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This time, she welcomed him, pushing up into him, her mouth as fierce and demanding as his. He kissed her with the force of all the words he did not have, and she was telling him something too, yelling at him with her kiss, with her tongue. Her hands gripped his waistcoat, twisting and fisting the silk, pulling it tight over his shoulders, drawing him into her softness, and he drew her into his hardness, needing her closer, closer, closer. He could not deny his need. He could not deny her anything.
They broke off, gasped for air, and she tore at his shirt, his shirt that was too long, the hem inching up his thighs and buttocks and hips, and why in blazes did they need so much blasted fabric restricting them all the time? His desperate hands found the bodice of her gown, hauled it down. Eagerly, he freed her breasts, covered them with caresses and kisses, but it wasn’t enough, not enough, dear sweet mercy, it was never enough.
She whimpered and growled and slapped his side. “Joshua, I can’t…I can’t…Give me…”
He jolted away, scared and wild, only to see that she protested not him but her gown, for he’d inadvertently pinned her arms. He yanked it over her elbows and hands, and she freed herself, the gown falling about her waist.
He had hardly a moment to enjoy the sight before she hooked her arms around his neck, her eyes bright, her mouth swollen, her hair wild, her cheeks flushed. She claimed his mouth and pulled at his hair and kneaded his muscles with those competent hands. He hauled her back against him, but—
Too much. Never enough.
He carried her to the bed, climbed on, laid her down, while she held onto him as if she feared she might fall.
“Joshua,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
“Tupping my wife, I hope.”
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“Your conduct books say a man can’t tup his wife in the middle of the day?”
“They don’t mention the matter at all.”
“You read the wrong books.”
She laughed breathily and tumbled back on the pillows, lifting her hips to help him as he shoved up her skirts, up over her stockinged knees, her bare parted thighs, her quim warm and ready. He pressed his hand against her and she bucked and moaned, so he fell between her thighs, kissed her perfect lips, and sighed as she found his skin under his shirt.
“I need you,” he heard himself say, cursing his own inelegance, fumbling with his falls. “I need…”
His cock sprang free and he shoved his breeches down his thighs. Her hands were warm and eager, wandering over his hips, gripping his buttocks, as she arched into him.
“What you do to me,” he growled in her ear. “I need…Oh mercy, you drive me mad.”
“I do that?” She sounded surprised and smug.
“You do. It’s you, it’s all you. Only you.”
Her wandering hands slid around his hips, to his front, bumping his cock. She gasped and stilled, and he nipped her ear and told her everything was all right. She touched him then, gently, tentatively, torturously.
He pushed her thighs wider, lifted her, and she let him. She tipped back. His eyes didn’t leave hers, so deep, so dark, so drunk with desire, and oh yes, she did want him, as he wanted her, and he pushed deep inside her, as deep as he could go, reveling in the sensation of her heat enveloping him, holding him tight.
Her fingers dug into his spine and he froze. Held himself over her. Cursed himself. He’d gone too hard, too much, too soon.
“Cassandra, sweetheart? Are you all right?”
Her eyes were on him but he had no idea what she saw. Then her lashes fluttered and her lids closed.
“Oh,” she said.
She rolled her hips and clenched her muscles tight around him.
Oh mercy. Sweet, sweet mercy.
“Oh,” she said again, and again she rolled her hips and squeezed.
Inflamed, encouraged, he dipped his head to the soft skin of her breasts, tasted and nuzzled, tugged a nipple between his lips.
“Oh,” she said, and did it again.
