The room was quiet, lit only by the fire and a single lamp on the sideboard.
She stopped in the center of the rug, her back to him, hands clasped in front of her.
He came up behind her, his presence a low hum in her senses.
“Georgiana,” he murmured, his voice a little rough.
She turned then, and whatever restraint had been holding them both back all night finally snapped.
His mouth was on hers before she could draw another breath, his hands framing her face as he kissed her deep and dark and devastating.
Her fingers tangled in his waistcoat, clutching at him as though he were the only thing keeping her upright.
He backed her toward the settee, and when she fell into it, he came down with her, his body pinning hers against the cushions as his hands slid over her hips, her ribs, her breasts.
She gasped when his thumb brushed over her nipple through the fabric of her gown, and he swallowed the sound with another kiss, more bruising than before.
By the time his hand found the hem of her skirts and slipped beneath, she was already half-dazed, her legs parting instinctively to make room for him.
His fingers grazed her stockinged calf, then higher and higher, until he found the heat of her.
She broke the kiss on a sharp inhale, her head tipping back against the arm of the settee as he worked her open with deft, sure strokes.
It was maddening, slow and deliberate and overwhelming all at once. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, his cravat, anything she could reach as she bucked helplessly against him.
When she finally came apart in his hand, it was with a soft cry that she tried—and failed—to bite back.
She could feel him hard against her hip even through his trousers, feel the tension in his body, the sheer restraint it cost him to stay where he was.
Her breath was still uneven, her lashes heavy, when she dared to look at him. His jaw was tight, his hair mussed, his lips slightly parted as he stared down at her. For one wild, hopeful moment, she thought he would lift her into his arms and carry her up to his bed.
But then he pulled back, his hand slipping from her skirts as he straightened.
Her chest ached at the sudden distance. She nearly sobbed.
He pressed a hand over his mouth for a moment, breathing hard, before he spoke.
“The last thing I want to do is pressure you, Georgiana. I have patience,” he murmured at last, his eyes still on hers. “And I intend to give you all the time in the world you need.”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone on the settee—flushed, frustrated, and wanting more.
Chapter Thirty
Jason lay flat on his back in the massive bed, one arm flung over his eyes, the sheets tangled around his legs.
Sleep was an impossibility. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.
He saw the way she’d looked sprawled on the settee beneath him — her lips parted, her hair coming loose in soft waves around her face, her cheeks flushed with heat and surprise and something that had damn near undone him.
He could still hear her little whimpers in the back of her throat, the way her breath hitched just before she took her pleasure against his hand.
That sound—God help him—that sound was carved into his bones now.
And the look on her face as it washed over her…
He groaned softly, dragging his hand down his face, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on him like a leaden quilt.
He wanted to give her that feeling every single night.
