He rolled her beneath him, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was all heat and hunger, his hands grasping her as though he would anchor himself against a storm.
“Wicked girl,” he muttered against her lips, driving into her with a force that made the bed groan in protest. “You are no queen—you are a tormentress.”
“And you,” she gasped, her nails scoring his shoulders, “are conquered all the same.”
Her laughter mingled with his ragged breath, and the room filled with the rhythm of their bodies, moonlight glancing off pale limbs and tangled sheets. For all her teasing and playful cruelty, her moans betrayed her.
Jasper buried his face against her neck, his voice roughened to a growl. “God help me, Charlotte Tolliver—I am lost to you.”
Her answering gasp broke on a moan, for even as his thrusts grew harder, she slipped her hand between them, her fingers circling frantically until she cried out against his shoulder, shuddering and clutching him tight. By some last shred of discipline, he tore himself free, dragging from her with a strangled groan. His release spilled hot across her belly.
For a long moment he lay over her, braced on his arms, his breath ragged against her damp curls.
She laughed softly, breathless still,smoothing her hand along his jaw as though she pitied his torment. “There—your forfeit is mine, sir, and I have bested you soundly.”
Chapter 30
The chamber lay steeped in silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the dying fire and Charlotte Tolliver’s steady breathing where she drowsed against his arm. She was so warm.
Jasper drifted half in, half out of sleep, until some restless stirring made him glance towards the mantel clock. The hands, glinting in the glow of embers, showed the hour to be half-past four.
He drew a slow breath. “It is near dawn.”
She stirred and gave a little murmur of dismay. “I must retreat to my chamber before the earliest risers are about.” Her voice was still thick with sleep. “The maids will be up to stoke fires at first light, and I should hate to be caught slinking back like a thief.”
Something tightened in him, sudden and ungovernable. The words escaped before he could summon prudence. “Then do not go at all. Marry me, Charlotte.”
She started upright, clutching the sheet to her breast, colour flooding her cheeks. “Marry you?”
“Yes. Marry me.”
She stared at him for a long moment before the hurt in her face hardened into fury. “Upon my word, no!” She flung the sheet aside and scrambled from the bed, snatching up her nightrobe with shaking hands.“Oh, I understand now. I understand perfectly. Now comes the reckoning. Is that it? The gentleman’s conscience wakes with the dawn?”
His blood ran cold. “No.”
“You think me ruined.”
“No!”
“You think because I came to your bed that I must now be tidied into respectability with a ring and a licence and a few noble words before breakfast?”
“God, Charlotte, no. How could you even think that of me?”
She shoved her arms into her robe and tied the sash with a vicious jerk. “Do not insult me by lying. Why else would you propose at this unholy hour? Why else but guilt? Unless, of course, it is my dowry you covet.”
For one stunned moment, he could only stare, and then he began to laugh. “Your dowry? Do you imagine I need your fortune?”
Her eyes flashed. “It would not be the first time a man attempted to make a transaction of me.”
Ah.His mouth tightened. “Marchmont.”
A flush rose in her cheek.
“This is not the same,” he said carefully.
“Is it not?” she demanded. “A proposal after I have lain with a man? After he has had what he wanted? How very familiar. How very neat.”
“I have not had what I wanted.”
