“No; you can come again.” He said it with such authority, but even the ragged puff of his breath was too abrasive upon her over-sensitized flesh.
A laugh turned into a gasp. “Yes,” she said. “But that’s not what I want.”
At last his head lifted. A muscle jumped in the tight clench of his jaw. “I’m not going to last long,” he admitted ruefully, his dark eyes nearly obscured beneath the heavy tilt of his lashes.
“That’s all right.” And it was. She was not unaccustomed to this sort of desire, but she didn’t think she had ever been with a man who wanted her quite so much as he did. It was there in the jerky movements of his arms as he dragged his shirt over his head, the pitch and heave of his chest with the frenetic breaths he took, the minute tremble of his hands as he tore at the buttons of the fall of his trousers. The contours of his body were sculpted and lean, well-defined but not bulky. The lines of his legs and arms were lightly covered in sparse blond hair. She had never made love with her stockings on before, but he seemed to like the feel of them, sliding smoothly against his legs.
She had never made love atall, but—perhaps he had stolen a tiny piece of her heart. Perhaps he had carved out a small corner of it that would always be reserved for him. Her arms lifted as he came over her, settling in the lee of her thighs, and she swept her palms down the smooth, damp surface of his back.
“I have never much cared for being touched,” he said slowly, and her hands lifted at once. A hoarse sound, almost a laugh, came from somewhere deep in his chest. “No—with you, I like it. Only with you.” He seemed almost to luxuriate in the sensation of his flesh against her own, the differing textures. “You feel like silk. Soft, warm silk. I want you to touch me however you wish.”
Oh. How lovely. Her hands settled again, kneading his shoulders, feeling the muscles move and flex beneath her fingertips. His breath came in unsteady pants near her ear; a symphony of lusty, needful sounds. Her hips canted to his, and he hissed in a rough breath as his cock notched right at her entrance.
“Christ.” It was a wheeze, drawn from his lungs on a shaken exhale. “I’m going to embarrass myself.”
A satisfied smile tugged at her lips. “No, you won’t,” she sighed, and her hands drifted down the long planes of his back, found his arse, and pulled. He entered her on a smooth glide, the low, deep pressure stirring her senses. And his—a groan rumbled beside her, buried in her hair. His thighs flexed, shoving himself deeper, and he shuddered as his hips met hers at last.
“Damn.” It was a gasp, full of self-reproach, and she felt the pulse of him within her, the liquid heat that poured from him. “I told you I would—” He broke off, wracked with another quake as she delicately clenched around him. A long moment passed in silence, and there was only the burst of his breath, his chest heaving like a bellows.
Her fingers tripped up his spine. He was self-flagellating, probably; she could see it in the severe slash of his brows as she turned her head toward his. The weight of his body was comforting; like a warm blanket draped over her.
At length he asked, “How do you feel?”
She smiled, delighted. “Very, very…flattered.”
Incredibly, he stirred within her, the flesh that had begun to soften growing stiff once again. “Now,” he said. “Now I can have you as I meant to.” And he levered himself up onto his elbows, pressing deep—until a plaintive whimper slipped from her lips.
Inexperience was notignorance. He watched her intently, learning the things she liked even now—the slow plunges, the tight hold where he rubbed her inside and out. Pleasure wound up, coiling deep in her belly. Her nails pricked at the skin of his back, eliciting a guttural growl.
“Sebastian.” Her voice was little more than throaty moan; she turned her face into the curve of his shoulder, tasting the salty, sweat-misted skin there. She cinched her legs around him, embracing him with the whole of her body, and the silk of her stockings slid along his skin, soft as a whisper.
That decadent spiral of satisfaction spun out, golden and shimmering, warm as summer sunlight. A soft gasp—and then a fall straight over the edge into perfect satiation, the tension in her limbs dissolving into an incandescent glow. She was only sensation, her inner muscles clenching deliciously upon his impaling length to draw out the tingling aftershocks.
And still he moved between her thighs, sending glittering sparkles of rapture down her spine. “I spent inside of you,” he said, in that raspy, deep voice that she loved. “I’m going to do it again—and again—until there’s no part of you that doesn’t belong to me.”
Her heart jumped against her ribs as a wicked little thrill curled her tight against him, her arm hooked over his shoulders.
“If I could—” His nose brushed hers, his lips clung to hers for a second, perhaps two. “If I could, I would get you with child. Because then—then I couldkeepyou.”
“Keepme?” She should have been horrified. Instead she was titillated, caught fast in the lure of the promise of pleasure trickling through her veins.
“Yes. But, Jenny, I’m going to keep you anyway.” Ahardthrust; he held deep, and she—she hadn’t thought she could come again, but he touched something so deep inside of her, that she did anyway, with a little wail of completion that she muffled against his throat. He pulsed inside her again, collapsing over her with a groan of satisfaction, holding her within the cage of his arms.
And she let him browse over her, with tiny, tender touches, and tried not to think how lovely it might be to bekept.
Chapter Fourteen
Marguerite, maybe. Or Joséphine. Perhaps Madeleine.
Jenny had fallen asleep in a delightfully tumbled heap of limbs, her hair streaming across his pillow, and Sebastian wondered if he would ever learn her true name. If she would ever trust him enough to give it to him.
Her cheek was pillowed against his chest, and her breaths came in the even cadence of a deep, restful sleep. But then, it had grown late—for her, at least. She ought to have been abed hours ago, so it was no wonder that she had surrendered to sleep only moments after he’d tucked her beneath his bedclothes.
He wondered if she was aware that, despite society’s penchant for making a lack of children a woman’s responsibility, it was just as possible for a man to be infertile. He did not know how long she had been married, how many other lovers she had had, but—there was always the chance, however remote, that her ability to conceive was not quite as impossible as she assumed.
If she did—he would marry her. Probably he would marry her even if she did not, but he imagined that it would take a great deal more to convince her to do so without the inducement of a baby. Perhaps her first marriage had not been a happy one, but theirs…theirswouldbe.
And even if he could not get her with child, there was a satisfaction to be had in the trying. He had never imagined himself with a wife, or a child, but the idea didn’t settle uncomfortably in his mind. It was just—different. A novel concept that merited exploration, examination.
