Page 115 of The Trouble with Tigers
She shifted, probably trying to accommodate herself to his size, but it was too much.
“Kitty,” he said in a strangled voice as his hips jerked and he thrust past the fragile membrane, sinking himself to the hilt. The sound of his ragged breath filled the air.
She felt so good. Too good. He held himself perfectly still, for his sake as much as hers.
A teardrop escaped the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek.
He kissed the salty track. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He wanted to tell her the pain would recede, that making love would improve with practice. But he was past the ability to speak.
“I’m all right. Are we…is it done?”
This time he did give a shuddering laugh, before pressing a kiss to her temple. “Not quite.”
He eased himself nearly out of her, then pressed back in, kissing her all the while.
Again and again he buried himself in her. Long, slow, delicious, tortuous thrusts. Time stopped. Only Kitty existed. Her sweet body, her mouth, her sighs, her heat. Her love.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. Then her hips arched up to meet his, matching his rhythm. Oh God. Torture. He fought the urge to thrust harder, faster, deeper. Fought it with everything in him.
A low keening sounded in her throat. It built, growing louder. Then her thighs tightened around him as her second release gripped her.
She choked out his name, and he was gone. His climax tore through him. He poured himself into her, gritting his teeth against the overwhelming ecstasy.
Afterwards he collapsed on top of her, utterly spent, and inwardly shaken by the power of the release she’d wrenched from him.
He didn’t know how much time passed before he moved again. Five minutes? Ten? “Kitty?”
At her muffled response, he cracked one heavy eyelid and saw his blankets practically engulfing her. With a world-weary sigh, he rolled to his side, taking her with him so she nestled in the curve of his body. He draped an arm over her and closed his eyes. They’d earned the right to rest. Just for a few moments.
It occurred to him his head no longer hurt. A satisfied smile spread over his face. The old wive’s tale was true. Sex really was a remedy for the headache.
***
Zeke came awake with a start. A bright beam of daylight seeping through a crack in his drapes told him it was morning. He was cold. He was lying on his stomach, atop seriously rumpled sheets instead of under them, and he was naked.
Last night’s events came back in a rush. He jerked upright and scanned his bedchamber for Kitty. She was gone.
He erupted from the bed and combed the floor for telltale signs. Hairpins. A petticoat.
He found nothing except his drawers. The lady had covered her tracks. Except…
He turned back to the bed and searched the bed covers. Dried blood marred the sheets. A brief memory of he and Kitty, tangled in the linens, of Kitty’s soft flesh, yielding to his insistent hardness, flashed before his eyes.
It shouldn’t have happened like that.
Despite the prick of guilt, the lower part of his anatomy came to full attention. He grinned. He wanted to see her. Now.
First the sheets. The injury he’d suffered could explain the blood, not that any of the servants would question him. But why court trouble?
He finished stripping the bed, and had them balled in his arms when two knocks sounded on the outer chamber door. He shoved the sheets in the bottom of his wardrobe, and pulled up the bed covers before throwing on his dressing gown and striding through the antechamber.
He found his brother in the corridor, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
“Caden. Since when have you ever waited for me to open my door?”
Caden craned his head to look past Zeke. “Since you acquired an adorable fiancé who had to be forcibly ejected from your bedchamber.” He crossed the threshold.
Zeke gave his brother an innocent look. “Kitty was here?”
