But she was right. It had begun to rain. A cold, wet droplet fell on his nose, followed by another.
He had known their time together was going to end. It was probably just as well that it had. Nothing had changed. She was still…impossible. Utterly impossible. A few heated kisses couldn’t hold the truth at bay, and more would just render this whole thing unsavory.
He wanted more. God, how he wanted more. He wanted it with the strength of four months’ of desperate longing. He forced himself to concentrate on those cold, wet drops. He imagined each one washing away his ardor. Driving away thoughts of her breast under his palm, her legs wrapped around his waist.
The rain really wasn’t helping.
The storm came on faster than their horse would go. One minute, there were a mild drizzle; the next, it felt as if they’d been enveloped in a sheet of water. It poured over them in a cold wave.
So why was he not chilled? Why was he still holding her, caressing her, kissing away the water drops that collected on her ear? Why were his hands exploring her curves?
Light sizzled across the sky in a jagged arc.
It highlighted the silhouettes of buildings, not so far away now. This interlude was already coming to an end. He couldn’t let go of her, though. Couldn’t stop his lips from tasting her neck again and again. Couldn’t take his hands from her thighs—especially not now, with her gown plastered to her skin.
He took her to the inn.
There were a thousand ways that a man and a woman arriving at an inn, drenched, in the middle of the night, might finagle a room together. If he were a different man…
He handed her down. “Go in,” he said. “Tell whoever’s in charge some story about how you…” He really couldn’t think of a story right now. He couldn’t think of anything but her. “Make up something. Whatever you like. I’ll wait half an hour and come in with a different tale. We sent our luggage over by different paths, requested different rooms. There’s no need for her to associate the two of us.”
“Oliver.”
He didn’t look at her. If he saw her eyes, if he looked at her gown, clinging to her wet skin, he’d never let her go.
He swallowed. The next words were harder to say than he had imagined, but he managed to choke them out.
“Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow at the train station at seven.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jane could not wait calmly. Time passed, and she watched the door, waiting to see the results of her subterfuge. It took forty-five minutes before Oliver strode in, still wet, but possessed of one of the towels that Jane had asked to be left for him.
“Jane.” His voice was rough.
He ran his hands through his hair, ruffling it into wet, auburn spikes.
She lifted her chin and met his eyes. There was no lamp in the room, just a fire. The dim flicker of flame made his eyes seem dark and dangerous.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
“You told me to tell the innkeeper a story,” she said, managing to keep her voice calm even when her heart was beating at twice its normal rate. “I did.”
“A story about how you came to be alone and wet and bedraggled to an inn! That’s what I meant. Not a story about—about—”
“About how my lover, a duke’s son, would be coming along shortly?” Jane raised an eyebrow. “About how we would be sharing a chamber?”
He tossed his towel over a chair and advanced on her.
“Yes,” he said, “I want you. Yes, I’ve thought of having you over and over these last few months. Yes, I lost my head out there, Jane. But I didn’t expect you to pay for my help with your body.”
She stood. She’d changed from her sodden gown into a warm chemise with an embroidered robe over it. She could hear the beat of blood in her ears.
“Is that what you think? That I’m offering myself to you in payment for services rendered? Don’t be daft, Oliver.” She took a step toward him. “Do you think you’re the only one who has been wanting these last months? The only one who lies awake, watching the ceiling, wishing for more? Look at me. I’m not a sacrifice.”
Her heart slammed, but she reached up and undid the tie of her robe. He watched that piece of silk slide to the floor, his eyes hungry.
“Look at me,” Jane repeated. She slid the robe off of her shoulders—she could scarcely breathe—and let it flutter down. Her skin prickled in the sudden coolness, but it wasn’t cold she felt. “I’m not a gift,” she said. “Or a prize that you’ve won. I’m a woman, and I want you because it will give me joy.”
He was looking her up and down. She knew how sheer her shift was—translucent enough that he’d be able to see the form of her body silhouetted with the fire behind it.
He licked his lips. “I had every intention of being a gentleman. Of sleeping on the floor, or…or something.”
“Is that what a gentleman would do?” Jane asked.
“Probably.”
“Then gentlemen are idiots.”
He laughed. “Jane. God. You are the bravest woman I have ever known.”
She took a step closer. “I scarcely have the wherewithal to be brave about this.” Another step, until she was close enough to set her hands on his chest.
“Do you know what to expect?”
“Only in the vaguest terms. The specifics…” She reached out and gently, very gently, took hold of his cravat. “The specifics,” she repeated, “I’m looking forward to discovering.”
“Then discover.”
She undid his cravat, winding the fabric from around his neck.
“See?” She looked up. “I didn’t know that—the look of your throat.” She leaned forward and placed a kiss in the hollow there. The points of his shirt brushed wetly against her cheeks.
“Jane. You’re killing me.”
She hadn’t understood what to do until she heard his voice—that hard rasp, so clearly indicating he was on the edge of his control. This, this was what she wanted. To kill him with every brush of her fingers, and to have him love it.
She pushed back the collar of his still sodden coat; he shrugged his shoulders, relinquishing it to her.
She’d seen men in their shirtsleeves before, but never like this. Not with the fabric practically translucent from rain, outlining the smooth curve of bicep and tricep. She undid the buttons of his waistcoat, slowly reveling in the glimpses she caught through the fabric—the slim tapering of his waist, the hard feel of his abdomen when she brushed her hand against the fabric of his shirt.
He hadn’t moved, except to assist her in removing items. She was glad of it. He stood still, as if he understood that she needed to uncover him, little by little. To get used to the idea of what would happen. To let her touch before he touched her back.
The shirt proved more complicated. He had little silver studs at the cuff, and it took her some time to untangle the wet mass from his person, even though he gave her a little help. But when she had it off him…
Just the hint of his flesh through the shirt had made her mouth dry. The reality of him—of all that taut muscle, of the arrow of hair tracing down from his navel, the darker nubs of his nipples…
She reached out and set her hand on his skin.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re still wet. Of course you’re still wet. And cold.” She took the towel he’d abandoned and dabbed at his shoulders. His arms. Feeling it all as she went, that hard, smooth body of his, dangerously curved and yet waiting motionless. Allowing her to explore her fill of him. She dried off his back and addressed herself to his front.
He hissed as she rubbed his abdomen.
“Did that hurt?”
“On the contrary. It felt rather good.” He looked her in the eyes. “Touch me there again.”
He hadn’t moved, not one inch, but he wasn’t letting go of control. His skin was warming under her caresses, the color changing from chalk to a faint blush. She touched him, traced that line of hair vanishing into his trouse
rs, felt the firm muscle tense under her fingers.
“Am I doing it right?”
“You’re doing… Yes, Jane. Keep doing that. Please.”
She ran her hand up his waist. Across his chest. When her fingers brushed his nipple, he hissed again, and she took a moment for further exploration. He responded to her touch, his flesh tightening, hardening. His breath shivered as she rolled the hard nub between her fingers, touching it the way he’d touched her earlier.
Oh, if only she’d paid better attention, cataloguing what he’d done.
What was it he’d said? That if he had her in a bed, he would…
She leaned forward and licked him.
“Oh, Jane.” His hands closed around her shoulders.
“Was that…should I…” She pulled away. “Should I stop?”
“Lick me anywhere you like.”
“Am I doing well enough?”
He took her hand in his and laid it across the damp placket of his trousers, splaying her fingers under him so she could feel the hard ridge beneath. “That’s how well you’re doing,” he told her hoarsely. “So well that the danger is that I’ll spill in my first few thrusts.”
The thought of that caught hold of her, setting her lungs on fire. “Oh?” she heard herself ask. “How do I make you do that?”
His eyes met hers, fierce and intense, and her whole body seemed to melt. “You let me have a turn.”
That sent a shot through her, a bolt of pure anticipation. He’d scarcely touched her since he’d come in the room; now his hands slid down her sides, over her hips.
He set his hands on her thighs. “Back a little,” he said, giving her the barest guiding pressure. She took two steps in reverse and felt her legs hit the bed behind her. And then he stood, lifting her chemise as he did so. It slid over her skin, over her head. He disentangled it from her arms, and let it fall on the ground. She was completely naked.
She should have felt exposed. Off-kilter. But his eyes devoured her with such heat that she felt only…powerful. Wanted. Ready.
“There,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Now that… That is a good idea.” Her whole body tingled. She didn’t know what he would do—whether he would push her to the bed and sink inside her, or touch her all over, the way she’d touched him.
Instead, he tilted her head back and kissed her. It was a long, sweet kiss, a kiss that drugged her senses. A kiss that made her aware of every inch of her skin—of the fact that as they kissed, he gathered her up in his arms, pressing against her. His chest. That hard ridge beneath his trousers. His legs, still damp. He kissed her until every part of her demanded more.
Just when she was ready to scream with a frustration she didn’t understand, his hands swept up her body, cupping her breasts. She had one brief moment to react—to feel the rough brush of his thumb across her sensitive flesh—before he bent and kissed her on her breast.
“Oliver.” Her hands closed around him. Her knees buckled. “Oliver. God. If what I did to you felt anything like that…”
“Then you’ll spend in a few strokes,” he murmured. “That’s rather the goal.”
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 cock 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.
He was so damned aware of her—of her breath, of the slight warmth in the air to his right where she lay. Of what they’d done together last night. Of what they couldn’t do together any longer.