Because of Miss Bridgerton

“You should.”

His fingers tightened against her skin. “I won’t be able to stop.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He drew back, his breath coming in shaky gasps as he put a few inches between their faces. His hands were at her cheeks, holding her absolutely still, and his eyes burned into hers.

“You will marry me,” he commanded.

She nodded, her only thought to give her agreement as fast as she could.

“Say it,” he said savagely. “Say the words.”

“I will,” she whispered. “I will marry you. I promise.”

For about a second he stood frozen, and then before Billie could even think to whisper his name, he’d picked her up and practically thrown her onto the bed.

“You are mine,” he growled.

She edged up onto her elbows and stared up at him as he stalked closer, his hands first tugging his shirt from his breeches and then moving to pull it over his head entirely. Her breath caught as his body was revealed. He was beautiful, as odd as that seemed to say about a man. Beautiful, and perfectly made. She knew he did not spend his days thatching roofs and plowing fields, but he must do some sort of regular physical activity because there was no softness to his form. He was lean and defined, and as the candlelight danced across his skin, she could see the muscles flex beneath.

She scooted up into a sitting position and reached out, her fingers itching to touch him, to see if his skin was as smooth and hot as it looked, but he was just beyond her grasp, watching her with hungry eyes.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. He stepped closer, but before she could touch him he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “When I saw you tonight I think my heart stopped beating.”

“And is it now?” she whispered.

He took her hand and laid it over his heart. She could feel it pounding beneath his skin, almost hear it reverberating through her own body. He was so strong, and so solid, and so wonderfully male.

“Do you know what I wanted to do?” he murmured.

She shook her head, too entranced by the low heat of his voice to make a noise of her own.

“I wanted to turn you around and push you right back through the door before anyone else saw you. I didn’t want to share you.” He traced her lips with his finger. “I still don’t.”

Heat flared within her, and she suddenly felt more daring, more womanly. “I don’t want to share you, either.”

He smiled slowly, and his fingers trailed down the length of her neck, across the delicate hollow of her collarbone, resting only when he reached the ribbon that tightened the neckline of her nightgown. Without ever taking his eyes from hers, he gave one of the strands a tug, sliding it slowly from the knot, its corresponding loop getting smaller and smaller until it finally popped through, and she was undone.

Billie watched his fingers, mesmerized, as they whispered across her skin, the edge of the now loosened bodice catching between his thumb and forefinger. The silk slipped from her shoulder, then slowly slid down her arm. She was so close to being revealed to him, but she could feel no modesty, summon no fear. All she had was passion, and the unrelenting need to follow it through.

She looked up, and so did he, almost as if they’d planned it. He caught her eyes with a questioning gaze, and she nodded, knowing exactly what he was asking. He drew a breath, its ragged sound speaking of desire, and then he nudged her nightdress over the rise of her breasts before allowing gravity to do the rest. The pale peach silk pooled luxuriously around her waist, but Billie didn’t notice. George was staring at her with a reverence that took her breath away.

With a trembling hand, he reached out and cupped her breast, her nipple grazing lightly against his palm. Sensation shot through her, and she gasped, wondering how such a touch could make her abdomen clench. She felt hungry, but not for food, and the secret place between her legs tightened with what she could only assume was desire.

Was this how it was supposed to feel? As if she were incomplete without him?

She watched his hand as he caressed her. It was so big, so powerful, and so thrillingly male against her pale skin. He moved slowly, a stark contrast to the feverish kissing of just a few minutes earlier. He made her feel like a priceless work of art, and he was studying every curve.

She caught her bottom lip beneath her teeth, a little moan of pleasure slipping through her lips as his hand drew slowly away, teasing her skin until their only connection was his fingertips at her nipple.

“You like that,” he said.

She nodded.

Their eyes met. “You’ll like this even better,” he growled, and then, as she gasped in surprise, he leaned down and took her into his mouth. His tongue rolled across her, and she felt herself tighten into a hard little bud – the sort she normally only felt in the chill of winter.

But she was the farthest thing from cold.

His touch was electric. Her entire body tightened, arching until she had to plant her hands on the bed behind her just to keep from falling over.

“George!” she practically squealed, and once again he shushed her.

“You never learn, do you?” he murmured against her skin.

“You’re the one who’s making me scream.”

“That wasn’t a scream,” he said with a cocky smile.

She eyed him with alarm. “I didn’t mean it as a dare.”