A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(60)

The second thought that weighed against allowing Sherbourne his rest was the growing realization of how alone he was, and how much responsibility he carried.

Finding a set of widow’s weeds for a ruined laundress or scraping together a few pounds for coach fare had been significant accomplishments in Charlotte’s eyes. Sherbourne sought to employ scores of people, to provide sustenance for many families, and this was only one of his ventures.

He deserved a respite from his obligations. He deserved one place where business could not intrude and where his satisfaction mattered.

“You make a lovely quilt,” Charlotte said. “All warm and friendly.”

Sherbourne nuzzled her ear, which tickled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been accused of friendliness.”

The texture of his chest hairs against Charlotte’s bare skin was peculiar, his beard slightly abrasive. Blunt warmth nudged against her thigh.

“Should I be doing something?”

Sherbourne rested his forehead against her shoulder. “You and I are alike in this regard. We worry less when we’re busy. You should be enjoying yourself.”

Difficult to do, when uncertainty and arousal were evenly matched. “I liked it when you…” Charlotte could not say the words. She was naked in bed with her husband, and she could not say the words.

“Show me.”

She took his hand and closed his fingers around her nipple. Not too hard, but not too lightly either.

“As it happens,” Sherbourne said, “we both enjoy that. Let’s try something.”

In the next moment, he had her atop him, which meant Charlotte was more or less sitting on a particularly tumid part of his anatomy, and her abundant glories were on display.

And Sherbourne was admiring them. He smoothed his hands over her breasts, filling his palms, and curling up to press his face between them, rough beard and all.

Charlotte wrapped a hand around his head, his hair warm and damp where it had been against the pillow, cool where it grazed her breasts.

“Shall I use my mouth?” Sherbourne asked. “Did you like that too?”

“This is not an interview, Mr. Sherbourne.”

He laughed and hugged her, the sensation of bare skin tightly pressed to bare skin a lovely shock.

“You are modest and passionate,” he said. “An inconvenient combination for you, I’m sure. What if I bumble along as best I can, and you let me know if I’ve chosen the wrong direction?”

Charlotte put his hand back on her breast. “That will suit.”

His bumbling was an entrancing progression of kisses, caresses, and suggestions. Charlotte was to touch him too, apparently, for he used her third finger to draw light circles around his nipple, and when she added a slight pinch and a scrape of her fingernail, he arched into her touch.

All the while, his arousal was evident against her sex, a hot, hard, intimate promise all its own.

Charlotte cast about for how to form a question, but “Shall we get on with it, Mr. Sherbourne?” struck her as ridiculous. “When do we…?” wasn’t much better, but she hoped it was soon.

Very soon.

“You make me ache,” Sherbourne said, flexing his hips. “You make me ache and rejoice.”

He rearranged himself so Charlotte lay on her back beneath him as he slid that part of himself against her sex.

His slow caress sent need clamoring through her. “Again, please.”

A silent conversation took place, between his body and hers. He teased, he dared, he hesitated, and Charlotte moaned against his neck. All else fell away as Sherbourne shifted the angle of his hips and positioned himself to join with her.

The act was strange, physical, and unrelentingly intimate. Sherbourne eased his way into her body, and the yearning that had swamped Charlotte tangled up with tenderness for the man in her arms.

“Don’t be so careful,” she murmured. “Be passionate with me.”

He brushed her hair back from her forehead. “You’re managing?”

How odd, to trade words when nothing separated them. “I want to worship you with my body too, Lucas.”

He hitched closer, and pleasure welled from where they were joined. “Move with me, Charlotte.”

How could they move when—? Oh. Oh. He set a tempo like war drums, slow, resonate, full of leashed power and unwavering focus. Charlotte matched him, scooting down to lock her ankles at the small of his back. Her touch wandered everywhere, the span of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the slightly warm, raised bruise along his hip.

As close as they were, she wanted to be closer, to be inside him the way he was inside her. Desire became a madness, obliterating all else—fears, worries, dignity, even dreams fell beneath Sherbourne’s passion—until Charlotte lost her very self in pleasure.

Her awareness clung to one reality: Sherbourne was with her. With her in pleasure, and with her in the panting, thunderstruck aftermath, as she curled beneath him, and his heartbeat reverberated with her own.

Puzzle pieces fell into place: This was what lay behind a thousand glances passed between Charlotte’s cousins and their spouses.

This closeness was where families began, where every marriage was both the same and unique.

This was what a ruined woman sacrificed her future for. Not the bodily sensations, amazing though they were, but the tenderness and cherishing, the oneness.