It made her hungry in a way she’d never been before. She wanted to draw him closer; she wanted to devour him. She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down. “George,” she gasped, “I want—”

“What do you want?” he murmured, sliding a finger within her.

She nearly bucked off the bed. “I want—I want—I just want.”

“So do I,” he growled, and then he was opening her with his fingers, spreading her lips, and she felt him pressing at her entrance.

“I’m told it will hurt,” he said regretfully, “but not for long.”

She nodded, and she must have tensed up, because he once again crooned, “Relax.”

And somehow she did. Slowly he pushed inside. The pressure was stranger than it was great, and even when she felt a light stab of pain, that was overshadowed by her need to keep him close, then closer.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded again.

“Thank God,” he groaned, and he moved forward, entering her more deeply.

But she knew he was holding back.

He was gritting his teeth and holding hard, and she would swear he looked like he was in pain. But at the same time he was moaning her name as if she were a goddess, and the things he was doing to her—with his member and his fingers, with his lips and his words—were stoking a fire that consumed her.

“George,” she gasped, when the tightness within seemed to grab her from the inside out. “Please.”

His movements grew more frenzied, and she pushed back, the need to move against him too overwhelming to ignore. “Billie,” he groaned. “My God, what you do to me.”

And then, just when she was certain she could take no more, the strangest thing happened. She grew stiff, and she shook, and then the moment she realized could no longer so much as draw a breath, she shattered.

It was indescribable. It was perfect.

George’s movements grew more frenzied, and then he buried his face in the crook of her neck, muffling his hoarse cry against her skin as he plunged forward one last time within her.

“I’m home,” he said against her skin, and she realized it was the truth.

“I’m home, too.”

Chapter 24

When George went down to breakfast the following morning, he was not surprised to learn that Billie was still abed.

She had not, he thought with some satisfaction, had a restful evening.

They had made love three times, and already he could not help but wonder if his seed was taking root within her. It was odd, but he’d never given much thought to having children before. He’d known he must, of course. He would one day inherit Manston and Crake, and he had a sacred duty to provide the earldom with an heir.

But even with all that, he had never imagined his children. He had never pictured himself holding a child in his arms, watching him learn to read and write, or teaching him to ride and hunt.