He left her, and she shivered, missing the heavy warmth of his body. “Do you mean to bathe? Now?”
“Not tonight.” He knelt and opened a drawer in the wardrobe and returned. His gaze dropped onto her like heated stones. “At another time, though, most definitely.” He removed the bottle’s stopper and poured some in his palm. “Hold out your hand.”
She did, and he poured some of the oil in her hand, too. She looked at him questioning.
“Rub it on my cock,” he instructed.
“Cock? Like a rooster?”
He grinned. And his hand found her again, and he rubbed the oil into her curls and deeper. She followed suit, covering him with the oil by using the same motion she’d learned moments ago.
He lowered his body until he completely covered her, then he kissed her, softly, longingly, until she was tied tight once more, hard yet melting beneath him. He inched into her again, and this time it did not pain her as it had before. She smiled into their kiss. Then he began to move. Back and forth, in and out, pulling away then delving close, each stroke making her ache. She swallowed a scream as he moved faster and faster, then pulled away fully, and rolled off her. His back to her, he shuddered. She had enough muscle control to appease her curiosity, lift up on an elbow, and watch as he spilled his seed on the bedclothes.
He flopped onto his back and gathered her to his chest, kissing the top of her head.
She peered up at him. His eyes were closed, and she ran her knuckles down the slope of his scruffy jaw. She was of two minds—ask questions or melt into a sleepy puddle beside him.
“Is your arm healed fully? Or did we hurt it?” Questions it was, then.
“It aches. But not enough to keep me from you.”
“Was that supposed to happen?”
“What?”
No delicate way to say, she supposed. “When you”—she waved to the other side of the bed—“made a mess over there.”
“Yes.” He rolled on his side and kissed her nose. “That is one of the ways to avoid conception.”
“Fascinating.” She resisted the urge to burrow into him and pushed to sitting.
He looked up at her from his recumbent position. She’d never looked down at him before. The man stood a good six inches taller than her at least, so she was always the one looking up. The downward view startled her. He seemed an entirely different man, vulnerable and childlike, full of hope and softness.
She pressed her eyes closed, but she could not press back the deluge of emotion that flowed through her, making her feel soft and vulnerable, easy to break, her heart close to fracturing. Fears, it seemed, were not so easily conquered.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and straightened her bodice, smoothed her skirts, pulled one stocking up. It fell, and she pulled it entirely off, and the other. She crumpled them up and shoved them in her pockets, feeling a bit crumpled herself. But in a delicious sort of way.
George’s large warm hand wrapped around her ribs. “Jane.”
“Go to sleep. We’ll talk later.” She stood, but before she could escape the room, he lifted gracefully from the bed and met her at the door. He cupped her jaw in his hands. He dipped, and she went up on tiptoe—she could not help it—and they kissed like the world belonged to them.
He broke the kiss first and leaned his forehead against hers as he caught his breath.
Love… makes this little room an everywhere.
Her heart grew too big for her chest. “Is that you, or—”
He grinned, his eyes closed. “Donne.”
She laughed and swatted his shoulder. “Out of here with your John Donne, my lord!”
“Out? This is my room, Lady Jane. Out withyou.” He turned her on the spot and pushed her toward the door.
She looked over her shoulder, and he captured her mouth in one last kiss. Her heart turned over for him, again and again. She had decided to be brave, and it felt terrifying.
But exactly right.
Chapter 19
