James crammed an extra pillow beneath his head, turning restlessly as he strove to find a comfortable position. Sleep was maddeningly elusive. Each time he closed his eyes he saw only Jilly’s green eyes, dreamy and dazed with passion. He had touched only her shoulder, her cheek, her chin—and even the memory of that was enough to induce a near-instantaneous erection.
He groaned, turning onto his back to alleviate the pressure, slinging one arm over his head in abject misery. He could have stopped at any one of myriad gaming hells on his way home, paid one of the doves employed there to accompany him to a private room and, and taken his ease of her. There were no fewer than three wealthy widows in town for the Season that had suggested that he would be welcome to call of an evening for such entertainments.
He didn’t want them. He wanted Jilly, and her silky-soft skin, and her innocent eyes. Dear lord, he could still smell her, that enchanting vanilla and almonds scent she wore, warmed by the heat of her skin, reminiscent of a tray of sugar biscuits fresh from the oven. If he could not exorcise that arousing fragrance from his memory, afternoon teas would soon become perilous indeed.
It had not helped that she had lingered nearby for the remainder of the evening. Not at his side, for that would have been wholly inappropriate, but close enough that he leant her protection by his very proximity, though it had not been necessary.
There had been a couple of occasions where he had been certain that she had darted a surreptitious glance at the front of his breeches, her gaze almost speculative—and he knew that she had asked Lady Ravenhurst. Only the very knowledge that she had been looking had elicited a predictable reaction, and he had had to take his leave rather abruptly, or else embarrass himself before the entirety of the Ton.
Damn it all—there was no help for it. Without some sort of relief, he was going to have a long, painful night. Even the sheets brushing against his aroused flesh were agony. He cast them off in an aggravated motion, took himself in hand, and dropped his head back against the pillows, struggling to imagine Jilly’s soft palm curled around him rather than his own large hand.
He closed his eyes, pictured her as he wanted her. Naked, in his bed, those wayward curls loose and streaming around her. No—not naked, not yet. He wanted her hair pinned, her lush body neatly encased in a decadent gown. He wanted to plunge his fingers into her hair and shake loose her pins himself, free those shimmering locks until she was delightfully disheveled. He wanted to take an hour slowly stripping her of the trappings of the lady she was, spend long minutes unlacing her gown, slide the sleeves down her arms. She would look at him over her shoulder as she’d done tonight, sweet, needing—
His cock pulsed; he tightened his fist and staved off the climax. He needed it to last, to satisfy the craving for her that had grown unbearable. He needed it to purge these wicked fantasies from his brain, to clear his mind to concentrate on his true goal.
He would lay her down on his bed, explore the silky contours of her body with his fingertips until she moaned for him. Shape her perfect breasts in his hands, tease her nipples to taut peaks, and lave them with his tongue. She would slide her slender fingers into his hair, clutch him to her breasts where that sweet, sugar biscuit scent would be strongest.
She would sigh her bliss in his ear, tremble beneath his fingers as he slid his hand low over her belly, through the soft thatch of hair between her thighs, into the damp heat of her core. She would be so soft, slick and tight, her hips arching to the rhythm of his fingers inside her. When he felt those first exquisite tremors deep within her, he would slip between her pale thighs into the cradle of her hips, cup her bottom in his hands, and drive himself deep—
He gasped, shuddering as he spent himself, the release staggering in its intensity. But even as the mind-numbing pleasure wracked him, he knew a mere fantasy would never be enough to satisfy him. If anything, it had only whetted his appetite for her, astonished him with the depth of his desire. If a fantasy could take him to such agonizing heights, bedding her in truth might very well be the death of him.