Page 59 of My One and Only Duke
Gordie’s lovemaking had settled into an expeditious undertaking, but Jane had liked the cuddling afterward, the sense that for a few minutes, she and her spouse were in charity with each other and with the world. Gordie could be charming, and, in that brief postlude, affectionate.
An odd sympathy for her first husband plagued her: Had Gordie, who’d always been the initiator of marital intimacies, felt uncertain of Jane’s affection? Had he hoped for overtures from her, as Jane had waited for overtures from her current husband?
Quinn shifted to the middle of the bed. “Ye’d never beg.”
Jane scooted over against him and used his thigh to pillow her knee. “I might put demands to you.”
Quinn shifted to his side and resumed kissing her. For once, he was unhurried. Even his mind seemed to have slowed to focus solely on Jane and the present moment.
“You must promise me,” Quinn said, gliding his palm over Jane’s thigh, “that you’ll not overdo while I’m gone, Jane. Rome wasn’t toppled in a day.”
His hand was warm, his touch lovely.
“I wish you didn’t have to go.” To leave me.
“I’ll be back before Althea has finished her current novel.”
The next kisses trailed lower, over Jane’s shoulders and neck. Quinn Wentworth could conjure magic with his mouth, leaving a path of heat and languor.
Jane’s breasts were sensitive, and Quinn was careful, caressing rather than grabbing. Jane reciprocated by exploring his chest, tracing scars, finding a ticklish spot on his ribs. He caught her hand when she would have dared investigate lower.
“On your side, Jane.”
Lovemaking spoon-fashion had been an early addition to Jane’s wifely vocabulary. Several times she hadn’t even been fully awakened to accommodate a husband intent on an early morning tup. She complied with Quinn’s suggestion, though disgruntlement threaded through the moment.
She wanted to see Quinn’s face when they made love.
“Here.” Quinn passed her a pillow. “For your knee.”
How could he know she was more comfortable with something under her knee? The midwife had suggested a creative use of pillows, and the improvement in Jane’s rest had been significant.
“Thank you.”
Quinn draped himself around her from behind, a large, warm, solid presence. Jane could lean against him and truly relax as his hand drifted from her neck to her shoulders to her back to her derriere.
“I want to touch you too, Quinn.”
“Time for that later.”
He was tall enough to be able to both kiss Jane and insinuate a hand between her legs. She wasn’t on her back—Quinn was everywhere supporting her, and yet, she was frustrated too.
She could not touch him, other than to run a hand over his muscular flank or wrap her fingers around his wrist.
He took that frustration and used it to enflame her longing for him. He teased, he explored, he kissed, and caressed, until Jane was panting and writhing against his hand. She’d never been this bothered previously, this desperate.
She expected Quinn to slip himself inside her at any moment—now would do nicely—and ease the ache he’d built, to make love with her. His fingers were slick between her legs, almost penetrating, then dancing away.
He did something—the merest whisper of a touch—and lightning struck Jane from within.
“That’s it, then,” he murmured against her neck. “I have ye now.”
Lightning could strike twice, and three times, and as often as Quinn Wentworth chose to make it happen. He set up a rhythm that counterpointed Jane’s breathing and the undulations of her hips, until all of her focus centered on where Quinn touched her.
Pleasure ambushed Jane, a breathtaking gift cascading through her, a shock and a wonder.
Also a revelation. She lay panting against Quinn, his hand a comfort over her sex. Her heartbeat throbbed beneath that hand, while her mind was flung to the farthest, brightest corners of creation.
Quinn kissed her temple. “Will ye survive?” He was pleased with himself, the great beast.
