Georgie arched up into his touch, and he took pity on her and cupped her breasts. She moaned. His hands molded to the contours of her skin like water, a perfect fit. He leaned over and paused with his mouth suspended over her, one taut peak inches from his mouth. At the last moment he made a detour and traced the soft underside curve of her breast with his tongue instead.

“I surrender!” Georgie panted. “You win. Stop teasing.”

His chuckle vibrated against her skin. She caught his hair and pulled him up to her breast, and he captured one nipple in his mouth. She let out a ragged sigh.

“I suspect you like this too,” he whispered, and his hand slid down her stomach and over the springy hair below. He stroked between her legs, found the telltale slippery wetness, and groaned. “I want to be inside you.”

“Yes!” Georgie gasped. “Now.”

“Now,” he echoed hoarsely.

He lowered himself over her, and she felt his hand at her inner thigh, guiding himself to her. He took her mouth at the same moment he slid into her, one sure, deep thrust, and he caught her soft moan of pleasure on his tongue. It was a shock, a revelation, a miraculous filling and stretching. He stilled, fully inside her, and looked deep into her eyes. Georgie felt the connection right down to her soul.

He was buried deep, hard and hot. And then he started to move, and she arched her back and caught the rhythm. Soon, she was trembling, lost in that dark, wicked place where there were no words, only sensations. He increased the pace, deeper, harder, until she was straining for more, gasping his name. She hovered on the peak of agony for what seemed like forever, and then she hurtled over the edge, and it was like Guy Fawkes and his gunpowder again—only this was her own personal detonation. Blistering. Earth-shattering. All-consuming.

He let out a soul-deep groan, and his entire body went rigid over hers. Instead of pulling out of her, she felt him pulsing deep within her in his own blissful release. He collapsed onto her chest, then rolled them both to the side and lay breathing hard, great gusts of his chest, as her own heart hammered and pleasure liquefied her limbs.

“Say it again,” she panted. “What you said at Woolwich.”

He stroked her hair away from her temple. “What? That I love you? Yes.” He pressed a kiss to the end of her nose. “My love. My life. Stay with me. Always.”

“Always,” she breathed.

Chapter 44.

She awoke in his arms, with the light of morning hardening on the wall, and sat up in a flurry of sheets. The clock on the mantel showed almost eight o’clock.