He shifted again, a small groan emanating from between his lips. But he did not wake.
She licked the spot on his shoulder where she had kissed him.
A part of his anatomy she had thoroughly explored earlier in the evening stirred to life. She wriggled against him, encouraging it further.
And yet he did not wake.
She bit the spot where she kissed and licked, a small bite, more of a nip.
His head turned, and she felt a jolt of victory lower south than her belly.
His eyes were heavy with sleep, his eyelids droopy. His sensual lips mouthed one word.
“Jane.” Her name carved a smile onto his face.
She felt hot and throbbing and ready for him, her solo exploration having transformed her into molten lava. An alchemical transformation.
His fingers stroked her, and she moaned and arched against his hand. His mouth claimed hers. His fingers parted and delved deep into her core. She clenched around him. With his thumb, he traced circles in her curls, wider, then narrowing until they reach the critical spot that ached for him. She did not know what to call it, but she liked it. She wanted him there. She wanted him in her.
“Now, George,” she whispered.
He rolled, pinning her with his body where his arm had been before, his staff at her entrance, pushing in. She hissed, and he moved slowly at first. But the slow strokes in and out did not last long as his body tensed, tightened around her, and he pushed harder, faster. His finger still working between their bodies.
And then she did what she seemed to always do when his hands were on her, his lips hot against her own—she broke into a thousand little pieces like a china cup shattering to the ground. There were sharp edges, but they did not bring pain. And when they formed themselves back together, she was not a solid form but a liquid shape, a puddle beneath a rigid George, tense, tight, and yelling her name above her.
He collapsed on top of her. And gathered her close.
She enjoyed every second of their coupling, but this… this was special, the moments afterward.
“Not that I'm complaining,” George mumbled close to her ear, “but why are you not sleeping?”
“Something woke me.” She yawned. “I thought perhaps I heard something, but it must have been my imagination. A dream. I do not sleep well in new places for the first time.”
He nuzzled her neck. “Go back to sleep. You should leave, but I've silenced the gentleman in me for the moment.”
“Excellent idea.”
He pulled her tighter. “Married in a month,” he mumbled.
She grinned as her eyes fluttered closed. Married in a month.
A scream rent the air.
George and Jane bolted upright.
George's arm stretched across her chest and pushed her back down to the bed. “Stay here.” His feet hit the floor in one fluid movement, and he dressed in trousers faster than Jane had seen anyone do anything in her entire life. He didn't even bother with a shirt, simply threw open the door and stormed into the hall.
She heard his footsteps running, his feet slapping fast against the hard floor.
More screaming, the sound of shattered glass.
Jane huddled in the bed, clutching the blankets to her chest, shaking. George had told her to stay, and she strongly wished to do so.
But what if she could help? She did not have to ask who the screamer was, or even, now, what the sound had been that had woken her from her slumber. George had told her enough about his uncle's experiences for her to recognize the signs. This must be the night terrors he had warned her of, the terrifying opium-induced delusions.
George had experience with these moments. Jane did not. She should stay put. She should. It was the right and wise thing to do.
But what if she could help? She’d kept Neville calm earlier, lulled him into sleep even. She could do so again, couldn’t she?
