The Heiress Effect (38 page)

There was no way to understand all that
glorious sensation rushing through her. It was as if their bodies
held a conversation that whispered along every nerve ending. All
thought vanished. What remained was pure light, engulfing her.

She bit back a scream.

When she could breathe again, he’d stood up.
He was kicking off his shoes, taking off his trousers, coming back
to her. The bed creaked under his weight.

“We can stop here,” he said, his voice
hoarse.

She reached out to him. “Don’t you dare.”

She hadn’t seen this part of him before. His
thighs were hard—not soft and pillowy, thank God, but tense with
muscle. His erection was full. His breath shattered as she reached
out, exploring it—that long shaft, hard and yet with that hint of
softness to it.

She pulled forward and licked him.

“God, Jane.” He moaned. “Another time, or it
really will be three thrusts.”

And then he was bearing her down, spreading
her wide again. Rubbing the head of his cock against her slit,
sending shivers down her.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He pushed inside
her. There was a pinch of red pain, so shocking in the midst of her
floating arousal. Her hands closed around his shoulders.

Another time,
he’d said. But that was
too much reality to encompass now. There might not be another time.
Just this one. This one time to feel the stretch of her body around
his, to feel that pain dissipate, swallowed up by the growing
rightness of him. He slid into her, further, then further, and the
last hint of discomfort disappeared.

And then there was just him—his weight, his
breath, his body bearing her down, joining with her so intimately.
His hands, turning her face up to his, and his kiss, warm and sweet
on her lips. There was no other time at all.

Just now.

Each stroke sent another little wave of
pleasure through her. She felt overly sensitized to every thrust,
every pulse of him. To the growing heat that rose between them, the
low growl he made in his throat when she ran her hands down his
naked back.

“God, Jane.” He was reduced to incoherence.
“Jane. Oh, God. Jane.”

They were not just his thrusts, but hers.
Theirs. She laid claim to them as much as he took her. Their bodies
joined, came apart. She felt a tension building inside her.
Different than the last time. Deeper. Called out by him. It came
over her again, taking over her vision.

He stroked inside her harder as she came.
Harder, harder, until his thrusts were almost brutal. At the last
moment, he pulled out of her, spilling against her belly.

For a few seconds, he was poised above her.
They looked into each others’ eyes as best they could in the
growing darkness. All hint of cold from the rain had been washed
away. He was close, so close. Closer than anyone had ever been.

And then he pulled away from her. Only
briefly. He found a towel, poured some water in the basin, and
turned back to her. He didn’t say a word. But gently, gently, he
cleaned her off.

“Well?” he finally asked softly. “What did
you think?”

Jane shook her head, unable to find words. It
had been wonderful. Lovely, amazing, powerful, pleasurable. She
couldn’t even begin to describe it. It had been everything she’d
imagined—except in one respect.

She’d thought that making love to Oliver
would be a transcendent experience. A memory she could hold on to
and cherish for the rest of her life.

But it wasn’t. It hadn’t been enough.

Oliver woke too early the next morning. The rain
had stopped, and it was only five in the morning, if the church
tower bells were to be believed. Oliver didn’t think he’d had more
than a few hours of sleep. Jane lay next to him, naked still, warm
and soft.

He set a hand on her hip and tried not to
think.

If he had at all been rational last night, he
would never have done it. There were too many things wrong with the
situation. He would list them, except…

He wanted to do it again this morning.
Immediately.

He didn’t think she would expect anything of
him. And he’d been careful. Yet part of him—some horrible,
treacherous part—wished that he had taken less care. That he’d done
everything he could to get her with child. That he’d have her
forced upon him so that he could take the thing he wanted so badly
without having to decide to do it.

I love you, Jane.
He ran his fingers
down her body.
But you’re still my impossible girl.

It was a sad thought, singularly unsuited for
a May morning.

She turned over. Her eyes opened and she
smiled sleepily at him.

“Good morning,” she said.

He hadn’t wanted to know what that would
sound like—her happy, sleepy greeting, as she turned to him in the
bed.

“Good morning,” he returned gravely.

She squeezed her eyes shut and then shook her
head. When she opened them, she sat up. “I suppose we have to do
this now.”

“Jane…”

She set her fingers over his mouth. “Let me
speak first. I have spent the last months thinking of my many
mistakes. I wanted you so badly, and I almost never had you.” She
looked away and shook her head. “I have had months of thinking
about you, Oliver. About that moment in the park when I simply
accepted that because you could not marry me, I would have nothing.
I’ve thought it through and through.” She raised her chin. “You
mustn’t think of this as ruination. Only girls with no money can be
truly ruined. And my reputation has never been one of my
assets.”

“Jane.” He didn’t know why he said her name
except to say it. To hear it sing on his tongue. The entire world
thought the word Jane was one syllable, but he knew better. When he
said her name properly—when he whispered it slowly in the early
morning, with the owner a few feet from him—it came out to almost a
syllable and a half.
Ja-ane.

He was so damned aware of her—of her breath,
of the slight warmth in the air to his right where she lay. Of what
they’d done together last night. Of what they couldn’t do together
any longer.

He touched her shoulder ever so gently.

“I am the last woman in the world you want to
marry,” she whispered. It was not quite a question.

He shut his eyes. “Yes. You’re the last woman
in the world I should want to marry. So why are you the only one
I’ve been able to think of for months?”

Her eyes flashed.

“Jane.” He reached for her. “I’m sorry. I
never wanted to—”

“Stop apologizing for speaking the truth,”
she snapped out. “It is what it is, and there’s no use my crying
over it.”

“But I—”

“I told you, I’ve had a long time to think it
over. And you’re right. Marriage between us would be a disaster. I
know what I can do and what I can’t. I can pretend to be a great
many things, but even if I could act the proper hostess, the sort
you’d need, I wouldn’t want to do it. I’m done taking on the role
of pretender.”

It made so much sense when she spoke it
aloud. It was only the other half of his own objections. If this
was rationality, some part of him recognized it and agreed with it.
The other part…

Well, she was near and she was naked. That
curtailed most of his thoughts beyond the obvious.

“I have been thinking,” Jane said to him. “In
fact, I have been thinking for months now. Of what I would do when
this was all over. Once Emily was safe and no longer dependent on
my uncle.”

He turned to her.

“It’s unlikely I will ever marry. Not that I
couldn’t find a husband, but I don’t need one, and I don’t want the
ones I can get.” Her lips pressed together. “Any man who was
honorable enough for me to fall in love with… Well, I think my
birth and reputation will put him off. Even if he could look past
it for himself, I would be nothing but a liability to him.”

There was a hard note to her voice, something
barren and desolate.

“Jane. That’s not true.”

“If I could find a man exactly like you, but
without ambition…” She laughed. “A sun that was warm but not
bright, a fish that lived in air.”

He recognized the sentiment precisely,
recognized it like the cruel edge of a knife blade that it was.
“You want someone exactly like me, but completely opposite.” How
appropriate. How utterly appropriate.

This wasn’t the way he was supposed to fall
in love. He was supposed to meet someone, to discover that her
wants and wishes coincided with his, that their dreams overlapped.
He didn’t want to meet a woman, to discover that the breath he drew
seemed to come from her lungs, and then to realize that they
couldn’t both breathe at the same time.

“So that is that.” She smiled sadly. “An
impossible girl. I decided long ago that you and I should have been
lovers, when we had the chance. Last night confirmed my
belief.”

He didn’t answer. Oh, his body did; he’d gone
from
interested
to
ready
at her words.

“We’re here,” she said. “We’re together until
we find Emily. Why not make the most of it?”

Because he didn’t want to agree with her. He
couldn’t say
yes, Jane, you’re right—we should be lovers
. It
would remove what had happened last night from a land of fairy-tale
pretense, one where he could imagine that the obstacles between
them could be swept away without so much as a second glance. It
would make what happened next real and therefore impermanent. This
would be an affair. Nothing but an affair.

Her voice dropped. “I’m glad I started with
you.”

She leaned toward him.

He set his hand on her lips, blocking her
kiss. “Jane.”
Started
implied that Oliver was a beginning,
that there would be another after him, and another after that. That
Jane would be kissed by men who were not Oliver. If he acquiesced
in this, he’d be admitting to the end when they had barely even
started.

But the alternative… The alternative was just
as impossible.

“Jane,” he said helplessly.

“Oliver.”

He surrendered and found her mouth.

If last night was a mistake, this was a
deadly error. He could taste the end on her lips—a hint of bitter,
and beneath that, the ravenous heat of her mouth, the sweetness of
Jane.

“God, Jane,” he whispered. “I almost lost
you.”

Her hands came up to touch his wrists, a
tentative flutter at first. “I almost lost me, too.”

And she kissed him back.

There were some things a man could not say in
response to a confession like the one he’d heard.

I love you, but…

I want you, but…

He had nothing to give her except conditions
and disavowals. Even the kiss he gave her was too aware—too much of
his lips on hers, caressing her, kissing her, but…

There was always a but.

So Oliver didn’t speak. And when Jane touched
him, there was no hesitation in his response. She came on top of
him, her breasts brushing his chest, her hair tickling his
shoulders. He could do this forever, lose himself in moments like
this.

He kissed her mouth and welcomed the weight
of her against him.

“Oliver.” Her hips flexed.

He could lose himself in her. More
frightening, he could
find
himself in her. He was doing it
right now, discovering how much it meant to hold her and touch her
and show her how much he cared.

“Possible girl,” he whispered. “Too
possible.”

She smiled at him.

They were entangled. It was already too late
to avoid getting hurt. There was nothing to do now but hold out
until the end. And so he let it happen. He kissed her neck, her
breasts. He held onto his own arousal, letting it peak, stroking
her until she was as ready as he was. Until she was wet and
desperate, until he could bear it no longer. Then he guided her
down onto his shaft. She was good, so good around him.

He’d needed just this all these months. He
held her hands as she discovered the pace she needed, the pressure
she wanted. And when she was close, he touched her just where it
mattered and brought her to pieces. When she was still shuddering,
he turned her over and drove into her until all his thoughts
shattered and fled. Until there was nothing but the two of
them.

Until, at least for that one final moment,
there was no
but
after the silent
I love you
that he
gave her.