Chapter Nineteen
Oliverdidnotthinkhe had ever before known the true meaning of pleasure. Now he did, and its name was Emily Brunton.
She rose above him, invisible in the dark yet still known to him. Every slide of skin and flesh against his fingers was another form of bliss as she rode him hard, not giving him the luxury of gentleness. He found he didn’t want it. Let her take her pleasure from him—he would give it, willingly. Anything she wanted, however she asked for it, words or actions.
He wanted nothing more in the world than to please her. If he’d had his way, he would have chosen to please her in this way for the rest of their lives.
The thought shocked him, but it was true—if she had asked him to, he would have married her in an instant. All his reasons for not marrying Isabella did not apply when it came to Emily. He respected her, wanted her, cared for her. If this was not love, then it was at least some form of affection, enough that he prized her happiness above nearly anything else.
The best thing a man could do was marry a woman who would make him better, and after only a few days in her company, he knew she would do that.
If she had been amenable, he would have taken her back to Gretna Green and brought her back to that shoddy inn so she could claim him as her husband. Lying flat on his back as she plunged her body down him, over and over again.
He craved nothing more than to belong to her. To be hers.
An impossible dream, yet one he could not quite dismiss.
As pleasure wracked his body and his soul, he imagined waking up beside her in the morning, her hair a tangled mess, face devoid of its usual reserve. There, he would make love to her—or rather, would offer himself so she could make love to him.
He had grown accustomed to wanting nothing, to his detriment, but he had found something he wanted now, in this quiet room with this wild woman, and had no idea how he might take it.
How did one woo a woman determined not to be wooed?
She would insist on this ending when she returned to Dalston, and he would deny her nothing, because he could deny her nothing, and he would have to find a way to live with it.
He slid his hand down her body, finding that little nub of nerves between her legs and pressing, testing the pressure, listening to the way she bit back her gasps. She was not an expressive lover, but she knew passion. If he had more time, more opportunity, he would have found a way to know how it felt when she let go of her every inhibition.
If only she trusted him enough for that. She trusted him enough for this—to render him blindfolded and to ride him with those eager, desperate motions. A woman left to the mercy of her own abandoned libido. He didn’t know how long she had been denying herself her desires, but he wished she would let him see those parts of herself instead of hiding, even now.
He wished he could push her over that edge into wanting him as much as he wanted her.
Above him, her breath hitched once again, and pleasure spilled down his spine, tightening in his balls. Perhaps it was a good thing she wasn’t outwardly expressive, or he might have embarrassed himself too early. Still, he had to try and force himself to wait. He would wait as long as she needed.
If he could.
She panted harder. He already knew his every breath was ragged. With every bounce, she dismantled more of him, and there was no guarantee the aftermath would put him back together again. Just like the kiss, she ruined him in new and rare ways.
Was this what making love felt like?
He wished he could look into her eyes and see for certain how she felt. Whether it mirrored the way he was feeling now, the emotions too large for his chest, or whether she had carved away that part of her heart, discarding it as worthless.
He had never hated anyone as much as he hated Marlbury for breaking her so thoroughly.
He felt rather than heard her throw her head back. Her knees pressed more firmly into his sides, and her thighs quivered. Her hips ground against him, and he was buried so deeply inside her, he thought he might never find his way out.
“Oliver,” she gasped. His name, slipping from her lips in supplication.
He gritted his teeth, trying to hold on for her, needing to wait. For a reason he couldn’t articulate, even in the privacy of his own head, he needed her to do this. Needed it in a desperate, urgent, overpowering way that made no sense, yet couldn’t be denied.
He needed to feel her let go when he was inside her.
She drew in one last shuddering breath, and he felt her come apart. Squeezing, trembling, her movements jerky. And thoughit near killed him, he stayed still, let her take her pleasure however she chose, even though he was so close—so, so close, on the verge of spilling himself inside her.
He closed his eyes, though he could see nothing, and gritted his teeth. The pressure in his spine built. Heat surged through him.
“Emily,” he grunted. “I need you to—”
He needed to say no more. She slid from him like water, and mere seconds later, his climax overtook him. Her hand, small and cool against his urgent heat, wrapped around his erection, urging every last drop of seed from him. When he had finished turning himself inside out, she released him, and he lay back.
