Page 80 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
The words rang in her ears as she exploded, a wild conflagration of light and white-hot pleasure so intense that she screamed.
With a groan, he drove in to the hilt and spilled himself inside her. And as his body quivered in time with hers, he caught her gaze and added one last time, “Mine.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Oliver lay with Maria in his arms, staring blindly up at the ceiling as panic rose in his chest. Had he really just proposed marriage to a respectable woman? And ruined her, most deliberately, to gain her acceptance of his proposal? How had that happened?
One minute he’d been gazing at her asleep and swearing to leave her alone, and the next he’d been making love to her with a desperation he’d never known. It had been the most profound experience of his life.
That petrified him.
Nor did he understand it. He’d bedded many women, but it had never been like that. Was it her? Shewasdifferent from the others, and not just because of her virginity. It was how she approached things—so practical . . . so fascinated. She’d been naughty and innocent, sweet and deliciously wanton. He never knew which to expect, and the element of surprise had taken him off guard.
For God’s sake, he’d even told her about that dreadful night at the hunting lodge! Had he lost his mind? He’d come so dangerously close to revealing all. God only knew what she’d think of him if he told her the rest. She would certainly never again believe that he could be “saved.”
He would do whatever he must to prevent her disillusionment. He’d become addicted to her soft, tender sympathy, and it terrified him to think of that sympathy turning into disgust. Deuce take it, he was in over his head.
But it didn’t matter. He’d ruined her, and marriage was the only way to fix that.
“Oliver?” she whispered.
He stared down at her delicate features, flushed from their exertions, and felt the same swell of possessiveness that had made him claim her with all the subtlety of an ox.Mine . . . mine . . . mine.The words still rang in his ears.
Definitely in over his head. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“Is lovemaking always like that? So all-consuming?”
In typical Maria fashion, she’d put her finger on it. All-consuming: that was what had made it different. He’d never bedded a woman without part of him standing back, aloof and unengaged.
He thought about lying but couldn’t, not with her gazing into his face, vulnerability plain on her features. “No, not always. Not for me, anyway.”
“So it was special for you, too?”
It was that and more. It worried him how much more. “It was amazing, angel.”
“You don’t have to exaggerate, you know. I-I under-stand.” She looked away.
Cupping her chin in his hand, he turned her face up to his. “What is it you think you understand?”
She bit her lower lip uncertainly. “Well, you’ve had so many women . . .”
“I’ve never had a night like that withanywoman.”
Her expression brightened. “Really?”
“Really.” He dropped a kiss onto her nose. He loved her pert little nose, with its dusting of freckles over impossibly alabaster skin. And her peach-tinged lips. He loved how kissable—
For a man who doesn’t believe in love, you certainly throw the word around a lot.
He tensed. It meant nothing. It was a figure of speech, that’s all.
“This was certainly a fitting end to Valentine’s Day.” She slanted him a glance. “Tell me, was it really just chance that you drew my name at the ball?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Celia told me on the way home that she thought it was Fate.”
He arched one eyebrow. “Only if Fate’s helper is the Duke of Foxmoor. He rigged the drawing for me.”
