‘I think you could make me come just by sitting there looking at me while I look at you,’ Blake said, his voice husky.
Come.
That meant orgasm, and Verity had explained about those—and rather more about the male anatomy than Ellie had thought she wanted to know in theory. But she did know that Blake was aroused by her, even if that was only because she was female and in his bed.
‘Kiss me?’ he asked, and that meant almost climbing over him—which, she suspected, was what he wanted. His body was warm and strong and hard under her, and the feel of his chest hair on her breasts was exciting as his arms came around her and held her close.
Ellie realised that he had put her on top quite deliberately, so that his weight did not hurt her aching legs. But she was beginning to feel impatient. She wanted more than kisses, more than gentle caresses. She wanted Blake and she wanted to be done with this apprehension. She refused to call it fear, because apprehension simply had to be endured until it was proved to be needless.
She rolled away so that she was lying on her back next to him. ‘It is all right, Blake. The willow bark tea is working, so you do not have to treat me like spun glass.’
It was rather more the effect he was having on her than the tea, if she was honest with herself.
He turned on his side, supported on his elbow. ‘You feel like spun glass. You aren’t skinny any more, Eleanor, but you are so slender—and I am so large and—’
‘Mmm…’ she murmured, not at all sure that was helpful.
Blake seemed to hear it as an appreciative, provocative sound. ‘Hussy.’
He came over her, weight supported on his knees and elbows, and lowered himself slowly.
She kept her eyes open, reminded herself over and over, like a litany, that this was Blake. She breathed him in as she wriggled so that he fitted against her as instinct told her he should, and tried to listen to the messages her body was sending her. The aches and pains were still there, somewhere in the background, but the magic that was happening with the exchange of touch, of heat, of taste swept them away.
Blake nudged against her intimately and she tipped her pelvis by instinct—and then stopped as he slid inside, just a little, rocking back and forth, murmuring to her as he nuzzled her newly c
ropped curls, kissed his way down her neck.
He held her closer, lowered his body—and suddenly she couldn’t see his face, and all she could feel was his weight and his strength, far greater than hers, holding her helpless.
And all at once—as though someone had opened a floodgate—the panic surged up and she was back in that bedchamber in London. The candlelight was flickering on the bulk of her stepfather, who was pushing her down into the mattress, his leg pushing hers apart, his hand over her mouth as she struggled.
No, no, no!
She freed a hand, reached out, groping frantically. It closed around the candlestick beside the bed. She swung it and felt the thud as it made contact. And then, just as had happened all those years ago, the body crushing down on her was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Hell and damnation!’ Bake rolled out of range of the flailing hand and its lethal weapon. ‘Eleanor, you only had to say stop—’
And then he saw her wide, sightless eyes, felt the tremor running through her stiff limbs and heard the same whispered, frantic words he had heard when she’d been trapped under him when the carriage crashed.
‘Eleanor, it is me—Blake. You are all right. I’m here—no one else.’
He got off the bed and scooped up her velvet robe, swathed her nakedness in it and got back onto the bed, held her against his chest.
‘Eleanor, sweetheart, you are safe. I promise.’
The candlestick fell from her hand onto the rumpled covers and she curled into his body with a little sob. ‘Blake? I am so sorry. Did I hurt you?’
Her voice was muffled against his chest and he felt dampness on his skin. She was weeping. He had made this brave woman weep when every disaster he had seen her weather before had been met with dry-eyed determination.
‘No,’ he said, ignoring the pain in his left shoulder where the solid base of the stick had thudded into the muscle. ‘Tell me, Eleanor. And tell me the truth this time. Who was it?’
He thought she was not going to answer him, that she had fallen asleep huddled in his arms. Then she sniffed and pushed herself away until she could slide onto the bed beside him. She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. The very clumsiness of the gesture yanked at his heartstrings as she pulled the robe tight around her and straightened her spine. But she kept her gaze fixed on her clasped hands and did not look at him.
‘My stepfather. But he didn’t…didn’t manage to…’
He saw her swallow.