He was beyond words then, his breath harsh and erratic, and he withdrew, pressing her legs together and thrusting between her thighs with a hoarse shout. She felt his spend, hot and flooding, and she squeezed her legs tight as if to keep him there.
He groaned, shuddering, and pressed his face into her back. He let her hips fall, his full weight coming down on top of her for a moment. She relished it—his body covering hers. Then he rolled to his back and pulled her facedown atop him, and she found she liked that as well.
For long minutes, they did nothing but breathe. Her skirts had mostly fallen back down, but Henry’s hand had made its way underneath. He traced a pattern on the bare skin of her hip.
“What are you writing?” she asked. Her hand, where it rested on his upper arm, had a line of mud across the back.
“Hmm?” His finger stopped, then started again. “Your name, I think.”
And whynowwould she feel trepidation? A small fragile leap in her chest at his words.
“I should be sorry,” he said a few minutes later. “Your hair is full of leaves. I can scarcely see the freckles beneath all the mud on your face.”
“Henry, I—”
“I’m not sorry.” He laughed, a deep vibration in his chest beneath her cheek. “That was the best thing that’s ever happened in my life.”
She lifted her head to look at him. She didn’t know what she wanted from him now, but she wanted it desperately. Her heart was in her throat, hope and fear and—
“Ever?” she asked.
He smiled lazily at her, black lashes heavy over his dark eyes. His fingers dug into her arse. “Oh, to be sure. But I’m willing to try harder, darling, if you have advice. Another four or five minutes and I’ll be at your service.”
She laughed into his shirt. “What a peacock you are! I would never have guessed.”
He hummed, a low amused rumble of assent, and then threaded his hand into her hair. One by one, he plucked out the damp leaves and laid them beside her. “Do you have advice, then? I’m listening.”
He was so good at listening, so patient and diligent and earnest. And more, she was learning, much more than she’d known, more playful and relentless and demanding. So many facets of him, newly brought into the light and shimmering in it.
“I’d thought—” she began, and then hesitated.
He tipped his head up. “Yes? Tell me, Margo. I want to know.”
“I’d thought to take the lead, you know. Next time.” She made herself say the words. “If you want there to be a next time.”
He dropped his head back into the dirt and squeezed his eyes closed. For a long terrible moment her heart plummeted. She bit down hard on her lower lip.
“More than I want air,” he said.
She took a quick gasping breath.
“There’s nothing I want more on this Earth, Margo. Except—except I—
A clear cool voice cut off whatever Henry was about to say. A voice as familiar to Margo as her own.
“Margo?”
She toppled off Henry and landed in the pile of leaves he’d collected from her hair. She yanked at her bodice, hurtled to her feet, and stared into the flabbergasted face of her twin.
Chapter 11
“Margo?” her sister said again. “How are youhere?”
Margo attempted to answer, but her bodice threatened to flap open. Henry at her side managed his falls in record time. Curse women’s fashions! She had five minuscule hooks to fasten, and she was fairly certain Henry had broken at least one of them.
“Matilda!” she said brightly. “Fancy meeting you here in Derbyshire! What a coincidence.”
Two hooks—two hooks remained of the original five. She briefly considered murdering Henry. This was her only dress!
