Page 53 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord
Somehow, his cock had ended up perfectly poised to take her, notched right at the place his fingers had only too recently vacated.
Distantly, he recalled that he was meant to do this slowly, gently—that there was sometimes pain for a woman, and that he could hurt her unintentionally if he was not careful. She squirmed beneath him as he pressed forward, and she took just the head of his cock, those silky inner muscles tightening around him like a fist. So hot, so wet. A shudder slid down his spine, and he groaned against the lush softness of her lips.
“Ben.” It was a breathy little whimper, accompanied by a wiggle that threatened to unman him.
“Be still.” He couldn’t risk hurting her. Couldn’t turn such pleasure into pain. Another inch, sinking inside her so slowly. God, he could feel every tiny flutter and pulse within her.
“Ben.” Her thighs squeezed him; her nails raked across his back. And then—she seized his arse in the clutch of both hands andpulledjust as she lifted her hips, and he slid home in one solid, smooth motion.
Probably he’d died from it. Certainly the air had wrenched itself from his lungs, and stars burst behind his closed lids. Something that might have been a groan eked from his mouth, and he fisted his hand in her dark hair and tried desperately not to think about how deep he was inside her, how perfect she felt around him, how very close to climax he was.
“I need you to move,” she said against the hot, damp surface of his cheek, sounding every bit as stunned as he felt—but nothurt. Not inpain.
“I’m not certain Icanmove,” he said, and his voice was as raggedas if he’d just run a dozen miles. “I think you might’ve killed me.”
She snickered with delight, and the devious little sound pulled him back into himself. Just a hair. Justenough. Enough to slide out, and in once again, touching the deepest part of her and provoking a low sigh of pleasure. Enough to bear the clutch of her thighs as he found a rhythm that made her lashes flutter and her breath stagger in her chest.
Enough to hold back his own climax until he felt her own come upon her, in helpless little tremors that shook her inside and out. Enough,somehow, to wrench himself away from those sweetly-clinging inner muscles when every bit of him wanted to stay there inside her, and instead to spill himself across the warm, silken flesh of her belly.
∞∞∞
The stars were spinning overhead; a riotous tumble that likely had more to do with the harried beat of her heart than any actual astrological anomaly. The cool air felt lovely upon the bits of Diana’s overheated skin that were not blanketed by the warm weight of Ben’s body, which he had yet to move from atop her.
For a moment, she let herself stroke the damp flesh of his back and turned her face into that place where his shoulder met his neck, where he smelled like sweat and heat and earth. “Probably we should go back to the cottage,” she said, though her voice had hardly risen above the rustle of the wind through the leaves.
Ben said, “Shh,” and nothing more. His chest pressed against hers with every ragged inhale, and she could feel the thunder of his heart against her ribs. He was heavier than she had expected; she hadn’t realized just how much of his weight he had supported upon one elbow until it had given out. It wasn’t unpleasant in the least—but she didn’t think she could move him herself, and he didn’t seem particularly disposed to move of his own accord.
A wiggle failed to prod him into motion. She said, “Hannah—”
“Woman, I saidshh.” The words came out a grumble into the tangled length of her hair, though he managed to bestir himself to shift perhaps half of his weight off of her. His right hand flailed toward the edge of the quilt, and he snatched it up and threw it over the both of them, cocooning them within. “Hannah sleeps like the dead, and she knows I batheat the pond late in the evening on occasion. She’ll shout if she wakes and requires something. She’s in no danger.” His hand tugged at her hip, pulling her toward him onto her side. “Nowshh. I want to hold you for a while.”
He did? “Why?”
His arm draped itself over her waist, and he tucked the edge of the quilt beneath her, sealing them within. His fingers stroked through her disheveled hair, snagging a bit on a tangle here and there. “Because, right now, Ican.”
Oh. Because soon enough—soon enough he never could again. And itwasnice, to share the heat of his body, wrapped in the quilt and his arms. She ought to enjoy it while it lasted, despite the sting of tears behind her eyes.
Probably her sigh had held a bit more of a tremor than she would have liked; a revealing sort of sound. His lips touched her forehead, soft, soothing. He asked, “Are you sorry?”
“No.” It wasn’t regret that caused that bittersweet pain in her chest—or at least, not the sort of regret that he meant to imply. More a regret that now that sheknew, she would know, too, what she was missing.
She would never look up at a star-filled sky, never feel the moonlight upon her face, without remembering this night. Perhaps there would come a time, eventually, when she could recall it without also feeling the pain of loss. But she thought it would take quite a long time—years, likely—to achieve it.
But still— “I don’t regret it. Iwon’tregret it.” Surreptitiously, she swiped at her eyes. “We would have had a good marriage, wouldn’t we?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I think we would have.”
“I never thought I would,” she said, the words coming out shredded, fragile little whisks of sound. “And do you know, if I had known before I came here where it would lead me…still, I would not have made different choices.” She pressed her palm to his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath it, committing it to memory. “Still, I would choose again to be here, now.” Even knowing what would come of it in the end. Even knowing that ithadto end.
“I wish it could be different,” he said, and that arm at her waist tightened, as if he might hold her into eternity from will alone.
“If it was—ifyouhad made different choices—then I could not have loved you,” she said. “I suppose there’s a sort of poetic tragedy in it. That I couldn’t have loved you had you been any less the man, thefather, you are. And it is because you are the man that you are that I can never have you.” Her fingertips sketched the shape of a heart there upon his chest; a tiny sliver of the love that she would leave with him. “I love her, too,” she said. “Iwould have loved to be her mother.”
“I know,” he said. “And I love you for that.” He kissed the top of her head. “And Hannah does, too. She’s young, yet,” he said, “but someday she will understand what you did for her. The sacrifices you made for her well-being.”
No more than he had, and that, she thought, was simply what one did for those one loved. She wasn’t going to regret it, that sacrifice—they had never really been hers, anyway. But it was nice to pretend they were, just for a little while. And she would hold tight to them, right up until the moment she had to let them go, and fit a lifetime’s worth of happiness into whatever time they had left. She managed to wedge one of her legs between his, plastered herself against his chest and tucked her head beneath his chin. “Do you think your bed is large enough for two?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But let’s do find out.”
