She almost asked what the it was, but his mouth closed over the swollen sensitive bud, and she cried out from the pure bliss of it. She tightened her hold on his fingers as the sensations built with each suck, each swirl, each kiss. Everything within her called to him, to what he was offering. He was between her thighs, but it was as though he’d somehow managed to encompass all of her. No part of her was unaware of his touch.

Every nerve ending was shooting sparks. And when she might have fought to contain it, she followed his advice and gave herself over to it, to the passion, the stirring, the sin. The wickedness of allowing this man to whom she was not married perform such an intimate service. To know the very heart of her womanhood and to take possession of it as though it belonged to him, as though it were his to do with as he pleased.

But of course it was. She’d granted him permission. She’d won the wager, named her prize. How was she to have known that in the end the price would be to give herself completely over to him?

Yet she knew no regrets. Knew naught but pleasure, as it spiraled unmercifully through her until she did forget her name, until she forgot everything, was aware of nothing other than the ecstasy that overtook her until it alone remained, filling her, spilling out of her, conquering her until it was everything and she was crying out in elation as though she’d ascended into heaven.

And then she burst into tears.

Chapter 8

It was as though everything had come to a head. The years of longing for passion—discovering it was more profound and exquisite than anything she’d ever imagined. The sorrow over losing Lushing—in spite of what he’d not given her, he’d gifted her with other things. The burden of seeing that her sisters were well situated when she hadn’t the means to assure it without the dukedom behind her. The weight of striving to ensure that her brother’s title and estate did not fall over the precipice into total ruin. Her own disappointment of not having a babe to cradle in her arms. The fear that the fault rested with her and not Lushing, that all this was an exercise in futility.

And her deception, her horrid deception, that if this man got her with child, she’d never tell him that he had a son—or daughter—because it was imperative the entire world believe the boy or girl was Lushing’s. Otherwise the child was as doomed as she was.

“Shh, shh. It’s all right, sweetheart,” Aiden Trewlove crooned as he gathered her into his arms.

Don’t be kind to me, she wanted to scream. I don’t deserve it.