And that was when she realized . . . he wouldn’t stop until she reached her peak. He just wouldn’t. He would stroke on. And on. And on for hours, if she needed it. Plowing his hardness into her over and over again, just as many times as it took to reduce her to quaking, shuddering bliss.

This man would not be denied.

“I have you.” His whispered words were hoarse. “I have you now.”

He covered her hands with his, pinning them to the bed. And she let go. Her arms went limp and her hips thrashed beneath his. Little sobs began to escape her as each thrust drove home.

Through it all, she stared into his eyes, unable to look away. Those dark eyes were her anchor.

“Come. For the love of God. Come, Pauline.”

Hearing her name from his lips . . . it undid her. Because it let her know this was for her. All this heroic, erotic effort was for her.

Her crisis broke, rocking her with waves of keenest pleasure. The climax went on and on—battering her, body and soul, with fierce, unparalleled joy.

He slid back on his haunches and took her by the waist, lifting her body with those powerful arms.

“Griff . . .” she whispered, hoping she wouldn’t need to say more.

“I know.” He grimaced with pleasure. With a growl and a desperate jerk of his hips, he withdrew and spent himself somewhere in all those folds of sheets and petticoats.

Afterward, he collapsed beside her on the bed, perspiring and working for breath. They lay that way for several minutes, staring wordlessly up at the bed’s canopy and struggling for air.

What now? she wondered. Perhaps now that his desire was slaked, he would feel regret. Perhaps whatever emotions he’d imagined he had for her were obliterated by the force of his climax.

The longer they lay there, side by side but not embracing, the more anxious she became.

She’d known this couldn’t last beyond the week. But was it already over?

Finally, with a soft groan, he put an arm about her. “Come here.” He rolled her close and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of her head.

She couldn’t help it. She wept with relief.

He pulled her tight, tucking her head to his chest and guarding her with his body. He didn’t try to stop her weeping, didn’t chide her for nonsensical tears. He just allowed her to have her feelings, and he held her all the while. As though he understood that all other men had failed her in this one simple way, and he was determined to make it right.

After some time, she laid her head on his chest. “I’d only been with one other man before you. Errol Bright, the shopkeeper’s oldest son. He said he loved me. He said a lot of things, and made a great many promises he never saw through.” Her face pinched in embarrassment. “I’m just telling you this because I don’t want you to think I’m expecting more. I don’t want promises from you, Griff. But I hope you understand that I don’t do this often, or with just any man. Even if it’s only this once, it means something to me.”

Her head rose and fell as he took a slow, deep breath. His hand found hers and clasped it. “Pauline? Please believe I say this in all sincerity. I am honored.”

Her breath rushed out in a relieved sigh. She didn’t know what she’d been hoping to hear—but what he’d said was even better. There was a ring of newness in those words: I am honored. Somehow, she doubted he’d spoken them to a woman before. Not in bed, at least.

She turned in his embrace, skimming a possessive touch over his chest. He groaned in encouragement. She loved that she could be free to touch him now, explore him everywhere.

Her fingers found the red, not-quite-healed slash on his biceps, and she traced it. “Are you in pain?”

“No, not . . . not there.”

His words had the deep resonance of a confession. She treasured those two syllables of raw honesty.

“Is it this?” she asked, touching the small bruise on his cheek from where she’d punched him yesterday.

“No.”

“Somewhere else, then.” She dropped her hand to his bare chest, covering his thudding heart. “Somewhere deep inside. You’re hurting.”

He nodded. “Like the devil.”

Her curiosity was intense, but she resisted the urge to press him for explanations or details. He’d trusted her with this much. Perhaps he would trust her with more, in time.

“Can I kiss it better?” She gave him a playful smile.

“I don’t think so.” He thoughtfully brushed a lock of hair from her face. The glint in his eyes went from wounded to wicked. “But I could be persuaded to lie very still while you exhaust yourself in the attempt.”

Chapter Nineteen

In another hour’s time they’d exhausted each other.

Griff stroked her hair, forcing himself to relax and surrender to the simple pleasure of being kissed. Her lips touched his chest, his shoulders, his neck, his belly. She was as thorough as she was sweet, covering every inch of him with tender brushes of her lips. She didn’t manage to heal all his deepest, darkest wounds with her attentions—but she made his mind go blank, which was almost as good.

And when her tongue traced a path from his navel downward, he reached a breaking point.

“I need you again.” He took her by the waist and lifted her above him, trapping his hard, aching cock at the apex of her cleft. “Take it in your hand. Guide me in.”

If she felt any trepidation at his bold request, she didn’t show it.

A rosy flush bloomed over her chest as she reached between them. She held him in place as he moved her slowly down, lowering her heat to envelop his full length.

She fit him like a well-made glove, hugging him tight as he guided her up and down, teaching her how to ride him.

Clever girl that she was, she caught the spirit and rhythm of it soon enough. Her palms braced flat against his chest, pinning him to the bed. Her thighs flexed as she dragged herself up and down. Those pert, delicious breasts bounced and swayed. If he’d ever beheld a more erotic view, he couldn’t recall it.

“Simms.”

She moaned, lost in pleasure.

“Simms,” he said again.

Her eyes opened, drowsy and heavy-lidded as she looked down at him.

“How long has it been since you last made love?”

She bit her lip. “Twenty minutes?”

“Right. Same for me. Give or take thirty seconds.”

Laughing, she braced her hands on his chest. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the first time was shockingly good.” He guided her up and down again. “But this . . . this is extraordinary. Even better. I’m trying to understand. It can’t merely be the long drought, can it?”

“Do you always talk this much while making love?”

He shook his head. “No. That’s different, too. Everything is different with you.”

Tighter, sleeker, hotter, wetter, sweeter. Not dreamlike or perfect, just more real. And so damn good, he feared hurting them both in that mad, frantic race to the end.

He struggled to a sitting position. It wasn’t enough to watch. He wanted to feel her breasts’ softness and heat caressing his bare chest. Cushioning the mad beat of his heart.

He wanted to kiss her as he made love to her.

He brought her close, guiding her legs over his hips and locking her ankles at the small of his back.

With one arm wrapped tight about her waist, he guided her in a brisk rhythm. He worked the other hand between them and pressed his thumb to her pearl, working the nub in small, tight circles until she seized and shuddered in his arms.

And he didn’t stop. There would be no laziness with her, no half measures. This woman was going to get his best. He kept up the same attentions, kissing her neck and murmuring words of praise against her ear until she reached another, more devastating peak.

“Oh,” she whimpered in the aftermath, clinging to his neck. “Oh, Griff. Oh, God.”

Her words made him feel like a god. Or at least a demigod. A pagan, rutting, immortal being of pleasure.

He would have tried to bring her to a third crisis, but the clasping heat of her sex had pulled him too close to the edge. He lifted her off his cock, and she reached between them to encircle his erection with her small, delicate hand.

“Like this,” he said, demonstrating.

She followed his lead. “This?”

“Ah. Yes.”

Her grip was gentle, but strong. Her thumb rubbed perfectly along the sensitive underside of his shaft, and with each tug, his crown grazed the silky slope of her belly. He threw his head back in surrender, clutching at the twisted sheets. Within moments she had him gasping, growling—and spilling over her fingers in hot, forceful jets.

She smiled, looking very pleased with herself.

He was pleased with her, too. So damned pleased, there seemed no room for any other emotion in his heart. In his life.

And it couldn’t last. It couldn’t last.

God, he didn’t know how he’d ever let her go.

So he kissed her instead, wrapping his arms about her torso to haul her close. Using their closeness to conceal his weakness.

After lazy, lovely minutes of deep, languid kissing, she sighed against his lips. “I should leave.”

“No.” He gripped her tight. “No, no, no. Not yet.”

“I can’t risk falling asleep. You know I must go to my room. We can’t be found here together. The servants . . .”

He shook his head. “The servants are servants. Who cares what they think?”

She pulled back and blinked at him.

He winced. “I beg you. Pretend I didn’t say that. Or at least pretend you didn’t hear it.”

“Never mind.” Moving off his lap, she reached for her discarded chemise. After untangling the shift, she slipped it over her head and pushed her arms through the cap sleeves. “I don’t want to quarrel.”

“Well, that’s a new development.” He tugged at his ear.

“I just don’t want to waste what we have.”

“What is it we have?”

She held his gaze. “A few days,” she said quietly. “And a few more nights together. That’s assuming we’re not discovered tonight.”

He would have liked to argue the point, but in the end he couldn’t. “I’ll see you back to your bedchamber.”

“No, stay. Rest.” She pushed him back against the bed with a hand to his shoulder and a firm kiss to his brow. “I won’t get lost in the corridors this time.”

She gathered her discarded gown and stockings into a bundle, then made her way toward the side door—the one that opened onto his dressing room.

“Are these rooms all connected?” she asked. “If I slip from one to the next, I won’t have to travel so much of the corridor. I’ll be much less likely to be seen.”

He nodded, suddenly drowsy. She’d sapped him of everything. “Yes, they’re connected.”

She plucked a candlestick from the night table, then headed through the dressing room.

He lay back, listening. He heard her opening the door that led from the dressing room to his personal sitting room. From there, she could slip out into the corridor or cross into—

Oh, Christ.

“Wait.” He launched from the bed, stumbling into his trousers in pursuit. As he dashed through the dressing room, he snagged a fresh shirt from a hook. “Wait, Pauline. Don’t—”

Too late.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, standing in the center of the room.

The room.

“I’m sorry. I truly didn’t mean to invade your . . .” She swallowed hard. “ . . . your privacy.”

He rubbed his neck with one hand. No getting around it now. He’d have to face this at last. He was seized by the terrible lightness of inevitability. The sense of just having jumped off a cliff.