She opened the door.
He lay sprawled on the bed on his back, a sheet pulled to his waist, one arm flung across his eyes, as if warding off the dim glow from the lamp by his bedside. He was sleeping.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, Jane approached.
He was beautiful.
Jane paused beside him, unable to take her gaze from him, studying him raptly as he slept. His face, with its strong nose, sensual mouth, and high, high cheekbones, was not relaxed in sleep. It was drawn with worry, and even now he stirred, groaning. Pain flickered across his features.
“Oh, Nicholas, darling,” she whispered, and her hand slid into his hair. “Sleep, darling, sleep, everything will be all right,”
He went very still. Jane froze, afraid she’d wakened him, but then he sighed, visibly relaxing. Her hand moved through his thick, black hair, stroking, caressing.
She stared unabashed at his bare upper body. He was a big, powerful man. He had the shoulders, chest, and arms of a carpenter or a woodcutter—but-without any fat. He was sculpted with flat planes of muscle and rigid bands of sinew. There was a sprinkling of hair on his chest between his nipples, and it trailed down his belly to disappear beneath the sheet. Startled, Jane realized he was stark naked under the thin covering, and she stared, fascinated.
He moaned, tossing restlessly. Jane touched his forehead, murmuring unintelligibly, as if to a babe. The sheet had slipped, revealing his taut lower abdomen and lean hips. Fire raced along the nerves of her body. She slid her hand to his neck, his shoulder, and down his sculpted arm. “I love you,” she told him. “Nicholas, I love you.”
His face was creased with worry, and he turned onto his stomach with another distorted sound. Impulsively, ignoring the warning bells that were going off in her brain, Jane went round the bed and climbed in, tossing off her robe. She snuggled close and took him in her arms. It was heaven, to hold him thus. He snuggled his face into her neck with a very childlike sound. She stroked his nape and back, marveling at the feel of him, hot and hard and magnificently male. She kissed his forehead.
He nuzzled her neck, his lips against her skin. His arm moved around her waist, and he pulled her tightly against his torso, crushing her breasts.
Jane stopped breathing. Every nerve and fiber of her being was alive with sensual awareness, throbbingly so, demanding more. She knew she should leave him. Soon, she told herself. Just a little more. She wanted just a little more time to be together like this. Her own hand slid down to caress his waist. She trembled.
He groaned. His big palm was sliding now along her back, at first slowly, sensually, then with the stirrings of urgency. He nuzzled her neck. His hand began exploring her derriere.
Jane froze, heart pounding. He was clearly asleep, and she should make her exit now. Jane couldn’t. His hand was slipping over one high curve, lazily, intently, and it was delicious. Jane gasped with the pleasure. He was kneading her buttock insistently now, and he moaned, a deep, sexual sound. Jane was trembling. Her knee was practically upon him, her thighs parting of their own will. He urged her leg across his hips and then ran his hand down the back of her thigh. Jane heard the sound coming from deep within her throat—and barely recognized herself. Then she gasped as his hand came back up—beneath her gown.
And then she could not think. His palm on her bare buttock was heaven. She was shaking, on fire. His fingertips brushed the joining of her legs and rear. Jane moaned, hooking her leg around his waist, boldly pressing toward him. Suddenly he pulled her onto her back and was on top of her, pressed against her from breast to ankle, his mouth on hers, hot yet soft and lazy. And against her belly he was hot and hard and not lazy at all.
Jane no longer thought of leaving. She was a prisoner to what he was doing. She opened her mouth, wide, eagerly, and when he thrust his tongue within, she met him fiercely.
He knew it was a dream.
But it was the best dream Nick had ever had, and he did not want to wake up. But to make sure it was Jane, he looked at her, saw her passion-glazed face, the full, parted, wet lips. “Jane.” He groaned. She was beneath him, soft and lush and shaking with need. He dove upon her mouth again, shaking now in his excitement, wishing with the back of his mind that he hadn’t drunk so much so he could enjoy the dream more. His hands stroked her from her waist to her hips. He urgently kneed her thighs apart, to settle his heavy, stiff penis there, where it belonged. She gasped and arched against him.
Groaning in the combination of pleasure-agony, Nick found her breasts, nuzzling them fiercely. The cotton fabric was in the way; he tore it abruptly apart. Lifting one firm breast, he eagerly took its small nipple in his mouth and began sucking voraciously. Jane writhed beneath him. Her nails clawed down his back. He felt her hands on his buttocks, stroking frantically. And he could not wait.
Raising up, he thrust against her.
She cried out.
Vaguely, even though it was a dream, he remembered she was a virgin. “Sorry,” he whispered, panting, reaching down, his hand shaking. He rubbed the full wet folds of her femininity. She cried out. He could not wait. Parting her, he eased in, then thrust fully, hard, into her.
Jane clung to him as he plunged again and again into her. The pain had been brief and momentary. She tried to move in tandem with him, but it was impossible, he was like a crazed bull, beyond control. And she felt the volcano within her, building, insistent, about to erupt. “I love you.” She sobbed. “Please, please …”
“Jane,” he cried out, tensing on top of her. He collapsed, panting. She felt something wet and sticky between her legs. Breathing harshly, she clung to him, kissing his wet hair again and again. He kissed the side of her neck.
Her body was alive, desperately yearning for something fierce and unknown. She moved her hips experimentally beneath him, hoping to encourage him into another bout of passion. But he was soft now, slipping out of her, his arms tightening around her. He rolled to his side, pulling her with him. “Jane,” he said.
Was he awake? Jane froze, peered at him, and saw he was still asleep. As they held each other, she stared at the ceiling, sanity returning. Oh, God, she thought, what have I done this time?
Then she decided it did not matter. She loved him. She had wanted him. It had been wonderful. Now she would never, ever leave him.
23
The earl awoke with a feeling of deep, deep satisfaction.
Surprisingly, despite the huge quantity of alcohol he’d consumed the night before, he had only a minor headache. Smiling, he remembered the dream—making frantic love to Jane. His smile disappeared. The pain began then, incipient, raw, from knowing he was a degenerate even in his subconscious. He tried telling himself it had only been a dream, and then someone soft and warm snuggled against his side.
