Deeper emotion flared in his eyes.
Her handscould not touch him enough.
She needed more, but he pushed her to slow down, to enjoy.
It could have been how she lifted her hips for him, or how she’d cupped his face and kissed him. Or maybe how she’d then put her arms above her head and arched her back to lift her breasts.
But he broke.
No more gentle rocking.
Fast and fiery.
And she began to scream his name.
But he swallowed it on the first sound, kissed her as he thrust into her until she couldn’t think let alone speak a single syllable. Her name became a curse in the curve of his lips as his muscles rippled and his body trembled. Then he pulled out of her and spent onto her wrapper. There was a long, heavy moment where he was poised above her, eyes closed. Then he dropped on top of her, laughing lightly in her ear.
Laughing? She didn’t have the strength, but oh, the sound of his joy was a song she was happy to fall asleep to. She barely moved when he left the bed. He returned with a cloth and cleaned between her legs then gathered her up and held her close as he positioned them both beneath the covers.
She laid in his arms, glowing and warm with a sensation she’d never felt before. Not simply the satiation of what they’d done together. Something deeper, heart-aching, half comfort and half crying—just a little—when he kissed her temple and told her, again, that he loved her.
Chapter Sixteen
Remmy woke up before the sun because his arm had gone numb. And his arm had gone numb because there was a head resting on it. A very heavy head with flaming red hair and—bloody hell—he’d actually done it. He’d made love to the woman he loved.
He could have her. He would have her, no matter how long it took to make a life for her, to make her love him. She’d not returned the emotion last night, but she’d given him so much else—her touch, her smile, her moans.
He wanted all of that for the rest of his life, and he planned it out as the sun brightened the window. A long courtship, hopefully not too long. He’d find her a position with a woman in London so he could have her nearby.
She began to stir as the sun seeped through the glass and crept across her cheek. Everything about her golden and pink and—ah, hazel as her eyes fluttered open, widened, lips parting.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said.
She pulled the blankets more tightly to her breasts. “G-good morning.”
“Timid now, are you?”
She shook her head, tangling the red silk of her hair.
God, he loved her. He gathered her up. She wriggled and grunted, but when he set her on his chest and stroked her hairoff her face, her breathing settled, and a tiny pink smile curved her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, sleep-fogged and lovely.
She buried her face in his chest. “You should leave.” The way her lips brushed against his chest felt like the sweetest, hottest kisses.
He wrapped a thick shank of her hair around his fist and gently tugged, and she looked up at him. “Unfortunately, I hear the lark, that herald of the morn.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Romeo and Juliet, Act three, scene five. Paraphrased.”
She sat up, gathering the blanket around her bare chest. “Notthatplay.Remmy. Why would you quotethatplay?Now?”
“Don’t most women think it romantic?”
“It’s a tragedy.” She’d gone rather ashen. The dull blue shadows of the morning looked too much like those of a tomb. “Take it back.”
“You’re correct. It’s not the lark. It’s the nightingale.”
Like lightning, she grabbed a pillow and hit him in the face with it. “That’s the same play!”
