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‘May I look at you?’ It was like holding a trapped bird in his hand, the flutter of her pulse where his hand rested close to her neck, the beat of her heart against his.
Jack sensed Madelyn make the decision, felt her shoulders straighten as her head came up and she stepped back, one pace, then another, and stood looking at him with those magical ice-clear eyes wide, her cheeks growing pinker as the silence stretched on and he took in the pale beauty standing in front of him.
Then her hands moved and he thought she was going to cover herself. Instead, Madelyn took a step forward and fisted her hands in the loose fabric of his shirt. ‘It is only fair that I look at you, too,’ she said, and tugged it upwards.
Chapter Eighteen
She was sober now. Sober and wide awake and there were a lavish number of candles to see by. Jack stood in front of her, brushing back his hair from his forehead as she dropped his shirt to the ground.
He was quite naked, quite shameless, standing there letting her look her fill. He had no need to hide anything, Madelyn thought. No indulgent little belly forming, no pigeon chest or spindle-shanks, just solid, well-muscled, beautifully proportioned masculinity in its prime.
Very male...and I do not appear to be repelling him. Not if the imposing erection was any guide to Jack’s feelings. Goodness, that must be uncomfortable, she thought, forgetting for a moment to be shy or apprehensive.
‘You are making me blush,’ Jack said, and she looked up guiltily to see that the colour was, indeed, up over his cheekbones. Then he moved, scooped her up in his arms so that her breasts were tickled by the dark hair on his chest and, before she could focus on that sensation, she was on the bed and Jack was beside her.
Instinct made her turn, burrow into his arms, as though he would protect her from what was about to happen. Which was ridiculous, she thought a little wildly. He will make it happen and I want it. I want him. That wonderful dark hair was tickling again. Madelyn leaned back a little so that she could see and ran her fingers through it. Soft, springy and yet coarse, it fascinated her and she petted it while Jack lay quite still until her nails scratched over one nipple and he gasped.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?’
He moved so fast that she had no time to react. One moment she was on her side focused on his chest, the next she was flat on her back and Jack was straddling her, leaning forward and caressing her breasts. ‘No, it doesn’t hurt,’ he said, his voice low and husky. ‘It feels...good.’ His short nails scratched lightly across her own nipples and she saw them harden, then he caught the nubs between thumbs and forefingers and began to roll them, gently at first, then with an insistent pressure that sent waves of sensation down to her belly, to the part between her thighs where his weight pressed them together so intimately.
She wanted to push him away, make him stop because it was so shaming to feel this wanton, mindless need and yet that was the very last thing she wanted. Madelyn closed her eyes and bit her lip to somehow stop the soft moans.
‘Open your eyes, Madelyn.’ Jack shifted, came down so that they were lying chest to breast, his weight on his elbows.
Somehow her legs had parted so that he was lodged between her thighs, cradled there. Instinctively, she closed her legs to hold him there. Reluctantly she opened her eyes.
‘You are lovely,’ he said simply. ‘Don’t be frightened, don’t be ashamed. We are made for this. Let me pleasure you.’ His weight shifted again so he could free his right hand. It slid between their bodies, down to where she could already feel him pressing against her. His fingers stroked and probed as they had in the carriage and she felt the cresting pleasure that he h
ad given her then, tightening, straining, and she arched up to meet it and let it break her into shards of light.
‘Open for me, sweeting.’ He was nudging against her, but she was still dizzy, still riding the waves of sensation and she did not resist, even when he pushed and she realised he was inside her, pushed again, filling her.
It was too much, too tight, too...
‘Ah.’ Jack was still, tight against her. She looked up into his face, strained and dark-eyed and taut with pain or pleasure, she no longer could tell which was which. ‘Madelyn?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ Although quite what she was agreeing to she was not certain, all she knew was that she needed him, all of him. Now.
He began to move, gently at first, and her body tried to resist until, quite suddenly, she felt herself soften, open to him, accept him as though they were one being struggling up towards the light. That spiralling tension was back, different somehow, more involved with Jack and the feel of him all around her. Then it broke and she cried out and heard his shout and felt the hot wash of his release inside her and fell into the star-dusted darkness.
* * *
Jack woke to the sound of carriage wheels on the drive below and voices. One glance at the candles told him he had only drowsed for a few minutes, but Madelyn was deep asleep in his arms.
He smiled and eased her gently away to one side so that he could slide off the bed. He picked up his clothes and went quietly into the dressing room, emerging washed and redressed ten minutes later. Madelyn stirred as he moved on stockinged feet to the doorway and a board creaked loudly under his weight.
‘Jack?’
‘I’m here. Our people have arrived. I’ll have Harper come up and order water for a bath for you. We can eat up here, then all you need put on is your robe.’ It was not cold—the new staff had clearly aired the room properly. He went to the bed and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Are you well, sweeting?’
She blushed and pulled up the coverlet over her naked body, but she nodded without hesitating. ‘Yes.’ She appeared quite convinced of the fact, he saw with some relief. ‘Are you?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He found that he was very well indeed. Madelyn was not the wife he would ever have chosen, but he realised that now all his doubts about her had evaporated. It might not be easy adjusting to each other, they had so little in common, but at least they were unlikely to have any problems in bed, he thought.
* * *
He was still feeling buoyant by the time their delayed supper was served. Tomorrow he was going to have to go and make his peace with Cook, but she had managed to produce an excellent meal despite the delays and despite what he suspected must be a thoroughly antiquated kitchen. The staff that Lyminge had found for the Mote appeared, so far, to be excellent.
