The Heiress Effect
Page 73
He gathered her in his arms and bore her down onto the bed. But he didn’t clamber on top of her as she’d expected.
“Don’t you have to remove your trousers?”
“Not yet.”
“But—”
His hands on her thighs silenced her. It was a warm, insistent pressure, fingers opening up her most intimate places. He knelt between her legs. “Not for this,” he said, and set his mouth to her.
It was utterly electrifying. To have his lips there. As if all the things she’d yearned for he had heard through the tension in her muscle. As if her desire was spelled out with his tongue.
She let out a moan.
He took that as encouragement and spread her legs wider, and then, as she relaxed against him, he slid a finger inside her. His other thumb—his tongue—did something extraordinary, something that made her whole body light up with an unexplainable incandescence. Another finger, stretching her out, then another one. It was too much.
There was no way to understand all that glorious sensation rushing through her. It was as if their bodies held a conversation that whispered along every nerve ending. All thought vanished. What remained was pure light, engulfing her.
She bit back a scream.
When she could breathe again, he’d stood up. He was kicking off his shoes, taking off his trousers, coming back to her. The bed creaked under his weight.
“We can stop here,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She reached out to him. “Don’t you dare.”
She hadn’t seen this part of him before. His thighs were hard—not soft and pillowy, thank God, but tense with muscle. His erection was full. His breath shattered as she reached out, exploring it—that long shaft, hard and yet with that hint of softness to it.
She pulled forward and licked him.
“God, Jane.” He moaned. “Another time, or it really will be three thrusts.”
And then he was bearing her down, spreading her wide again. Rubbing the head of his c**k against her slit, sending shivers down her.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” He pushed inside her. There was a pinch of red pain, so shocking in the midst of her floating arousal. Her hands closed around his shoulders.
Another time, he’d said. But that was too much reality to encompass now. There might not be another time. Just this one. This one time to feel the stretch of her body around his, to feel that pain dissipate, swallowed up by the growing rightness of him. He slid into her, further, then further, and the last hint of discomfort disappeared.
And then there was just him—his weight, his breath, his body bearing her down, joining with her so intimately. His hands, turning her face up to his, and his kiss, warm and sweet on her lips. There was no other time at all.
Just now.
Each stroke sent another little wave of pleasure through her. She felt overly sensitized to every thrust, every pulse of him. To the growing heat that rose between them, the low growl he made in his throat when she ran her hands down his naked back.
“God, Jane.” He was reduced to incoherence. “Jane. Oh, God. Jane.”
They were not just his thrusts, but hers. Theirs. She laid claim to them as much as he took her. Their bodies joined, came apart. She felt a tension building inside her. Different than the last time. Deeper. Called out by him. It came over her again, taking over her vision.
He stroked inside her harder as she came. Harder, harder, until his thrusts were almost brutal. At the last moment, he pulled out of her, spilling against her belly.
For a few seconds, he was poised above her. They looked into each others’ eyes as best they could in the growing darkness. All hint of cold from the rain had been washed away. He was close, so close. Closer than anyone had ever been.
And then he pulled away from her. Only briefly. He found a towel, poured some water in the basin, and turned back to her. He didn’t say a word. But gently, gently, he cleaned her off.
“Well?” he finally asked softly. “What did you think?”
Jane shook her head, unable to find words. It had been wonderful. Lovely, amazing, powerful, pleasurable. She couldn’t even begin to describe it. It had been everything she’d imagined—except in one respect.
She’d thought that making love to Oliver would be a transcendent experience. A memory she could hold on to and cherish for the rest of her life.
But it wasn’t. It hadn’t been enough.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Oliver woke too early the next morning. The rain had stopped, and it was only five in the morning, if the church tower bells were to be believed. Oliver didn’t think he’d had more than a few hours of sleep. Jane lay next to him, naked still, warm and soft.
He set a hand on her hip and tried not to think.
If he had at all been rational last night, he would never have done it. There were too many things wrong with the situation. He would list them, except…
He wanted to do it again this morning. Immediately.
He didn’t think she would expect anything of him. And he’d been careful. Yet part of him—some horrible, treacherous part—wished that he had taken less care. That he’d done everything he could to get her with child. That he’d have her forced upon him so that he could take the thing he wanted so badly without having to decide to do it.
I love you, Jane. He ran his fingers down her body. But you’re still my impossible girl.
It was a sad thought, singularly unsuited for a May morning.
She turned over. Her eyes opened and she smiled sleepily at him.
“Good morning,” she said.
He hadn’t wanted to know what that would sound like—her happy, sleepy greeting, as she turned to him in the bed.
“Good morning,” he returned gravely.
She squeezed her eyes shut and then shook her head. When she opened them, she sat up. “I suppose we have to do this now.”
“Jane…”
She set her fingers over his mouth. “Let me speak first. I have spent the last months thinking of my many mistakes. I wanted you so badly, and I almost never had you.” She looked away and shook her head. “I have had months of thinking about you, Oliver. About that moment in the park when I simply accepted that because you could not marry me, I would have nothing. I’ve thought it through and through.” She raised her chin. “You mustn’t think of this as ruination. Only girls with no money can be truly ruined. And my reputation has never been one of my assets.”
“Jane.” He didn’t know why he said her name except to say it. To hear it sing on his tongue. The entire world thought the word Jane was one syllable, but he knew better. When he said her name properly—when he whispered it slowly in the early morning, with the owner a few feet from him—it came out to almost a syllable and a half. Ja-ane.
“Don’t you have to remove your trousers?”
“Not yet.”
“But—”
His hands on her thighs silenced her. It was a warm, insistent pressure, fingers opening up her most intimate places. He knelt between her legs. “Not for this,” he said, and set his mouth to her.
It was utterly electrifying. To have his lips there. As if all the things she’d yearned for he had heard through the tension in her muscle. As if her desire was spelled out with his tongue.
She let out a moan.
He took that as encouragement and spread her legs wider, and then, as she relaxed against him, he slid a finger inside her. His other thumb—his tongue—did something extraordinary, something that made her whole body light up with an unexplainable incandescence. Another finger, stretching her out, then another one. It was too much.
There was no way to understand all that glorious sensation rushing through her. It was as if their bodies held a conversation that whispered along every nerve ending. All thought vanished. What remained was pure light, engulfing her.
She bit back a scream.
When she could breathe again, he’d stood up. He was kicking off his shoes, taking off his trousers, coming back to her. The bed creaked under his weight.
“We can stop here,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She reached out to him. “Don’t you dare.”
She hadn’t seen this part of him before. His thighs were hard—not soft and pillowy, thank God, but tense with muscle. His erection was full. His breath shattered as she reached out, exploring it—that long shaft, hard and yet with that hint of softness to it.
She pulled forward and licked him.
“God, Jane.” He moaned. “Another time, or it really will be three thrusts.”
And then he was bearing her down, spreading her wide again. Rubbing the head of his c**k against her slit, sending shivers down her.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” He pushed inside her. There was a pinch of red pain, so shocking in the midst of her floating arousal. Her hands closed around his shoulders.
Another time, he’d said. But that was too much reality to encompass now. There might not be another time. Just this one. This one time to feel the stretch of her body around his, to feel that pain dissipate, swallowed up by the growing rightness of him. He slid into her, further, then further, and the last hint of discomfort disappeared.
And then there was just him—his weight, his breath, his body bearing her down, joining with her so intimately. His hands, turning her face up to his, and his kiss, warm and sweet on her lips. There was no other time at all.
Just now.
Each stroke sent another little wave of pleasure through her. She felt overly sensitized to every thrust, every pulse of him. To the growing heat that rose between them, the low growl he made in his throat when she ran her hands down his naked back.
“God, Jane.” He was reduced to incoherence. “Jane. Oh, God. Jane.”
They were not just his thrusts, but hers. Theirs. She laid claim to them as much as he took her. Their bodies joined, came apart. She felt a tension building inside her. Different than the last time. Deeper. Called out by him. It came over her again, taking over her vision.
He stroked inside her harder as she came. Harder, harder, until his thrusts were almost brutal. At the last moment, he pulled out of her, spilling against her belly.
For a few seconds, he was poised above her. They looked into each others’ eyes as best they could in the growing darkness. All hint of cold from the rain had been washed away. He was close, so close. Closer than anyone had ever been.
And then he pulled away from her. Only briefly. He found a towel, poured some water in the basin, and turned back to her. He didn’t say a word. But gently, gently, he cleaned her off.
“Well?” he finally asked softly. “What did you think?”
Jane shook her head, unable to find words. It had been wonderful. Lovely, amazing, powerful, pleasurable. She couldn’t even begin to describe it. It had been everything she’d imagined—except in one respect.
She’d thought that making love to Oliver would be a transcendent experience. A memory she could hold on to and cherish for the rest of her life.
But it wasn’t. It hadn’t been enough.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Oliver woke too early the next morning. The rain had stopped, and it was only five in the morning, if the church tower bells were to be believed. Oliver didn’t think he’d had more than a few hours of sleep. Jane lay next to him, naked still, warm and soft.
He set a hand on her hip and tried not to think.
If he had at all been rational last night, he would never have done it. There were too many things wrong with the situation. He would list them, except…
He wanted to do it again this morning. Immediately.
He didn’t think she would expect anything of him. And he’d been careful. Yet part of him—some horrible, treacherous part—wished that he had taken less care. That he’d done everything he could to get her with child. That he’d have her forced upon him so that he could take the thing he wanted so badly without having to decide to do it.
I love you, Jane. He ran his fingers down her body. But you’re still my impossible girl.
It was a sad thought, singularly unsuited for a May morning.
She turned over. Her eyes opened and she smiled sleepily at him.
“Good morning,” she said.
He hadn’t wanted to know what that would sound like—her happy, sleepy greeting, as she turned to him in the bed.
“Good morning,” he returned gravely.
She squeezed her eyes shut and then shook her head. When she opened them, she sat up. “I suppose we have to do this now.”
“Jane…”
She set her fingers over his mouth. “Let me speak first. I have spent the last months thinking of my many mistakes. I wanted you so badly, and I almost never had you.” She looked away and shook her head. “I have had months of thinking about you, Oliver. About that moment in the park when I simply accepted that because you could not marry me, I would have nothing. I’ve thought it through and through.” She raised her chin. “You mustn’t think of this as ruination. Only girls with no money can be truly ruined. And my reputation has never been one of my assets.”
“Jane.” He didn’t know why he said her name except to say it. To hear it sing on his tongue. The entire world thought the word Jane was one syllable, but he knew better. When he said her name properly—when he whispered it slowly in the early morning, with the owner a few feet from him—it came out to almost a syllable and a half. Ja-ane.
