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If she could ever summon the courage, she would tell Lord Nash he was wrong. It was a million times more pleasurable. Was there a number greater than a million? She was never particularly adept at mathematics. Numbers bored her.
But now. She wished she knew.
Her body as relaxed as a cat’s on a sunny windowsill, she stared at Timothy. His face appeared taut. A muscle pulsed in his jaw. Didn’t he feel the same?
With his body pressed against hers, the hard bulge in his trousers remained. She swallowed. Mrs. Wilson said the act was a joining of bodies. Surely that meant more than fingers and tongues.
“Isn’t there more?” As she said it, she realized she wanted more. She wanted to see Timothy—all of him. To be closer—as close as possible.
Because for her, it was more than physical pleasure.
At first, he didn’t answer. Eyelids heavy, half-masking his green eyes, more than his arousal told her he desired her. She seared the image in her mind. Passion. He gazed at her with such desire it made her heart squeeze.
And for a moment, she pretended something else lurked in the depths of those green eyes.
Love.
“There is, if you’re certain.”
Listen to your body.
Oh, yes, she was more than certain.
An auburn trail of hair formed a line that led down his abdomen and disappeared beneath his trousers. Instinct took over, and she reached for the buttons of his fall, sliding each one out with shaking hands.
She gasped at the sight of him. The only comparison to marble statues was the hardness. Artists had never sculpted men like this—at least to her knowledge.
What a shame.
Her cheeks heated at the idea. Mamas would certainly never allow their unwed daughters to peruse such galleries. She tittered a laugh.
He lifted an auburn eyebrow. “I believe I’m insulted.”
“Oh, no.” She brought a tentative finger to the tip of his arousal. How could that part be so soft and the rest . . . she wrapped her hand around the shaft . . . so hard? “It’s magnificent. I only laughed remembering how it’s represented in art.”
He coughed—a laugh? “Yes, well. It doesn’t always look like this. As I said, it’s because—”
“You want me.”
He nodded, then slipped the trousers from his body.
Oh, but he was magnificent, and she took her time to remember every inch of his body. A pucker of reddish pink marred his skin at the shoulder, and she placed a fingertip against it. “What happened?”
“Bullet.”
Before she could ask him to explain, he kissed her, sending any further inquiries away.
Gently, he nudged her legs apart with his knee. “Relax as much as you’re able.”
She had no worry there, and she trusted Timothy with her life. He would never hurt her—intentionally. And if her heart shattered into pieces, she had no one but herself to blame.
Ironic, and no less than she deserved. To find love and have to beg for its crumbs from a man who would never love her. To share her body outside the sanctity of marriage and be grateful for it.
Hovering above her, he held her gaze and pressed his arousal against her entrance.
The meaning of Mrs. Wilson’s words became shockingly clear. The joining of bodies was with his—
For a moment, she froze, icy panic racing up her spine.
