The Governess Affair (Brothers Sinister #0.5)

Again. Again. She rose up on him to press once more, and the head of his member pushed into place. She opened her eyes to regard him. His hand found hers; their fingers tangled.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Her limbs seemed to melt. She could not hold herself in place, poised as she was.

And so she let go, relaxing the muscles that held her over him. She simply let herself sink onto his length. He was so big inside her. But the sensation wasn’t unpleasant. It was…lovely.

She was safe. Safe to simply experience the hardness of him, the stretch of her body, the growing pulse of her desire. It was safe to want—to rise up on her knees and then engulf him once more.

Their eyes met as she did; he let out a breath, long and deep, and his hands clenched around hers.

Her body knew what to do without any need for instruction. Deep instinct led her to grind against his pelvis, to search out the right rhythm, the right friction. She lost herself in the feel of them—in the subtle satisfaction that swept over her at the look on his face as she moved faster.

“You lovely thing,” he growled.

Passion built until it became an immense pressure, demanding release. She tried and tried, but no matter how she reached for it, it eluded her. Just when her want hit the edge of splintering frustration, he slid his hand between her legs and stroked her right where she needed it.

His touch was sure and unerring. The heat that had built released all at once, an inferno engulfing her from head to toe. She lost sight of everything but the pleasure that raged through her.

And then, when the whirlwind had passed, his hands fell on her hips and he drove into her from beneath, hammering home the echoes of her pleasure with his own. He let out a hoarse cry while she was still shuddering in the aftermath of her orgasm.

They sank to the mattress afterward. His arms came around her, warm and comforting. This was right—precisely what she’d needed.

He cupped her cheek.

It was a moment of precious, perfect togetherness. No wonder they referred to the act as intimacy. She had never felt so closely entangled with anyone before. His breaths were hers. His body…

She opened her eyes and looked into his dark gaze.

He wasn’t smiling at her. If anything, his intensity had grown. “There now,” he said softly. “Now you understand why I didn’t want to consummate the marriage.”

Chapter Nine

SHE HAD BEEN ALMOST LIQUID, molded against Hugo’s chest. But he had no sooner spoken then all the tension crept back into her limbs. She stiffened atop him, then pulled away.

“Hugo. It doesn’t have to be—”

He set his fingers across her lips before she could give voice to his deepest wants. “It does.”

“That meant something to you. Something real.”

“Of course it did.” He sat up and took her hand. “I won’t tell falsehoods about this. What we have is a species of love.”

She let out a breath in surprise.

“A transitory, short-lived one,” he explained. “A perfect sunrise—seen once, remembered always. Never duplicated.”

“Never duplicated?” Her fingers bit into his. “Why ever not?”

“Because tomorrow you’ll go to your farm. And I—”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” Her hair was in wild, chestnut disarray around her shoulders and her eyes were wide and gray.

Hugo moved a lock of her hair aside. “You can’t stay with me, Serena.” His words sounded harsh. “Recall who I work for.”

She blanched, but hesitated only a moment before raising her chin. “You could—”

“I could what? Come with you? I suppose I could, at that. But I won’t. I have five hundred pounds waiting on the outcome of this affair with the duke. That’s the only chance a pugilist like me has to come into that much money. With that, I can truly become someone. If I go with you—”

“You are someone.” She frowned.

You’ll never amount to anything. Hugo let out a breath. “Not enough.”

“You are. Hugo, if you’d only—”

“It’s not enough,” he repeated grimly. He pushed away from her and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “Do you hear? It’s not enough for me.”

“Not enough what?”

Such a reasonable question.

“Because you’re intelligent and successful,” Serena was saying, “and you’re a good man. That thing with the pins—it was lovely. You have a way of putting me at ease.”

“That’s nothing,” he said. “My mother was always doing things like that for me. She gave me a magic rock when I was young, and told me if I slept with it under my pillow, nothing would happen on the next day that I couldn’t bear.”

Beside him, Serena sucked in a breath. But he wasn’t ashamed of telling her the truth. He had suffered through days that had made him doubt his mother’s stone.

He brushed those memories away. “When I was older, she took an old pickle jar to the park. She told me to fill it with all the most important things. Then she buried it deep, deep, where my father couldn’t find it no matter what he did.”

It had been drizzling, but he’d scarcely felt the wet.

Do you have a jar, Mama?