Did he have no idea how she was affected? That she was consumed with the basest of desires? That she ached for him, too? That she suffered guilt for putting him in this dire situation?

“You take nothing from me. I did this to you, put you in this state—”

“Stop saying that. I volunteered. I knew the risks.” He lifted his head from the bed, the tendons of his neck stretched taut.

She could not take another moment of this. Seeing him in such torment, hearing him blame himself? She wanted only to end it. She wanted him to understand she was here of her free will. That she touched him with her free will.

She released his manhood and draped herself over him, stretching for his lips, determined to convince him this was no miserable chore for her. He needn’t feel guilt on that score. If anyone should feel guilt, it should be her. She shouldn’t enjoy this so much.

Her lips pressed clumsily on his without art or skill, but he did not leave it at that. He buried a hand in her hair, his fingers spearing through the thick mass, unraveling the loose plait she’d arranged for bed.

He tugged her closer and she obliged, clambering over him, her nightgown pooling over his naked form. She straddled him with her knees on either side of his hips.

It was shockingly freeing and delicious—the sensation of his big naked body under hers. Heat washed through her. She felt wonderfully afire, her breasts and womanhood aching for pressure.

One of his hands remained in her hair as he continued to kiss her, his tongue slipping inside her mouth. She opened her mouth wider so that their tongues could dance and tangle and rub sinuously.

“Nora,” he moaned into her mouth. “My cock . . .”

She felt the rock-hard evidence of him, jutting through the layers of her nightgown and robe into her.

He moved under her, rocking, seeking his release.

He reached it at last.

Shuddering, he cried out, spilling himself as his hands dropped, clenching her hips, gathering fistfuls of the fabric in his fists. She felt the wetness on her nightgown as he stilled, his mouth open against hers, silent on a gasping cry.

She gasped, too, relieved he had reached his end—that it was over.

She was glad and relieved for him, but aching for herself. Bereft and empty. Unsatisfied. The fires he had stoked still burned within her.

She supposed that was her burden to bear.

She slid off him, releasing a pained breath. “Are you . . . improved?” She winced. Awkwardness was inevitable. There was no stopping it. How could they go back to the polite formality of before?

He tossed an arm over his brow with a gratified sigh. “I am . . . spent.”

“No more . . . pain?”

“No.”