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.
He touched her shoulder ever so gently.
“I am the last woman in the world you want to marry,” she whispered. It was not quite a question.
He shut his eyes. “Yes. You’re the last woman in the world I should want to marry. So why are you the only one I’ve been able to think of for months?”
Her eyes flashed.
“Jane.” He reached for her. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to—”
“Stop apologizing for speaking the truth,” she snapped out. “It is what it is, and there’s no use my crying over it.”
The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)
Courtney Milan's books
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