Winning Lord West (Dashing Widows 3)
She tugged at the damp strands of hair at his nape. “Good?”
“Damn good.”
This time she contracted on purpose, and exulted in his shudder. Giving West pleasure was a pleasure. Perhaps he hadn’t been quite as unselfish with her as she’d credited. She arched up to bite his neck, and he shuddered again.
“You’ll kill me before you’re done,” he grated out.
“At least you’ll die smiling.”
Her eyelids fluttered in bliss at the slow glide away. When he slid inside again, she rose to meet him, bringing him deeper.
Helena’s wordless encouragement broke some last bastion of his will. He began to move with inexorable purpose. She thrilled to his male power. His breath escaped in soft grunts, and his muscles turned hard and hot as granite under a noonday sun.
With luxuriant enjoyment, she ran her hands down his long back to his firm buttocks. How she loved West’s possession. She felt like the only woman in the world.
Astonishingly, as he pursued that relentless rhythm, a now familiar response fermented in the pit of her stomach. The sensation spread, flooding her with heat. By the time his control frayed, she trembled on the verge.
He surged up hard and fast. The tendons on his neck stood out in relief. His grip on her hips turned unyielding. On a great groan, he plunged one last time.
She dived into the fire, closing hard around him. This response was deeper and purer than the first time. As she crashed out of the mundane world into the brilliance of the sun, West stayed with her. Her fingernails scored his shoulders, and she arched toward him in shaking, incoherent delight.
“Damn it, Hel,” he bit out.
As she quivered in helpless rapture, he held her beneath him. Then with another rasping groan, he wrenched out, and pumped his seed onto her naked belly.
Chapter Seven
West rolled off Helena and slumped facedown in the tangled sheets. He gasped for air. She’d been the answer to a dream—better than a dream. Damn it, he’d come so close to spilling himself inside her. He’d never taken the act right to the edge like that before. Withdrawing had nearly killed him.
The magic of Helena.
“West?” she asked in a threadbare voice beside him.
“Nggrrr,” he managed. If she expected a coherent conversation after that thunderous ride, she overestimated his stamina.
“West, talk to me.”
God help him, the woman really wanted a chat. When at last he managed to shift, he was surprised he didn’t creak. He’d given her everything he had. He never wanted to move again.
Exhaustion weighted his limbs, but the need to care for her forced him from the bed. He stoked the fire before crossing to the washstand. The water in the jug was still blessedly warm. He cleaned himself off, then splashed fresh water into the bowl, collected a cloth, and returned to the bed.
Helena lay splayed against the pillows like a naked odalisque. In recent years, she’d always been elegant and self-possessed. Seeing her like this, disheveled, flushed with passion, thick black hair spread about her and showing an endearing and previously unnoticed tendency to curl, made him feel she let him in on a wonderful secret.
“Come here.” He piled the pillows behind her and helped her sit up.
When he began to wipe away the sticky mess, she caught his wrist. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least a gentleman can do.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He met her gaze. She looked tired and replete. “So now you know there’s nothing wrong with you?”
It still boggled the mind that Crewe hadn’t been able to satisfy his wife. She was desire incarnate.
“You know, some people say I have a sharp tongue, and a few brave souls accuse me of intellectual arrogance.”
He wrung out the cloth and stroked between her legs. Her lack of self-consciousness was unexpected and gratifying. “Brave to the point of foolhardy.” His amusement faded. “You’re the kind of woman a man longs for all his life. Passionate. Responsive. Generous. Beautiful.”