Lord Garson’s Bride (Dashing Widows 7)
“You’re magnificent,” he grated out, and she squirmed as his large hands caressed her breasts.
Jane rose and fell, then again, circling her hips. She delighted in how every time she shifted, Hugh moved, too, finding new places to stimulate. The seeking, frantic need became an unstoppable tide, and this time she swam with the rising wave of transcendent oblivion. With her next undulation, the crisis struck. She cried out as the world dissolved into luminous rapture.
As she shuddered over him, his hands slid from her breasts to her hips, holding her as she convulsed. His fingers dug into her bare bottom, and he brought her down hard. A long groan of surrender rang in her ears, as he flooded her with his essence.
Floating down from her peak, she felt the tension ease from his thighs and belly. The part of him that had delivered that unearthly experience softened. Without breaking their union, she flattened herself against his chest. He was panting, and the fresh scent of his sweat was sharp in her nostrils.
He kneaded her buttocks and gave a last, exhausted twitch inside her. “That was…extraordinary,” he said, breath emerging in jagged gasps.
She placed a kiss above his laboring heart as his powerful arms closed around her. “I like being your wife.”
The words were inadequate, but how could she express the joy she’d found? She needed to out-Shakespeare Shakespeare to do justice to the lovely things Hugh did to her.
And she did to him.
“I like being married to you, too,” he said, sleep roughening his voice. She snuggled closer and shut her eyes.
*
Another day gone, and still Jane hadn’t seen anything of the capital. Unless she counted a thorough inspection of her private Tower of London.
“Why are you smiling?” Hugh was standing at the sitting room window, watching dusk descend on the street. Or he had been watching the street. Now those gleaming dark eyes focused on her.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that,” she said, even as burgeoning female interest had her shifting on the chair. She’d found a place near the fire where she pretended to read an old Water Scott. The adventures of Quentin Durward couldn’t compete with her memories of what she and Hugh had done to pass the last hours.
He tried and failed to look innocent. “Like what?”
“You know.”
His lips twitched. “Like I want to take you back to bed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I do.”
She blushed, although given what she’d done today, she’d surely lost any right to maidenly modesty. “We only got dressed an hour ago.”
His expression conveyed a world of devilry. “I’ve decided dressing is a complete waste of time. Tomorrow we won’t bother.”
The silly, flirtatious conversation made her want him even more. Before they’d married, she’d had limited contact with grown-up Hugh, and he’d always impressed her as a serious, thoughtful man. This vein of whimsical humor was a surprise—and irresistible. As was his innate sensuality. She’d entered into this marriage prepared for a pragmatic arrangement, not this voyage of sexual discovery.
“I’d like to keep my clothes on until after dinner,” she said lightly. “For the servants’ sake, if nothing else.”
He sighed and approached to drop a kiss on her sensitive nape. Goosebumps rose all over her body. “You’re no fun, Jane.”
Once she might assume he meant that, but she’d learned to recognize when he was teasing. “That’s not what you said an hour ago.”
His laugh held a note of appreciation. He drew a chair across, so he could sit close enough to take her book away. “Any good?”
Her lips quirked. “I wouldn’t have a clue.”
He set the book on the carpet. “So what were you smiling about?”
She lowered her lashes. “The Tower of London.”
For a moment he looked thunderstruck, then he burst into delighted laughter. By the time he’d settled down, she’d risen to pour them both some claret.
“Thank you.” As he accepted the wine, the brush of his fingers was a caress. He slouched back and studied her, the glass dangling from one large hand. “I thought you went dress shopping with Susan.”