay in this bed forever. With you. Just like this.”
She turned her head. “Then why get up?”
He kissed her temple. “Because I have to earn my keep.” He eased away from her, rising from the bed. “My duty to my wife and child, apparently, is breakfast.”
“I can make it,” she offered, reaching for the blanket.
