A month later, as the coach rolled into London, Portia fought to keep her apprehension hidden. Long, slow, deep breaths had been the order of the journey. As well as a mantra commanding herself to relax. It was highly unlikely that she would cross paths with Montie, that he would discover she’d returned. And if he did, it was possible that he wouldn’t care after all these months. He’d no doubt forgotten all about her, moved on to someone else.

He’d never been one to do without and he liked nothing more than a woman’s company. In order not to forgo pleasure, he’d have replaced Portia quickly enough. She was rather certain of that fact, as she no longer had any delusions regarding what she’d meant to him: nothing particularly special. In truth, Locksley made her feel more treasured than Montie ever had.

“Where did you live?”

At the unexpected question disturbing the quiet, she jerked her attention to her husband, who sat across from her. They’d spoken very little during the journey, which had suited her, as she’d used her time to mentally prepare for what awaited her here in the city. “Pardon?”

“When you were in London where did you live?”

“I never said I lived in London.”

“But you traveled from London.”

She’d forgotten how guarded she’d been with him when they first met, weighing every word, fearful she’d give too much away. It felt wrong now to revert to old habits. “Yes. But I didn’t live in London proper. I resided in a house on the outskirts. The lease ran out just before I moved to Havisham.”

“Would you like us to drive by it?”

“I have no desire to revisit old memories.” To risk being spotted by anyone who might know or recognize her.

“Did you keep nothing from the residence?”

“Not a thing.” Nothing had been hers to keep. “It’s all in the past, Locksley, which is where I prefer for it to remain. Naught is to be gained hashing over the situation or my silliness in taking a husband who would not see to my welfare in case of his death.”

He sighed, glanced out the window. “After all this time, Portia, it seems you should call me Locke.”

“It would imply an intimacy we do not share.”

His gaze came to bear on her. “I put a child in your belly. A couple doesn’t get much more intimate than that.”

She folded her hands over that belly, which was rounding. The new physician who had moved to the village speculated, based on her size, that twins were a possibility. “We might be physically intimate but we are not emotionally so. I think we can both agree to that.”

Calling him Locke would make her feel closer to him, and she was striving to protect her heart.

“People will find it odd,” he said.

“When have you ever cared what people think?”

He grinned. “Is that something you read in your gossip sheets?”

She smiled at him. “I’m fairly certain I did. Will we see many people?”

“I suspect so. Once word gets round that we’re in town, we’re certain to receive all manner of invitations. People will be anxious to meet my wife.”

They would be. Everyone had a perverse curiosity regarding the Hellions, and the fact that Locksley hadn’t been to London in a good long while made people all the more inquisitive about him. “They’re certain to ask how we met. What will we say?”

“That my father arranged the introduction and I couldn’t resist marrying you.”

She laughed. “Clever. Not quite a lie.”

“Not a lie at all. You tempted me the moment I opened the door.”

He’d enticed her as well. As London shops passed by the window, she considered that she really should have gone after the mail coach. She wouldn’t be back in London if she had. Marsden never would have brought her here. She’d have remained safe at Havisham.

“And how could I resist the charms of your set-downs?” he asked.

How quickly the months had passed since that day. Had she known then how much she would come to care for him she’d have never married him. While her stomach tightened each time she thought of being in London, she wanted to make him proud, glad to have her at his side. Even as she prayed that being in the city wouldn’t provide the opportunity for him to discover the facts surrounding her, to come to despise her with every fiber of his being.

Learning the truth would destroy him and the fragile bond between them. It would devastate her as well because she’d done the unthinkable. She’d come to love him.

As the coach pulled through the gates and onto the drive that circled in front of a large residence, Portia realized she’d walked past the manor when she’d first come to London. She’d taken a tour of the nicer areas because she’d expected to be living in one of them shortly after her arrival in the city. What a silly young girl she’d been then. And how odd that her hopes had come to pass, just not in the manner or during the time in which she’d expected.

The lawn was beautifully manicured; colorful flowers edged the pebbled drive lined by towering elms. The manor itself was tall and wide, lacking the turrets and spires that characterized Havisham.

“It looks well maintained,” she said.

“More so than Havisham. I don’t usually open all the rooms when I’m here but they’ve not been left to fall into disrepair. You’ll find the staff is small, only enough servants to see after the most minimal needs whether I’m away or here. You may, of course, hire additional staff.”

“We’ll make do with a small staff.”

“Portia—”

She gave him a pointed look, cutting him off. “A small staff suits just fine. I don’t see the need to open everything up if we’re not going to be entertaining.”

“We might.”

Her stomach felt as though it had tumbled to the ground, but it was only the coach swaying to a stop. “What sort of entertaining?”

“We’ll decide later, but for the babe’s sake, we need to ensure you are accepted by all of London.”

Her world could not seem to stop spinning. “It seems a bit soon to be worrying about what we must do for the babe’s sake.” The irony of her words didn’t escape her, as it was something she worried about constantly, ever since she’d realized she was with child.

“It’s never too early to put one’s best foot forward.”

He was correct, of course. She pushed the overwhelming thoughts bombarding her aside. She’d won over his friends. What were a few hundred more?

The door opened and a footman she didn’t recognize offered his hand to her while saying to Locksley, “Welcome home, my lord.”

He handed her down. Locksley disembarked, extended his arm toward her. She closed her fingers around his sturdiness, grateful for it, knowing she’d be relying on it in the days and nights ahead. Oh, she should have given more thought to the fact that marriage to a younger man would mean returning to London and being part of Society.

“At some point you’ll be introduced to the queen,” he said casually.

She halted, her stomach roiling as it hadn’t in weeks now. “Why?”

He studied her as though she’d sprouted wings and was on the verge of taking flight. “Because you’re a viscountess.”

“I’m a commoner.”

“By birth, but by marriage you are now a lady. My lady.”

For how long? For how long would she be his lady if everything unraveled? She had married him because of the protection he would provide. He didn’t have to offer it himself. She merely needed to use the threat of him to ensure no harm befell her. He was correct. She was a lady now. She couldn’t be treated as though she was worthy of nothing. And if she were to make a favorable impression on the queen—well, that sort of alliance could serve her very well indeed. With a perfunctory nod, she said, “I shall need a new gown.”

He grinned, the wide satisfied one that he always bestowed upon her whenever he thought he’d won his way, the one that made her sometimes willing to relent simply to see it appear. “Replace the blue while you’re at it.”

It was a frivolity, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to object when she considered the pleasure it would bring him. Such a simply request really. There were times when she was astounded that she could please him so easily.

He led her up the steps and through a doorway where another footman stood holding the door open. Walking into this residence was nothing at all like walking into Havisham. It smelled of roses and lilies, as an assortment was arranged in various vases throughout the grand entryway. On either side were rooms, doors open, draperies drawn aside so sunlight could spill through the clear windows. She doubted she’d find a single cobweb or spider in the place. Farther down, wide stairs swept up to the next level.

A stately man approached and bowed his head. “Welcome home, my lord.”

Locksley placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “Lady Locksley, allow me to introduce Burns.”

“It’s a pleasure,” she said.

“The pleasure is all ours, my lady. I’ve assembled the staff.”

As she made her way along the line of servants, each greeted her with a curtsy or a bow and a reverent welcome. No one here was going to challenge her if she wanted the keys.

Just as she finished meeting the last servant—the scullery maid—the footmen walked in, carrying their trunks. Cullie followed them, her eyes growing wide as she took in her surroundings. After Portia introduced her to Burns, who ordered another servant to show Cullie to the bedchambers so she could unpack her Ladyship’s trunk, Locksley took Portia on a tour of the residence.

The rooms not in use were shrouded in white but they didn’t carry the scent of disuse or musty dust. With very little effort, merely the yanking away of sheets, the rooms would be ready for guests.

When they reached the library, she wasn’t at all surprised to find the furniture uncovered, fresh flowers on a credenza by the window, and books filling shelves. Nor was she astonished when her husband separated himself from her and strode over to a table housing an assortment of crystal decanters.

While he poured himself some scotch, she wandered over to a window that looked out onto a gorgeous garden. “Do you think the gardener would let me take some cuttings back to Havisham?”

“The gardener will let you do anything you desire.” Locksley pressed a shoulder to the window casing, glanced out, took a swallow of his scotch. “What do you think of the place?”

“It’s not too shabby.”

He chuckled low, his eyes glittering when they met hers. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover you’d scouted it out before you responded to my father’s advertisement.”

It would have been the wise thing to do, but she hadn’t cared about any London holdings. She’d been concerned only with moving away from the city as quickly and secretly as possible. Still, his suspicions caused a heaviness to settle in her chest. After all this time, why did he still think she was after the wealth, the power, the prestige? Would he ever see her character as it truly was? Although with her past it was nothing to brag about.

“To be quite honest, I was under the impression your father never came to London, so I assumed there was no residence.”

He lifted his glass so the sun could shine through it. “Quite right. He hasn’t been to London since my mother died.”

“Is this your residence then?”

“No, it’s his. I’ll inherit it, of course, but since he never came here, there was never an edict that nothing be touched.”

She glanced toward the mantel. “The clock isn’t ticking but the hour doesn’t match the one at Havisham.”

“My father didn’t stop them. I did. They drove me mad the first night I stayed here.”

“So you stopped it”—she narrowed her eyes, focusing on the hands—“at two fifteen. In the morning, I presume.”

“Charged through the entire blasted place like a madman, shouting at the servants to get up and stop the infernal ticking. I swore I could hear the tick-tock in distant corners of the residence, even though my rational self knows that can’t be the case.”

“Once you get accustomed to the sound, you don’t really notice it. I hear the absence of clocks more than their presence. Which I suppose makes no sense either.”

“Maybe with you here, I won’t notice the echoing so much.” He turned his attention back to the garden, swallowed more scotch.

He could live here with the beautiful gardens and fresh fragrances and rooms readied in the blink of an eye. Instead he’d opted to live at gloomy Havisham—because his father and the mines needed him.

“Do you like London?” she asked.

“I’ve never come to know it very well. I don’t stay long. Compared to Havisham it’s ungodly noisy and crowded.”

She smiled. “It is that. I always enjoyed the hustle and the bustle.”

“Yet you made the decision to marry a man who would keep you from it.”

“I discovered other aspects of the city weren’t to my taste.”

She really wished they hadn’t come to town, that he hadn’t faced her squarely, hadn’t begun to slowly run his gaze over her as though he sought out the flawed facets of her existence.

His eyes narrowed. “You were running from something.”

“Poverty,” she answered, twirling toward the center of the room. “I should probably check on Cullie, make certain—”

“It was more than that,” he said quietly. “You’re beautiful enough, clever enough, resourceful enough that you could have enticed any man with means into marrying you if you set your mind to it. You could have stayed in London.”

“All that required work and effort. Answering your father’s advert was the simplest solution.”

“You’re not one to take the uncomplicated route. I also suspect there was nothing at all easy in deciding to marry an aged man rumored to be mad.”

She swung back around. She should deny it or, better yet, press her body against his and distract him from this line of reasoning. But she was so weary of constantly raising her guard. “Not all my memories here are pleasant. Even now I’m struggling to keep at bay my reasons for leaving.”

He set aside his glass, approached her, and cradled her face between his strong hands. Hands that wielded pick and shovel. Hands that caressed to command pleasure. “Why did you leave, Portia? Why did you come to Havisham?”

She should tell him now, not risk his finding out through some accidental or careless word. Yet she’d come so far, worked so hard to put everything behind her. “We agreed to leave the past in the past.”

“I don’t think it was the power, the money, or the prestige. I’ve seen you on your hands and knees, cleaning. You don’t shower yourself with gifts or clothing. You don’t flaunt your position. You speak to people as though they are your equals. All the things you gained by marrying a peer, you haven’t embraced. So why marry a peer?”

“Security. I told you that.”

“Why marry an aging one?”

“It was expedient. Honestly, Locksley, I don’t know why we’re discussing this.”

“I want to understand you, Portia.”

“There is nothing to understand.” She considered breaking away, pulling back, but he held her with such insistence, not so much with his hands as with his eyes.

“When I married you, I cared about only knowing you in bed. Now much to my consternation, I want to know everything about you.”

No, you don’t. Not really.

Finally, he released his hold on her, turned away. She balled up her fists to stop herself from reaching for him, apologizing, begging him to forgive her.

“I thought about going to the club tonight,” he said as he perched himself on the corner of his desk. “But that’s not exactly the place where I want to introduce my wife to Society.”

If he was thinking of taking her with him, then he was referring to the Twin Dragons, an exclusive club for men and women. She’d never been inside although she’d once seen it from the outside. Montie had never been one for taking her places, but she knew he frequented the establishment. She had no desire to run into him there. “I agree that a gambling den won’t make the best impression. You should go without me.”

“Leaving you alone our first night in London hardly seems gentlemanly.”

“To be quite honest, I’m rather weary from the journey and was considering retiring early.” Stepping forward, she trailed her hands up his chest, over his shoulders. “Perhaps you’d be willing to undress me before you go.”

Grinning, he drew her in close. “Delighted to do so, but you know I won’t stop there.”

She nipped playfully at his chin. “I’m counting on it.”

Locke had always enjoyed spending time at the Twin Dragons, especially after the owner, Drake Darling, opened the place up to women. The establishment offered gambling, a ballroom, a dining room, a gathering room for all members, and an assortment of areas designated for only men or only women. So one could mix with the fairer sex if one was of a mind or seek less exciting company. He’d opted for the less exciting company. More than that, he’d opted for a less exciting activity: sitting in the gentlemen’s room and indulging in scotch. He could have done the same in his library.

He’d given a game of cards a go, but had quickly become bored with the task. Generally he relished pitting his skills against others’ talents, but he found himself constantly wishing that Portia were sitting beside him. With her ability not to give anything away, he suspected she’d come away with a good portion of the winnings.

It was the fact that she was so good at not revealing herself that made him know something was amiss in London. He’d felt the tension begin radiating off her as they’d neared the city. It had been so prevalent that he’d have not been surprised if she’d suddenly leaped out of the coach and begun a mad dash back to Havisham.

London made her anxious. Because her husband had died here? Because he’d broken her heart? He could not help but believe there was more to it than that. The woman who had boldly come to Havisham, not backed out of marriage when offered an alternative spouse, was not one to get unsettled, and yet—

“Evening, Locksley.”

Locke glanced up at the slender man who had interrupted his musings. He’d always thought him far too handsome and charming for his own good. Women tended to flock around him. “Beaumont.”

“Mind if I join you?”

The Earl of Beaumont, only a couple of years older and a couple of inches shorter than Locke, had inherited his title a few months shy of reaching his majority. Their paths crossed from time to time, mostly here at the Dragons. They were more acquaintances than friends, but he might offer some interesting conversation that would prevent Locke from returning home a mere two hours after leaving. He didn’t want Portia thinking he couldn’t abide being away from her. “Not at all.”

While waving two fingers at a passing footman, Beaumont dropped into the chair across from Locke. He still had a boyish look to his features as though he’d secured an elixir that would prevent him from aging. “I understand congratulations on a marriage are in order,” he said to Locke as a footman set a tumbler of whiskey on the table. Footmen memorized the members’ drinking preference. Beaumont raised his glass. “I wish you well.”

Locke lifted his own glass. “Thank you.” The sip didn’t satisfy as much as it might if Portia were here with him. He seemed to enjoy everything more when she was about.

“I’m trying to recall her name. It was in the paper . . . uh, Peony?”

“Portia.”

“Unusual name.”

“She’s an unusual woman.”

“I look forward to meeting her.” He glanced around as though he might spy her in a room reserved for only gentlemen. “Did you bring her here tonight?”

“No, she’s at the residence resting. The journey tired her out.”

“I can well imagine. Quite a trek from Havisham.” Although no one, other than Ashe and Edward, visited Havisham, most were familiar with it if for no other reason than to spread the tales that it was haunted. “How did you make her acquaintance?”

“Through my father.”

Beaumont’s brown eyes widened. “I was under the impression he never left the estate.”

“Living as a recluse doesn’t mean one is isolated from the world. He has his ways.”

He chuckled low. “No doubt. My father always spoke fondly of him, regretted that he’d stopped coming to London or visiting our estate for the annual ball my mother so enjoyed putting on.”

Locke had attended a couple of the balls. The Countess of Beaumont’s affairs were legendary. Although, with her passing, the country parties ceased. Everything changed with the death of the matriarch. As a bachelor, Beaumont certainly wasn’t going to be arranging parties at his estate or here in London.

“What of you, Beaumont? You should be looking to marry soon, I should think.” Dear God, could he sound any more established and old? He felt ancient. Where he’d once embraced gambling, drinking, and seeking out women, at the moment he wanted nothing more than to be at home sitting before a lazy fire, listening as Portia enthralled him with tales of her day. It didn’t matter how mundane or unexciting her adventures, he still took pleasure in them, in the way her eyes would light up when she reported on the progress made in readying a room.

“I have set my sights on a couple of ladies, to be sure. I shall probably settle on one of them before the Season is done, get on with it, as it were. Like you, I do require an heir.”

Settle on one of them? It sounded atrocious and terribly unfair to the girl, and yet hadn’t Locke thought the same thing when he’d decided to take Portia as his wife? He’d considered her perfect, settled on her, because he’d thought he could never love her. Christ, she deserved better than that.

He shot to his feet.

“Off somewhere?” Beaumont asked.

“I must apologize for my abrupt departure, but there is a matter that requires my attention.”

Not a matter, but a lady, one who it seemed was coming perilously close to holding the key to his heart—no matter how much he wished it otherwise.

While Locksley had left her sated, Portia had been unable to fall asleep after he left. She’d rung for Cullie and dressed for dinner, although she hadn’t much liked dining alone. Now feeling rather like a wraith, she wandered through the hallways striving to get a better sense of the place. The difference between this residence and Havisham Hall was striking. Not a single door was locked. She didn’t need keys to access anything. Every room, even the ones not in use, held flowers. But they didn’t hold what she was truly searching for: company.

She missed Locksley, damn it all. Something about the night made her all the more lonely and bereft, made her question if she should be here—not so much in London, but with him.

While living in London, she’d harbored so many dreams of love. Once she left, she thought she’d given up on them, but they were working hard to surface. The love of her child would be enough to sustain her, or so she hoped, because she was finding herself yearning for the love of a man.

She made her way to her bedchamber—hers and hers alone. She didn’t like that Locksley’s was beside hers, even if only a door separated them. How silly she’d been that first day to be forlorn because she wouldn’t have a room of her own. She doubted she’d be able to sleep without his arms around her. Perhaps she’d simply read until she heard him return and then slip into his bed and seduce him.

She rang for Cullie, grateful to get out of her confining clothes. She was going to have to do away with a corset very soon, should probably visit a seamstress while they were in town to acquire some better-fitting frocks. It seemed every aspect of her was changing. Even her shoes were beginning to feel tight.

“Will there be anything else, m’lady?” Cullie asked once she’d finished brushing out and braiding Portia’s hair.

“No. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“It’s exciting being in London.”

Portia didn’t share her enthusiasm. She wished to be anywhere else. “After you help me dress in the morning, you can take the day off, go exploring.”

“Truly?”

“I’ll get you some pin money from his Lordship.”

Cullie smiled brightly. “Thank you, m’lady.”

“Have one of the footmen escort you around. There are some bad elements in this town. You’ll want to avoid them.”

“Aye, I will.” She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Good night, m’lady.”

With a smile, Portia shook her head and wandered to the window. She didn’t know if she’d ever convince Havisham’s newest female servants that they didn’t have to curtsy to her all the time. Looking out, she could see the fog rolling in, the streetlamps eerily glowing through the mist. Holding herself, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to shake off a sense of foreboding.

As she began to turn away, she caught sight of a coach drawing up in the drive. Her husband leaped out before it fully stopped. Alarm raced through her. Something was wrong, she was quite sure of it. Had he somehow discovered the truth? Or had word of something dire come from Havisham?

She dashed into the hallway, was halfway to the stairs, when he suddenly appeared on the landing. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” she asked.

His long strides ate up the distance between them. “I’ve discovered I don’t like to go places without you.”

The joy at his words hit her just as he swept her up into his arms. Laughing, she tightened her hold on his neck. “It was so lonely here without you.”

“Lonely.” He carried her into the room, set her next to the bed. “Before you, I didn’t even know what the word meant.”

“Surely there were others at the club to keep you company.”

“Boring people who spoke of new farming methods, the scourge of new wealth, their fascination with American heiresses, and tennis tournaments at Wimbledon.”

“I’ve never played tennis.”

He was kissing her neck while loosening the buttons of her nightdress. “I’ll teach you, but for now, I have another sport in mind, one in which you excel.”

Heat rushed through her body at his compliment. She knew they were well matched between the sheets but she liked having the confirmation that she pleased him. The soft cotton shimmered along her skin, pooling on the floor.

He attacked his own clothes as though they were an enemy to be vanquished. She brushed his hands aside. “We’re going to have to hire a valet just to maintain your clothing. I spend half my day sewing your buttons back on.”

“Give the chore to one of the maids.”

“I like doing it.” When he was away in the mines, it made her feel closer to him. She’d done what she’d promised herself she’d never again do: she’d fallen for someone, for him, even knowing that he had the power to destroy her.

When his clothes were piled in an untidy heap, he lifted her onto the bed and joined her there, hovering over her, looking down on her, holding her gaze as though seeing her for the first time. Lowering himself to his elbows, he grazed his knuckles over her cheeks, then he claimed her mouth as though he owned it.

She was his.

He almost said aloud the words that reverberated through his soul. She belonged to him in the same manner that clouds belonged to the sky and leaves to the trees and ore to the earth, part and parcel, a piece of the whole. He was not one for poetry, yet for her he wished he had the ability to write sonnets. He wished he’d met her at a ball, had courted her—properly with flowers, strolls, and rides in the park. But romantic gestures were as foreign to him as love.

He’d never wanted emotional entanglements, yet he couldn’t deny that she had the ability to tie him up in knots.

Sliding his mouth from hers, he grazed his lips along the underside of her chin, relishing her soft moan. She was so quick to burn. He loved that about her. From the beginning she’d never played hard to get in the bedchamber. She’d welcomed him, responded, given back.

Was it possible to love things about a person without loving the person?

So many things about her brought him pleasure. The way she laughed. The way her eyes smoldered when he kissed her. The way she smelled after she left her bath. The fragrance she carried on her after he pleasured her.

Bracketing his hands on either side of her ribs, he scooted down until he could easily take the tip of her breast into his mouth. With an urgent whimper, she lifted her hips, pressing her womanhood against his abdomen. He’d never been one to boast of his exploits or to rank his encounters with women. He accepted that each would be different, not better or worse, simply different, and he always found enjoyment in the differences.

He could have a lifetime of bedding her and never grow bored. But tonight he didn’t want to bed her; he wanted to make love to her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her, stroke every line and curve, taste every aspect of her. He wanted her scent, heated with passion, filling his lungs. He wanted her cries filling his ears.

He wanted to begin anew, exploring her as though she were a novel discovery.

Dragging his tongue from the tip of one breast to the other, he was aware of her thighs pressing against his hips as though she feared she would fly away if she weren’t secured.

“You’re so beautiful,” he rasped, easing himself lower, planting light kisses along each of her ribs.

“You make me feel beautiful.”

He wanted to give her so many gifts: the gift of touch, the gift of pleasure, the gift of a shattering orgasm. He wanted her falling apart in his arms, wanted to hold her afterward as she came back together. For her, he wished he were a romantic, wished he knew the fine art of wooing.

But he’d never planned to court any woman, had always planned to be practical about his selection of a wife. That first day he’d been practical about her. He’d seen a woman whom he could never love.

Only now did he realize that he hadn’t seen at all. He’d been blind.

Something was decidedly different tonight. She wasn’t certain exactly what it was. The need was more intense, deeper. He kissed and licked his way down to her toes, so slowly, so provocatively, almost as though he were worshipping her, as though she were a goddess deserving of his adoration.

He moved back up, lingering at her thigh, teasing her with a promise that he wouldn’t stop there, that he had no intention of halting until she was writhing and begging.

“Don’t torment me.”

He licked her, nipped her. “I like how hoarse your voice gets when you’re on the brink of pleasure.”

“What else do you like?”

His mouth stayed on her thigh, but he lifted his smoldering gaze to her. She didn’t know if he’d ever looked more dangerous or more appealing. “I like the way you taste.”

Then he was tasting . . . the honeyed spot between her thighs, and she was no longer on the brink of pleasure but had fallen into its vortex, arching her back, clutching the sheets, feeling as though every nerve ending had come alive. He made her feel things she’d never felt before, experience sensations that had only hovered, had never been fully realized. He carried her to levels she’d not known existed; he caused her to soar.

Her cries echoed around her as she took flight. She was still ascending when he plunged into her deep and sure. Wrapping her legs around him, she scraped her fingernails along his buttocks, relishing his growl as he arched his back and pumped into her, faster, harder—

His deep groan, his shuddering body told her that he, too, was soaring. She couldn’t help it. She laughed, a quick burst of pure, unadulterated joy.

His responding laughter was quieter, lower, as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Don’t let this go to your head, but I have never enjoyed being with a woman so much.”

“It’s a sin how much I enjoy what we do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re married, which makes it all legal in heaven and on earth.”

“But we do such wicked things.”

“Mmm. All the better.”

Rolling off her, he brought her up against his side and slowly trailed his fingers along her arm. With her head nestled in the nook of his shoulder, she relished the beat of his heart, wondering if it were possible that he might unlock it just a little bit.