“Show me.”
She laid her palm on her belly over the top of the layers of pelisse and gown and shift and stays. Then she slid her hand lower until she cupped her mound through those layers.
He should watch only, but he could not control his hands. He grasped her ankle and slid his hand up her calf and over her knee, his forearm and elbow bunching her skirts up, raising them higher and higher as he explored her silky thigh. His other hand pulled her fingers away from her body and then returned them, but not to the same spot. He placed her hand underneath all the layers he had discarded, skin against her own skin.
“Like this?” he asked.
She nodded.
“And then, did you go deeper?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
She did and his own body tightened, hardened, aching to be where she was. She stroked herself into a fever, her heart beating next to his.
Then a groan of frustration ripped from her throat. “I don’t want this when you are here.”
“What do you want, Jane?”
“Your hands where mine are.”
He wanted the exact same thing. More than air itself, he needed to touch her.
But he kept his arms where they were and watched.
Her hand moved with a greater frenzy, her hips arching upward. She stopped breathing, stopped moving for one glorious, terrifying moment, and then she melted back into his lap, her muscles languid, her face rolling into his shoulder.
He tightened his hold on her. How the hell had this happened.
She reached up and dragged his head down to hers, then nipped at his lips in a lazy fashion. She sighed into a soft kiss, and…
Snap.
He no longer understood why he held on to his control so tightly.
Her skirts already bunched around her waist, it was no work at all to pull her upright, to nudge her into a straddle around his waist so that they faced one another. Her eyes glinted, no longer hazy with satisfied exhaustion.
He grasped her hips, and they kissed—a clash of teeth, the melding of tongues. His hands slipped beneath her bottom, squeezing. She reached between them, fumbling at his fall; she somehow released him into her hands.
He hissed, throwing his head back. “Jane.MyJane.”
The carriage jerked to a stop, and George wrapped one arm around her waist, cinching her to his chest like a vice, and threw the other arm out to the side, bracing them both so they did not tumble to the floor.
He beat on the roof of the coach. “Is anything amiss?”
“Ahem,” came the mumbled reply. “We’re here.”
“Damn,” George mumbled, not yet releasing Jane.
“Here, where? Oh, yes, the Clarkes.” She bit her bottom lip and collapsed against him, tracing a pattern up and down his jaw. “We don’t have to get out. Just yet.”
“Yes. We do.” He’d been about to give in, and he could not.
He half sighed and half growled as his arms melted from around her, falling to the side, his head lolling back against the squabs. “You had best go before I decide not to let you.”
He meant the words.Hell, but he meant them.
