His cock felt hard as steel, and at last he could wait no longer. He caught her hands, pulling her into a seated position. He sat back, wrapping her legs around his waist as he shifted her over his cock. They were face to face now, as intimate as they could be. Her gaze held his as she took him inside, inch by wet, tight inch.

He could barely contain himself as he rocked her closer, fitting himself to the hilt in her still fluttering body. She massaged him, the perfect wet wrapping for his cock. And as she tilted her head and kissed him, licking her own juices from his lips and tongue, he cupped her backside and began to grind her over him in slow, circular thrusts.

Immediately he was on the edge. That was what she did to him. Excited him to a lack of control, tempted him like a green boy with his first woman.

She clung to him, grinding down in time to his thrusts, moving with him like waves on the ocean as they built together to climax. He felt it coming, saw it in the strain on her face, the squeeze of her body around him. He kissed her as it exploded, sucking her tongue as she moaned into his mouth and rode harder, faster, her sheath squeezing him and milking him to his own release.

He tightened his arms around her as he came, pushing up into her, as pleasure arced through his entire body, releasing all the strain and worry from his being as he claimed her.

And as they collapsed back together on his bed, he found a tiny bit of peace.

Thomasina lay on her side, gently tracing patterns on her husband’s bare chest. Jasper had fallen asleep almost immediately after they made love. His face was now relaxed in slumber, his body no longer the coiled mass of tension and worry. She had given him that gift, she knew it.

She was proud of it.

And he deserved to rest after what he’d said to her father. He’d been a champion for Anne and for all who had been left behind by her foolish decisions. And when Jasper looked at her across the room, Thomasina knew without a doubt he’d done it for her.

She pushed to her feet and found the tangled mess of her dress. With a shake of her head, she tossed it back on the floor and instead caught up his shirt. She tugged it over her head and fastened a few buttons, loving how the scent of him clung to the fabric, sinking into her skin like his body heat.

She moved across his room, looking at all the little items that made this place his home. A few miniatures of his family, Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe, and a candle worn down to the nub.

She moved to his dressing table. There were a few bottles along the top, tonics and waters. She touched the tops gently, wondering what he did with them all as he sat here preparing himself for the day. There were two small drawers in the table, and she tugged one open absently. A comb and a brush were within, with fine onyx handles.