She clamped her mouth hard together, eyes blazing, chin high, and stared him down.
“I will not be cuckolded in my own home,” he said through gritted teeth, gripping her by the shoulders.
She wrenched free, panting. “Don’t touch me!”
“But he can touch you? Youlethim touch you! And what else have you allowed?”
She slapped him, a whiplash across his face.
He was shocked, motionless, as stunned as she was. An absolute silence knifed between them.
Then Jane gasped, her lips trembling, and she backed away. “I-I’m sorry.”
He smiled, a menacing curve of his lips. “Too late,” he said, and he grabbed her.
Her cry of protest was cut off by his mouth. He anchored her in an ungiving embrace of steel, jamming one rock-hard thigh between hers, his mouth forcing hers open, his teeth cutting hers, his tongue raping her. She could not even whimper beneath his onslaught. He clasped one buttock and hauled her even harder against the steel ridge of his erection. He heard her choke in protest even as his grip loosened and one hand slid down her back, stroking. His mouth softened. She softened. He felt her lips open, felt her tongue touch his tentatively. With a groan he pulled her into his mouth, sucking her, devouring her. She pressed fiercely against him, her lips locked to his. His palm, rubbing her buttock, eased beneath it, caressing her and urging her to ride his muscular thigh.
He had no thoughts, no coherent ones, that is. His mouth still merged with Jane’s, he dropped to his knees, bringing her down with him onto the floor. She went unresisting, her small hands clutching his broad shoulders. And when he pushed her onto her back, her thighs opened wide, letting him settle himself against her as he pleased. It was unbearable. He was going to explode now, soon.
“Jane!” he cried, burying his face in her taut neck and reaching, trembling, for her skirts. Her panting was harsh and arrhythmic in his ear. When his hand touched her bare knee she gasped. When he slid his palm up her thigh on the inside she whimpered, thrashing, spreading her legs more and arching her pelvis wildly. He cupped the mound of her femininity boldly and found her drawers soaked. Soaked for him. It was his undoing.
“Jane, Jane,” he heard himself chanting, slipping his fingers beneath the silk, touching her.
She cried out, clinging to him, arching convulsively, shaking with need.
He could not wait. He reached for his breeches, yanking them open, and heard her, clearly. “Nicholas! Nicholas!” It was sobbed, a plea.
He found her mouth as he freed his rigid organ, and then he was thrusting home. It was excruciating, unbearable, hot, tight, as tight as the first time, and he knew he was lost.
“No,” he cried, plunging into her. “No, no, I don’t want to come, not yet …” And then he came, spewing into her, pumping, pumping endlessly. And through the haze of his ecstasy he heard her cry his name and felt her contract violently around him, again and again.
39
Jane became aware of the floor, hard and hurtful beneath her.
And the earl, who was hard and warm on top of her. His face was still buried in her neck, his breath hot and wispy on her skin. She could feel his lips against her throat, damp, and the thudding of his racing heart on her breast. He had her arms gripped firmly in his powerful hands, and she could still feel him inside her.
Oh, God!
She felt it then, the rushing tidal wave of tears behind her lids, hot, threatening—imminent. The urge to weep was overwhelming. Jane struggled as she’d never struggled before—she could not cry in front of him. Not now.
The earl abruptly rolled off her, onto his back, and was momentarily still. Jane had not known that so much pain remained in her heart. If she didn’t control herself, she would soon be sobbing hysterically in a flood of grief. And why? Because she loved this beautiful, angry man? Because he had married her for their daughter’s sake, not out of love for herself? Because he had hurt her once, two years ago, so devastatingly? Because now he had taken her in anger and jealousy and lust? She did not know. She was confused and distressed, in an emotional quagmire.
And she sniffed, daring to wipe away more tears before he should see them.
The earl suddenly lunged to his feet. Jane heard him cross the room and close the door. She was too upset to care that it had been open. She turned her head away, and more tears crawled down her cheeks. She felt his gaze upon her.
“God,” he said, the sound choked. “Jane? Did— did I hurt you?”
She was afraid to even try and speak; she shook her head no. She did not dare turn to look at him, not with her wet face.
“I’m sorry,” he said harshly.
It was the agonized tone of his voice that brought her to her elbows to stare. He had now turned his gaze aside. His profile was etched in rigid lines of tension, haggard, pain-filled. He was rubbing his chest as if his heart hurt him. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and in his voice she heard it all—the cruel self-flagellation.
She started to protest, unable to bear the sight and sound of him like his.
He looked at her and his gaze widened. “Why are you crying? Shit!”
