Page 123 of Lessons for Marquesses
“Extraordinary. And not unusual except that it is a part of you and thus beautiful.”
“It is? I look like a woman?”
“You look like a woman.”
His finger drew down, sliding through the heart of her. The breath shook at her chest. She came off the pillows, claiming him with a kiss, skimming down the dark trail at his abdomen, testing the feel of him. Silky, hard strength.
He laid her back, trailing his mouth down her jaw, suckling the lines of her throat. He dropped a kiss between her collar bones, in the hollow that pulsed with her heartbeat. She clasped his waist, afraid she might be thrown. His naked torso, rough, muscled, so, so different, rose with hers.
His mouth was a brand, marking her with each kiss, and if she had to, she could find the path he made years from now. Down the left side with his hand light at her shoulder. She would remember how his skin held the lingering, intoxicating scent of summer rain.
His thumb grazed her breast. His palm played. His lips followed until she raked her fingers into his scalp. Until she was writhing and he started on the next. He suckled and circled, sending an urgent fire down to her sex, until she squirmed, until she was desperate.
His hand was between her thighs, pressing his fingers between her curls, parting her and caressing the hard bud against his fingertips. The tremor in her legs turned to shaking. She shuddered beneath him, gripping his shoulders. He bracketed her hips and thrust them up to meet his mouth.
She didn’t recognize the voice, but she felt it leave her body, followed by a frantic groan. Something built within her,something formidable and shockingly vivid, blinding in its power. It raced beneath her skin. It reached her soul where it snatched at her life like the wildest stake and vaulted her into the abyss. And then freed her, allowing her to soar.
Higher.
Higher still.
She grappled at his shoulders and clenched her thighs, quaking at the sensations. Where was her breath? The golden eyes of a wolf watched her, hunger warring within him.
“That was unimaginable,” she gasped.
Propped on his elbows, he kissed her. “You, my love, are unimaginable.”
She had a taste, and it was on his tongue.
Years from now, she could describe how his skin shed its fire over hers, how she arched up to meet his mouth. How he stalked the lines of her body, grazed the pale, tight skin at her neck, and came over her to kiss it.
He shook a groan away, seating himself between her thighs and held himself there. To be a part of his soul was what she wanted. She wanted to see all of him and love all of him. She wanted him to know what it felt like to be loved and?—
One thrust. She clawed into his back on the next. It was much, much more than she had imagined. On the third, he ripped like a fire through and filled her. And it was sweet and beautiful as much as it was shocking.
He dipped to kiss her with his length stretching her unmercifully. “Sweet George, how I love you,” he whispered at her brow, where behind it she would never be the same again, where innocence had vanished.
The cushion’s downy softness cradled her as he moved over her in steady, gradual strokes. With each thrust, her flesh accustomed to what had happened, what was. It was in the angleof his cheeks and the sweep of his eyes over her and the growing warmth fanning out from where he filled her.
She gazed down, saw the love their bodies made. Her shoulders under his shoulders. The square jaw she kissed. Hips joined. Legs entwined. Souls merging, sharing secrets. She charted the lines of his ribs, how they slipped under his skin, how his arms flexed in the soft light.
The pleasure gained momentum. Fiery and fuller, different than his mouth on her. Their tongues collided with sweet, plunging searches. His thrusts were deep, barely leaving her just to venture farther into her. A tremor started in her legs. She flanked him with her thighs, rocking her hips, matching his unhurried rhythm.
His hand grasped at her hip. With every thrust, farther in, deeper, she gasped, her breath gone and then returning as he drew back and drove harder, holding himself until she clenched about him. And again and again. And then faster as he engulfed her yielding cries with his lips. He drove further until she was climbing outside herself, bursting on the waves of rapture.
A groan tore from his lips as he braced his head at her shoulder. Sounds that she returned. There was nothing left but for him to follow. He pulsed within her, emptying himself, and she knew, that was nature. And the rest, was the sensation of her life just beginning, the glory of knowing him and the joy—yes, joy—that was overwhelming, cherished, and long-awaited.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The recriminations seizedNicholas before he opened his eyes. It was morning and he had loved Georgiana three times. Her love was passionate, a love that shook his heart to a depth of feeling he had never known. A love, he knew, that was impossible without her. In him was the sense of living only because she had come into his life.
There was also the looming probability that Georgiana would leave his life.
She had already left the bed where he had drifted into sleep without the dreams of war, with the comfort of her pressed along his length, her hand circling possessively around him, tucked between his back and the cool bed linen.
If he could always be Mr. Wolf to her, if by divine intervention, she might never know who he had been—because he was that man no longer—would he withhold the truth? Now that he had loved her, shared his dreams with her of their life, their children, between their lovemaking?
He had revealed his memories of his brother: Edmund’s wit, his love of a good prank, and his fine face which he took with himin miniature through the war. He had confessed his ghosts and the death of René Durand.
