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His hands cupped her buttocks and lifted her.
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I did leave you. But I won’t tonight, Frances.” She thought she heard him curse softly, but the words blurred in her mind.
He lifted her completely off the floor. “Bring your legs around my waist. That’s it. Now, relax, and let me ...” He broke off, for he realized that his voice was trembling with need for her.
She obeyed him, not understanding—but only for a moment. She felt his fingers searching, probing, and in the next moment he was sliding slowly into her. She gasped, arching against his arms.
He grinned at her stunned expression and brought her hard down on him. Her eyes widened and glazed.
“Hawk,” she whispered helplessly, her fingers gripping his shoulders.
“Yes, my dear? Do you like this?” His hands were caressing her buttocks, molding her tightly against him.
“I ...
don’t ... know.”
“You will, but I must ...” Suddenly his voice caught in his throat and he felt a roaring in his head, a tremendous tightening in his loins. He cursed viciously, then moaned, “Frances, don’t move!”
She held herself against him, burying her face against his shoulder.
“I can’t give you pleasure like this.” He was panting, his heart pounding, as if he’d run from York back to Desborough Hall.
“Don’t move!”
He walked quickly to the bed, saying tersely, “Hold on to me.”
She wrapped her arms about his neck as he pulled back the counterpane and the blankets.
“Now,” he said, expelling a deep breath. “Now.”
He eased her down upon her back, at the edge of the bed, never parting from her. “You wanted to be seduced, Frances, and now you will get your wish.”
There was something wrong with all this, Frances thought vaguely. He sounded almost angry with her, almost ... She gasped when he suddenly pulled out of her and buried his head against her belly.
“Hawk!”
“Shut up,” he said, and found her. “You wanted this, wife, and I shan’t disappoint you.”
But her small cries, her shuddering, drove him mad. And when she wove her fingers in his hair, and her body arched upward, he thought he would die with the pleasure of it. She moaned loudly, and that pleased him immensely. He felt her climax, reveled in it, but didn’t come into her just yet. No, he thought, he wanted her to give herself and him more pleasure.
Frances felt dazed, felt limp as a dusting cloth. Then she felt the beginnings of that same frenzy and gasped, astonished at her response.
“Just feel,” she heard him say, feeling his fingers on her and in her, and his mouth.
He brought her again to shuddering pleasure, and while she quivered with the final small convulsive shocks, he came into her, deeply, fully, and she pulled him down to her.
He closed his eyes, his teeth gritted, and was quickly beside himself. Her pleasure was a potent aphrodisiac, more potent that he could have imagined. He was nearly rough in his urgency, but she kept moving with him, stroking him, and his last thought was: Damnation, I am well and truly lost.
“I cannot move,” Frances whispered.
“Nor can I,” Hawk said, “but I must, or end up on the floor.”
Frances was dazed and sated, and fatigue washed over her like a gentle wave. “Don’t leave me, Hawk,” she said, only vaguely aware that he was pulling her against him and molding the covers about them.
“Damn you, Frances,” he said. He pulled her closer and felt her softness, felt her languid body flow against him, felt her trust.
Ah, Amalie, you have made me a fool with your damned bloody advice, he thought, kissed his wife’s forehead, and felt himself fall into a deep, sated stupor.
