“Yes.” She panted and bucked, biting her lip and grasping handfuls of the bed linens.

Yes yes yes … Yes.

The last strand of her resistance snapped. She came so fiercely, the climax jolted her hips from the bed. He slid a second finger inside her, doubling the intensity of her peak. The pleasure went on and on, in wave after wave. The last tremors were still rippling through her as he withdrew his hand and positioned himself between her legs.

“I must have you,” he muttered, forcing her thighs wide and thrusting into her quivering core. “Now.”

She gasped at the fresh spear of pain mingling with the ebbing wave of pleasure.

He swore, rooting deeper. “Can’t stop.” Thrust. “Too good.”

With short digs of his hips, he pushed further and further into her. Her tender flesh ached and stretched. Just when she thought she couldn’t possibly take any more of him, he grasped her backside in both hands, angled her hips, and sank deeper still. Her neck arched as she struggled for breath. She was so full of him, she felt him everywhere.

At last fully seated, he rested atop her for a moment, panting against the curve of her neck. The joining hurt, but it also felt indescribably right. She was a woman. She was made for this. She loved the fact that she could take him inside her and hold him there, so tightly, that there was nowhere else on earth he’d rather be.

“You put me through hell for this,” he said, punishing her with a sharp nudge against her womb. “And I want you to know, it was worth every moment.”

She laughed, and the brief spasm made the pain even worse. But better, at the same time.

Kissing her quiet, he began to thrust again. Gently now. Her body had adjusted to his, and he moved easily, gliding in and out with smooth, powerful strokes. Within seconds, the act ceased hurting so much and began to feel warm, and quite pleasant indeed. She relaxed her thighs, spreading her legs to take him deeper. Reveling in the weight of his body atop hers, the firmness of his muscled shoulders and arms, the sleekness of his back. As his tempo increased, she ran her hands possessively over the hard angles and planes, even daring to cup the taut, flexing muscles of his buttocks.

He made a gruff sound, and she sensed a shift in him. Consideration was banished; raw need took its place. He rose up on his knees, lifting her hips from the bed in his strong, sculpted hands. The tendons in his neck stood out like ropes. Her breasts jounced wildly as he pistoned his hips, taking her hard and fast in ruthless pursuit of his own pleasure.

Now she understood why he’d insisted on watching her peak. Even with his eyes closed, even through the shadows of night … the look on his face told her he’d rather die than withdraw from her body right now. This was it. This was the very best part. Feeling so desired, so needed. More essential to him than air.

He made a rough noise, something between a growl and a moan. And then he collapsed atop her, shuddering and helpless in the throes of his release. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, smoothing the damp hair from his brow. He made a pillow of her breasts and sighed her name against her skin.

Maybe she’d spoken too soon. Perhaps this was the very best part. Holding him, in every way. Feeling as close as two people could possibly be.

It didn’t last long enough.

All too soon, he withdrew from her body. “Are you terribly hurt?”

“Not terribly. I’ll do.”

“Good.” He rolled over and slumped onto his back. “I failed miserably at that gentleness bit.”

“I noticed.” She eased the fabric of her shift back down over her body. “It’s all right.”

With one arm, he drew her close, tucking her body against his. She rested her head on his chest, enthralled by the forceful, distant thumping of his heart. It eventually slowed, as did his breaths.

“It will get better,” he mumbled sleepily. “You’ll see. It only hurts the once.” His grip on her arm went slack as he drifted into sleep. A gentle snore rumbled through his chest.

She clutched his waist, shivering despite the heat he radiated. Could he have any idea what she’d just surrendered to him? Not just her body, but her trust, her heart, her future. She would love him soon, if she didn’t already. From this moment forward he possessed the ability to make her indescribably happy, and the power to devastate her completely. He’d revealed to her flashes of true emotion and vulnerability tonight, but then-tonight he’d been at an extreme of frustrated lust. What would the morning bring? She could only cling to a thin cord of optimism and hope that his … desire, or regard, or whatever he felt for her … hadn’t been exorcised with the force of his climax.

You’ll see. It only hurts the once.

She prayed it was the truth.

Chapter Fourteen

Amelia awoke with the first rays of dawn, desperate with need—for the chamber pot.

That urgent matter resolved, she tiptoed to the wash-stand and quietly washed her face, rinsed her mouth, and brushed out her hair. The knowledge that Spencer lay abed nearby excited her, no matter that he was asleep and oblivious. The mere fact of being in a handsome, virile man’s bedchamber—and of being that handsome, virile man’s lover—gave her a quiet thrill. As she brushed her hair, she imagined he was awake and watching her intently, growing aroused at the undulation of her unbound breasts beneath her shift, and the silhouette of her thighs through the sheer muslin.

After finishing her toilette, she turned to find him still asleep. However, as she watched, he made a low moan and turned over onto his back. At least the arousal part of her fantasy had been true. The bed linens tangling about his hips outlined an impressive ridge. Just looking at him, recalling the force of his passion last night, her own sex heated and grew damp.

But she didn’t want to wake him, not yet. Not while she had his whole suite to herself, and the opportunity to explore.

Explore she did. Oh, she did not snoop. That would have been low, and demeaning to them both. She didn’t open a single drawer or cupboard. But what lay open to her for observation, she absorbed—thoroughly, and with a certain greed.

She looked at all the paintings on the walls and she imagined she could tell which ones had been hanging there for generations and which ones Spencer had brought in himself. It was plain to see why he appreciated her embroidered vignette. He favored landscapes-wild, rugged ones in particular. Seascapes, mountain ranges, forests, and vast plains.

Adjacent to the bedchamber, he had a small room like a study, with a desk he clearly never used. She supposed the library downstairs was his center of business. But there was one side of the room it seemed the maids were forbidden to touch. A generous leather armchair lounged near the hearth, and a low table supported a haphazard pile of sporting newspapers, ledgers, cards, and books. Several books.

My, but the man had a great many books.

There were six chambers in all, and in every room there were books. Even the dressing room had a niche of built-in shelves that were likely intended for hats but had been overtaken by books. And none of the volumes were in any order whatsoever. Not that she could discern, at any rate.

Amelia skipped her fingers over the leather bindings. Several titles were familiar to her, but three times as many were not. Still, she felt among friends. She never would have classified herself a scholar or a bluestocking; she was simply a great reader. A lover of books. And she found ample evidence to suggest that Spencer shared her affection. She found novels, plays, philosophy, several agricultural tomes, the stray scientific treatise, and volume after volume of poetry. Cracks and creases on the spines proved that most of the books had been read, at least once, and the wide variation of subject matter suggested their collector to be in possession of not only a keen mind, but an open one.

If she’d been aroused earlier, she was desperate for him now. She smiled, wondering what he would say if he knew this worn, jumbled collection of books was such a powerful aphrodisiac.

She moved noiselessly to the bedchamber and perched on the mattress edge, careful not to disturb his sleep.

The soft, early morning light was kind to him. He was always handsome, in any lighting, but dawn had a way of illuminating his features evenly without casting those harsh, judgmental shadows on his deep-set eyes and slashing cheekbones. He looked so youthful. The way his eyelashes rested against his cheek—long and thick, as only undeserving men’s eyelashes grew—gave the throbbing pulse of desire a sharp, sweet edge. How had she ever thought this would feel less intimate in the morning?

Dark stubble covered his jaw and throat. She extended an open hand, flexing her fingers backward as she lowered her palm toward his face, until the sharp bristles just pricked her sensitive skin.

When he’d turned over, he’d flopped one arm across his belly. The tight ripple of his biceps, the thick cords of sinew on his forearm … so many lines drew her gaze downward. With a feather-light touch, she traced a prominent vein on his wrist. He stirred, mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, then lay still again.

A narrow escape, but she couldn’t resist tempting fate once more. His body was so intriguing, so different, so male. Shameless, she drew a single fingertip downward, tracing his hard length through the sheets.

“Wha—”

His hand latched over her wrist. He bolted upright with a start, flipping her back and pinning her to the mattress. Confusion and alarm warred in his eyes as he blinked down at her.

“It’s me,” she gasped, breathless and dizzy from the sudden inversion. “Only me. Amelia.”

Oh, please, she prayed. Please let him still want me.

Recognition softened his face. “Amelia.”

The way he breathed her name, with such an intoxicating blend of reverence and lust, she wondered why she would ever wish him to call her anything else. No endearment could be uttered with greater tenderness, or to more potent effect. His voice reached places deep inside her, plucked a string connecting her heart to her womb.

“Yes,” she whispered, sweeping back the hair that had fallen over his eyes. “Your wife.”

They stared into one another’s eyes, both breathing hard. Her nipples drew tight beneath her shift, and anticipation coursed through her veins. Releasing his grip on her wrist, he rolled his weight between her legs, spreading her thighs wide. In gentle hands, he cradled her face as his hips pressed home against hers. Pleasure streaked through her, even as she winced.

“Hell,” he muttered, pulling back. “You’re tender. It’s too soon.”

She was wondering how best to convince him otherwise—words or deeds?—when a low rumbling sound demanded her attention. At first she thought it her stomach, or his. They’d both gone to bed hungry in more ways than one. But it grew progressively louder, until it became clear that the noise originated from without their chamber. From without the house, perhaps.

He noted her distraction. “A carriage in the drive,” he explained. “Most likely a delivery I’m expecting.”

“Something to do with the horses, I suppose?”

In reply, he merely tweaked her ear and rolled to a sitting position. Well, she guessed she was lucky to have held his attention this long.

“Do you really have to go meet it?” she asked, running a fingertip down his bare back.

“No. I don’t really have to. But I think I should.”

Before she could protest, he rose from the bed. Nude, he walked across the room and disappeared into his dressing area. Well. Now she was completely at a loss for words.

“Amelia?” he called from the other room.

She nodded stupidly, then realized he couldn’t hear her. “Yes, what?”

“Leave. Go into your suite and shut the door.”

Dismayed, she sat up in bed.

His head and shoulders poked through the doorframe. “Go. Or I’ll come ravage you like a barbarian again, and I’d rather hoped to accomplish the act with a bit more finesse the next time.”