On the Way to the Wedding (Bridgertons 8)

And then he was back, his body hard and hot against hers, his hands everywhere and his lips everywhere else. And her nightgown—It no longer seemed to be covering quite so much of her. It was up against her thighs, then pooled around her waist. He was touching her—not there, but close. Skimming along her belly, scorching her skin.

“Gregory,” she gasped, because somehow his fingers had found her breast.

“Oh, Lucy,” he groaned, cupping her, squeezing, tickling the tip, and—

Oh, dear God. How was it possible that she felt it there?

Her hips arched and bucked, and she needed to be closer. She needed something she couldn’t quite identify, something that would fill her, complete her.

He was tugging at her nightgown now, and it slipped over her head, leaving her scandalously bare. One of her hands instinctively rose to cover her, but he grabbed her wrist and held it against his own chest. He was straddling her, sitting upright, staring down at her as if…as if…

As if she were beautiful.

He was looking at her the way men always looked at Hermione, except somehow there was more. More passion, more desire.

She felt worshipped.

“Lucy,” he murmured, lightly caressing the side of her breast. “I feel…I think…”

His lips parted, and he shook his head. Slowly, as if he did not quite understand what was happening to him. “I have been waiting for this,” he whispered. “For my entire life. I didn’t even know. I didn’t know.”

She took his hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing the palm. She understood.

His breath quickened, and then he slid off of her, his hands moving to the fastenings of his breeches.

Her eyes widened, and she watched.

“I will be gentle,” he vowed. “I promise you.”

“I’m not worried,” she said, managing a wobbly smile.

His lips curved in return. “You look worried.”

“I’m not.” But still, her eyes wandered.

Gregory chuckled, lying down beside her. “It might hurt. I’m told it does at the beginning.”

She shook her head. “I don’t care.”

He let his hand wander down her arm. “Just remember, if there is pain, it will get better.”

She felt it beginning again, that slow burning in her belly. “How much better?” she asked, her voice breathy and unfamiliar.

He smiled as his fingers found her hip. “Quite a bit, I’m told.”

“Quite a bit,” she asked, now barely able to speak, “or…rather a lot?”

He moved over her, his skin finding every inch of hers. It was wicked.

It was bliss.

“Rather a lot,” he answered, nipping lightly at her neck. “More than rather a lot, actually.”

She felt her legs slide open, and his body nestled in the space between them. She could feel him, hard and hot and pressing against her. She stiffened, and he must have felt it, because his lips crooned a soft, “Shhhh,” at her ear.

From there he moved down.

And down.