He added a second finger, and she sobbed.
His thumb never stopped. Circling, pressing, retreating just enough to make her whimper before returning with devastating precision.
His free hand gripped her hip, holding her steady as her body writhed against the leather. She clutched the edge of the bench until her knuckles turned white, her hips rolling to meet every stroke, every thrust of his fingers, every cruel, perfect pass of his thumb.
Then, slowly, his touch withdrew, but only to reach up and tug at the neckline of her gown. He did not ask. He simply bared her to him, tugging the fabric down over her shoulders and freeing her breasts into the cool air of the carriage. His gaze burned hotter.
“Divine…” he growled, almost to himself.
He bowed his head and drew one taut peak into his mouth.
She cried out, fingers threading through his hair as his tongue flicked over her, then sucked harder, deep and possessive.
His fingers returned between her thighs, sliding back inside her with the same rhythm his mouth took at her breast—until she could not tell where one sensation ended and the next began. She clung to him, body taut with want, the wet sounds of his mouth and her own broken gasps filling the tight carriage.
The tension coiled tighter. Her thighs began to shake.
For one terrifying instant, the sensation was so overwhelming she feared it was another fit, her body seizing beyond her control. But this was different. This was a wave gathering force, pulling everything she was toward a single, unbearable point.
“Let go,” he commanded, low and rough against her mouth. “I have you.”
Sheshattered.
The climax ripped through her with a violence that stole her voice. Her head fell back, her mouth open in a silent cry that finally broke into his name, ragged and raw, as her body clenched around his fingers in wave after desperate wave.
He did not stop. He worked her through every pulse and tremor, his lips pressed to her temple, until the last shudder left her body and she went limp beneath him.
His hand withdrew slowly. His fingers, still slick with the evidence of her pleasure, curled around the back of her neck and pulled her upright.
He kissed her. Hard. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting her gasp, swallowing the soft, wrecked sounds she was still making.
She kissed him back with whatever strength remained, her arms heavy around his shoulders, her body liquid and buzzing and already, impossibly, wanting more.
“And I will not apologize for this either,” he whispered against her lips. “Not even if you begged me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The sun fell in white streams through the webbed boughs of the trees overhead. Nicholas progressed through the woods with his hands in his pockets, watching the forest floor carefully for hazards as he proceeded toward the clearing a few yards in front of him. The manor house was a mile in the opposite direction, waiting for the return of its master on that brisk autumn morning.
And for the return of its temporary mistress,Nicholas thought with a sad smile, cutting through a patch of sunlight that warmed his weary frame and had turned the orange and yellow leaves dry underfoot.
He had not gone walking with the intention of finding Amelia that morning. According to the staff, she had escaped the house after having breakfast in her room hours ago.
But Nicholas was not upset when he perceived her in the clearing anyway, sitting on a large limestone rock, bent over something she contemplated on her knees.
He admired her briefly. The outline of her form, cloaked in dark red. The escaped ribbon of brown hair which danced with the wind. The slender shoulders he had watched rock with pleasure the night prior in the carriage as she lay beneath him at his mercy.
Nicholas approached cautiously, hoping to avoid frightening her. As though sensing him, maybe hearing the crackle of leaves that betrayed his presence, she glanced over her shoulder, her face halfway concealed by the thick burgundy cloak she wore.
To his relief, she smiled at him and bid him closer.
“Were you looking for me, Your Grace?” she asked, twisting on her stone perch. “Did you come all this way just for me? Such a gallant knight, marching through the woods on this misty morning.”
“There are many who would scoff at that description of me,” he teased, shivering at the cold—and the welcoming and playful strains of her voice. “No, I frequent this path often on my morning walks. It is the only stretch of forest on the grounds. The rest is comprised of moors and flat farmland. This is the only place one might hope to be alone. Ah.Usually, that is.”
“My apologies for this grave break in routine.” Amelia shrugged, and with the movement of her shoulders, he glimpsed the script in her lap. “I had not known it was in your habit to retreat here.”
“Then why did you come?”
