Perhaps he was right—thiswaslike heaven . . . and she was falling . . . falling so far, so fast that she couldn’t catch her breath . . . couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but hold on to him and let the rushing wind take her down . . . down into—
“I’ll catch . . . you,” he whispered as he pounded her harder and deeper with each successive thrust. “Trust me, sweetheart. Just . . . let . . . go.”
So she did. She gave herself up to the glory that was Grey inside her, and she let him tug her down with him into insanity. It wasmarvelous. And as she reached her release again, her body shook and quivered like an earthquake in the soul.
Only Grey could make her quake. Judging from the cry he gave as he drove deep into her and then strained against her, she was the only one who madehimquake, too.
“My fallen angel,” he breathed as he spilled himself inside her, then slumped atop her. “I’ve got you now.”
He certainly had.
And when that dawned on her, to her horror, she began to cry.
Chapter Twenty
Concern gripped Grey. Had he hurt her?
He still shook from the power of his release—beyond anything he’d ever known—and it was all he could do to drag himself out of his pleasure to take care of her.
“Beatrice . . .” he murmured. “What’s wrong?”
She seemed to fight to catch her breath. “I didn’t expect it to be so . . . so . . .”
“Uncomfortable?” he prodded.
She shook her head no. “So wonderful!” she wailed.
It took him a moment to realize what she was saying. Then with relief, he rolled off her and stifled a chuckle. Propping his head up with his hand, he lay on his side to stare at her. “Sorry, sweetheart. I was afraid I’d bungled things.”
He left the bed to dig his handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, then crawled back next to her and handed it over.
She took it gratefully, blotting her eyes and blowing her nose. “Inevercry, you know,” she said, her sniffling belying the claim. “Not over anything, not since Papa died. This issoembarrassing.”
“Not for me.” He frowned. “Though it’s rather sobering to make a woman cry in bed. Perhaps Ishouldbe embarrassed. Or . . . something.”
“You think this is funny,” she accused him.
“No.” He knew better than to admit that. He took the handkerchief from her and wiped away a tear she’d missed. “I’m merely humbled that the experience affected you so deeply. That’s not the usual reaction.”
She turned on her side to face him. “Whatisthe usual reaction?”
Holy hell. He probably shouldn’t have alluded to other women.
When he said nothing, trying to figure out how to answer, she added, “You’ve had more than ‘a few’ women in your bed, haven’t you?”
He sighed. “Do you really want to know?”
Her lovely throat trembled. “I suppose not.”
Turning onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling with an unreadable gaze.
Could she be comparing herself to those other women? Because that was absurd. Next to them, she was a goddess. Even now, he couldn’t get enough of her body. Golden skin, golden-brown hair above and below, a pouty belly that made him want to lick and caress and fondle. Her body was perfect, no matter what she thought.
He’d never been one for big breasts; he preferred a big bottom, which she had. Not to mention her big wit and her big character and her big soul. Those were what he liked the most about her.
Certainly her attributes went beyond those of the carefully coiffed society ladies he knew. He liked that she was utterly natural, with her freckles and tanned skin and hair that didn’t conform to rules.
Hercharacterthat didn’t conform to rules. Becausehenever conformed to rules unless they made sense. It was always his choice. That’s what he loved about her. She refused to be bullied into following the rules.
