Because of Miss Bridgerton

He laughed aloud – although more quietly than she’d done – at that. “Merely planning for the future, when volume is not an issue.”

“George, there are servants!”

“Who work for me.”

“George!”

“When we are married,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers, “we shall make as much or as little noise as we wish.”

Billie felt her face go crimson.

He dropped a teasing kiss on her cheek. “Did I make you blush?”

“You know you did,” she grumbled.

He looked down at her with a cocky smile. “I probably shouldn’t take quite so much pride in that.”

“But you do.”

He brought her hand to his lips. “I do.”

She lifted her gaze to his face, finding that despite the urgency in her body, she was content to take a moment just to look at him. She caressed his cheek, tickling her fingertips with the light growth of his beard. She traced his eyebrow, marveling at how such a straight, firm line could arch so imperiously when he wished. And she touched his lips, which were so improbably soft. How many times had she watched his mouth when he was speaking, never knowing that those lips could bring such pleasure?

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice a husky smile.

Her lashes swept up as her eyes met his, and it was only when she spoke that she knew the answer. “Memorizing you.”

George’s breath caught, and then he was kissing her again, the levity of the moment giving way once again to desire. His mouth moved to her neck, teasing along the side, trailing fire in its wake. She felt herself descending, lying back against the bed, and then suddenly he was on top of her, skin to heated skin. Her nightgown slid past her legs, and then it was off completely. She was nude beneath him, without a stitch, and yet somehow it didn’t feel awkward. This was George, and she trusted him.

This was George, and she loved him.

She felt his hands move to the fastening of his breeches, and then he swore under his breath as he was forced to roll off her in order to (in his words), “get the bloody things off.” She couldn’t help but chuckle at his profanity; he seemed to be having a much rougher time of it than she imagined was usual.

“You’re laughing?” he asked, his brows rising into a daring arch.

“You should be glad I was already out of my gown,” she told him. “Thirty-six cloth-covered buttons down the back.”

He gave her a fearsome look. “It would not have survived.”

As Billie laughed, one of George’s buttons finally went flying, and his clothing fell to the floor.

Billie’s jaw dropped.

George’s smile was almost feral as he climbed back onto the bed, and she had a feeling he was taking her amazement as a compliment.

Which she supposed it was. With a healthy dose of alarm.

“George,” she said cautiously, “I know that this will work, because, goodness, it has worked for centuries, but I have to say, this does not look comfortable.” She swallowed. “For me.”

He kissed the corner of his mouth. “Trust me.”

“I do,” she assured him. “I just don’t trust that.” She thought of what she had seen in the stables over the years. None of the mares ever seemed to be having a good time.

He laughed as his body slid over hers. “Trust me,” he said again. “We just need to be sure you’re ready.”

Billie was not sure what that meant, but she was having a difficult time even thinking about it because he was doing very distracting things with his fingers. “You’ve done this before,” she said.

“A few times,” he murmured, “but this is different.”

She looked at him, letting her eyes ask her question.

“It just is,” he said. He kissed her again as his hand squeezed its way up the length of her thigh. “You’re so strong,” he said softly. “I love that about you.”

Billie took a shaky breath. His hand was at the top of her leg now, spanning the whole width of it, and his thumb was very near to her center.

“Trust me,” he whispered.

“You keep saying that.”

His forehead rested against hers, and she had a feeling he was trying not to laugh. “I keep meaning it.” He kissed his way back down her neck. “Relax.”

Billie wasn’t sure how that was possible, but then, just before he took her nipple in his mouth again, he said, “Stop thinking,” and that was an order she had no trouble following.

It was the same as before. When he teased her this way she lost her mind. Her body took over, and she forgot whatever it was she’d thought she feared. Her legs parted, and he settled between them, and then oh God, he was touching her. He was touching her and it felt so wicked and so divine, and it just made her want more.

It made her hungry in a way she’d never been before. She wanted to draw him closer; she wanted to devour him. She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down. “George,” she gasped, “I want —”

“What do you want?” he murmured, sliding a finger within her.

She nearly bucked off the bed. “I want – I want – I just want.”

“So do I,” he growled, and then he was opening her with his fingers, spreading her lips, and she felt him pressing at her entrance.