“You will.” He moved his fingers and was rewarded by another rush of heat. “You’ll want even more.”

“Another finger?”

He smiled deviously. “Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shall we try it?”

She nodded.

He slid another finger in. “As you command, my lady.”

“Oh my God!” she shrieked. But it wasn’t with pain. He could see that on her face.

He could bring her to completion like this. It had not occurred to him that he could do so; truly, he’d only been trying to ready her body for his entry. But if she climaxed, if she experienced the womanly “little death” he’d heard so much about, surely that would make their inevitable joining all the more pleasurable, wouldn’t it?

“You like being stretched, don’t you?” he murmured.

It took her a moment to speak, but when she did, her words were clear. “I do.”

“Do you like it when I move like this?”

Her breath became shallow.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Nicholas …”

“Do you like this?” He crooked one finger, tickling her on the inside.

She liked it. She didn’t say anything. He suspected she couldn’t. But it was clear she liked it.

He moved his thumb, caressing her outer lips, the little bundle he’d heard was so sensitive. “What about this?” he whispered devilishly.

Her lips parted and she began to pant. Somewhere in it all, he saw her nod.

“More?”

She nodded. Urgently.

“Someday I’ll kiss you there,” he said, his words the naughty lyrics to the song of his fingers. “I’ll take my tongue and—”

“Oh!”

She arched beneath him, her body coiling tight. Her inner walls spasmed around his fingers, and dear God he almost came all over her right then.

“What was that?” she gasped.

“The French call it le petit mort.”

“I can see why.”

He slid his fingers out of her, and her eyes flew to his. “Now I do feel empty,” she whispered.

He moved into place.

“I think you’re going to fit,” she said.

He nodded. “Oh yes.”

Her body was more than ready for him now, her muscles still warm and flushed with pleasure. Three strokes and he was fully seated, and all he could think was that this was the best thing he’d ever felt in his life.

And he hadn’t even started to move.

“Does that hurt?” he asked, all the while thinking please say no, please say no.

“No,” she said. “It feels very strange, but it doesn’t hurt.” She looked up. “Does it hurt you?”

He grinned. “Oh no.”

“What happens now?” she asked.

He put a little more weight on his elbows as he started to move. “This,” he said.

Her eyes widened with surprise.

“Please tell me if it hurts you,” he begged, because he knew that her words were the only thing that could possibly have slowed him down at that point. His hunger for her was taking over, and he just wanted to pound into her, to make her feel him. He wanted to mark her, to claim her, to know that it was his body inside of her and only his, that he was the one to bring her such pleasure, that he was the one who would—

He came so fast he didn’t even see it coming.

He let out a cry as he slammed forward, again and again and again until he didn’t think there could be an inch of her womb that wasn’t coated with his seed.

And then he collapsed.

He couldn’t believe he had waited so long to try this.

Except he could. Because it would never have been like this with another woman.

It was Georgie.

There was only Georgie.

Chapter 20

Three weeks later

Georgie had been none too pleased at how quickly Nicholas had left Scotsby following their arrival.

They’d had one evening together.

One.

Mrs. Hibbert had prepared a simple but lovely dinner. She’d fussed and apologized that it was all she was able to pull together for their first night in the newly opened home. She assured them there would be proper menus moving forward. Georgie had not minded. They could have had tavern fare of brown bread and end-of-the-night soup for all she cared. She just wanted to be with Nicholas.

Alone.

The trip north had been glorious. It hadn’t seemed to matter that Cat-Head howled half the time or that Sam’s affection for Marcy (or was it Darcy?) hadn’t been returned, and then it was, and then not, and then—well, honestly Georgie had no idea what had happened except that there seemed to be an awful lot of drama surrounding it all, culminating in Mrs. Hibbert giving her daughter a tongue-lashing to end all tongue-lashings, only to discover she’d told off the wrong girl.

Georgie noticed none of this. She’d been lost in a blissful haze of new love, of shared conversation and laughter, of soft, quiet moments, and nights of erotic discovery.

Marriage, she’d decided, was turning out to be a most splendid institution.

But then they’d reached their destination.

Georgie had known that things would change. She just hadn’t anticipated how fast.

One night. That was all.

She’d had a proper bath, which had been nothing short of bliss after so many days of traveling. She’d even washed her hair, a process that for her took an inordinately long time. She’d always been envious of her sister Billie, who could scrub her hair clean, apply a bit of apple cider vinegar mixed with lavender oil to her wet, straight tresses and then simply comb it out and be done with it.

For Georgie, however, there was no simple about it. Her curls were tight, overly plentiful, and of a delicate texture. Taming them was, as Marian said, “a minister’s own penance.” Her hair had to be dried very carefully, or else she’d wake the following morning with a bramble on her head.

Or she could just braid it. It didn’t turn out as nice as when she so carefully combed, treated, and air-dried it, but it was a lot quicker. And had she known that Nicholas was leaving the next morning, that’s what she would have done so that she might join him sooner in their new bedroom.

She smiled, despite her current ire. He’d been undone when she let her hair down for him, all damp and silky. It had been quite the most innocently executed move; her pins had simply loosened under the weight of it. She reached up to fix it, doing what she did when alone: tossing her head upside down, shaking it out and then flipping the whole mass of it back. She’d never not resented her curly hair quite as much as when he gathered fistfuls of it in both hands, uttered “Jesus,” and pulled her to him.

They’d made such a mess of her hair that night Marian had nearly made the sign of the cross when she saw her the next morning. Georgie might have laughed—Marian wasn’t even Catholic—but she was in far too despondent a mood to muster humor.

Nicholas was gone.

He’d awakened her to say good-bye, at least. A gentle kiss to her cheek and then a soft shaking of her shoulder. Georgie had looked up at him sitting on the side of the bed, gazing down at her as shafts of weak sunlight drifted down from the high window.