What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(81)

“I love you,” he said, leaning forward to place one kiss on the hollow over her collarbone.

“I love you,” he said again, moving up to the elegant line of her neck.

“I love you.” And this time he whispered it, hot at her ear as he let go of the straps and allowed her last garment to fall from her body.

Her arms came to cover herself, and he kissed her once, lightly, on the lips as his fingers moved to the fastening of his breeches. He was aching for her, hot and heavy with need, and he had no idea how he got his boots off so fast, but before he could even take another breath, he’d lifted her into his arms and was carrying her over to the divan.

“You should have a proper bed,” he murmured, “with proper sheets and proper pillows…”

But she just shook her head, clasping her fingers behind his neck to pull him down for a kiss. “I don’t want to be proper right now,” she said, whispering the words into his ear. “I only want you.”

It had been inevitable. He’d known that for some time now, since the moment she’d slyly asked him if he planned to propose. But even so, something seemed to tip at that moment, sending him over the edge of restraint, transforming this from a seduction to sheer madness.

He set her down on her back and immediately covered her body with his. The touch was electric. They were skin to skin, pressed up against each other with breathtaking intimacy. And he wanted so much just to bury himself inside her, to have her, to know her, but he could not allow himself to rush. He did not know if he could bring her to completion; he’d never made love to a virgin before, and he had no idea if it was even possible. But by God, he would make this good for her. When they were through, she would know that she had been worshipped.

She would know that she was loved.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, kissing her on the lips before moving to her throat.

He heard her breath, raspy, excited, and perhaps a little confused. “What do you mean?”

He cupped her breast with his hand. “Do you like this?”

He heard the swift intake of her breath.

“Do you?” he asked softly, trailing his lips down to the base of her neck.

She nodded, quick frantic movements. “Yes.”

“Tell me what you like,” he said again, and his mouth found the tip of her breast. He blew a little air on it, then circled the edge with his tongue before finally capturing her with his lips.

“I like that,” she gasped.

So do I, he thought, and he moved to the other side, telling himself it was for balance. But really it was for him, and for her, and because he couldn’t bear to leave one inch of her untouched.

She arched beneath him, pressing up against his mouth, and he slid one of his hands down, wrapping around her bottom. He squeezed, then moved, his fingers finding the soft skin of her inner thigh. And when he squeezed again, his fingers were close, so close to the very center of her, so close that he could feel her heat.

His mouth moved back to hers just as his fingers found her, stroked her, entered her.

“Harry!” she cried out, surprised, but not, he thought, upset.

“Tell me what you like,” he said again.

“That,” she managed to get out. “But I don’t…”

He moved deeper, in and out, her wetness making him burn with need for her. “You don’t what?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He smiled. “You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know what I don’t know,” she practically snapped.

He bit back a laugh, and his fingers stilled for a moment.

“Don’t stop!” she cried.

And so he didn’t. He didn’t stop when she moaned his name, and he didn’t stop when she grabbed his shoulders so hard he was sure he’d be bruised. And he absolutely did not stop when she convulsed around him, so fast and so hard that she nearly pushed him out of her.

A gentleman might have stopped then. She had climaxed, and she was still a virgin, and he was probably a beast for wanting to make love to her fully, but he simply couldn’t…not.

She was his.

But not, he was coming to realize, quite as much as he was hers.

Before she came down from her climax, before she could collapse from the power of it, he pulled his fingers out and positioned himself at her opening. “I love you,” he said, his voice husky and hoarse with emotion. “I have to tell you. I need you to know. Right now I need you to know.”

He pushed forward then, expecting resistance. But she was so excited, so well loved, that he slid inside with ease. He shuddered at the pleasure of it, of the exquisite joining of their bodies. It was as if he’d never done this before—his desire took over and he lost all control. And then, in what would have been shameful speed had he not just pleasured her, he cried out and stiffened, and then, finally, collapsed.





Chapter Twenty-one




Olivia left first.

She wasn’t sure how long they had lain there on the divan, trying to regain their sanity, and then, once they were able to breathe normally, it had taken some time to right their appearances. Harry couldn’t get his tie folded with the same crisp precision as his valet had done, and Olivia had found that one handkerchief was not up to the task of…