“One day his hope may even be fulfilled,” she said with an attempt at humor, but the words emerged in breathy fits and starts and sounded like a promise. Between her legs, she became embarrassingly damp. She squirmed to escape the tormenting friction of his thighs, but that only made it worse.
Or better.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered, although there was nobody but the two of them to hear.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, which wasn’t entirely true.
“I’m glad.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, and the blazing response speared down to the liquid heat between her legs, making her gasp and curl her fingers into his arms.
“Hold onto the strap.”
She obeyed with alacrity, then waited in a lather of anticipation as he unfastened the buttons down the front of her dress. With every touch, his hands brushed her breasts, making her skin tighten in yearning.
When her bodice parted, he made a soft sound of appreciation. By now, her nipples were so hard, they hurt. She glanced down and saw how abandoned she looked, with her dress undone and the beaded pink peaks pressing against her linen shift.
“Pretty.” His hands drifted across the skin above the plain scoop of her shift. Her trembling intensified, as she waited in an agony of longing for him to touch her nipples. But for the moment, he seemed content to stroke her with apparent idleness.
She’d almost believe that, if she couldn’t feel him hard and insistent behind her, if the rattle of his breathing didn’t proclaim his burgeoning hunger.
By the time he pushed her shift down to uncover her, she was shaking like a daisy in the wind. When his hand closed around her left breast, she stifled a whimper. Dear heaven, she felt ready to burst into flame.
“You take my breath away,” he murmured and pressed his palm to her nipple. Instead of offering relief, his touch made her burn. He pinched and rolled the peak between his fingers. This time, she couldn’t control her whimper.
His other hand found her right breast. She bit her lip and turned her face into his neck. His tangy scent flooded her senses, became another part of the storm of sensations buffeting her from all directions. She pushed back so that his insistent weight pressed into her rump. He gave an incoherent growl and released her breasts to tangle his hands in the skirts cascading over his legs.
When he eased her skirts higher, she braced against him. He’d prepared her so well, luring her to the brink of desire and beyond. The prospect of his hands between her legs rolled through her like thunder.
Still he teased her. His hand traced a seemingly erratic path. Touching her knees. Venturing under the loose lawn of her drawers to caress her thighs. Returning to her knees.
When long, knowing fingers stroked the sensitive skin behind her knee, she trembled with delight. Who knew such a prosaic part of her body could provide such pleasure? She burned to touch him in return, but in the speeding carriage, she didn’t dare release her hold on the strap or lift the hand she spread against the seat for balance.
“Please.”
Her broken plea achieved the last thing she wanted. He stopped touching her.
“Please what, Jane?” he murmured into her hair, his hand resting at her waist.
“You know.” If he didn’t soon answer the throbbing demand inside her, she’d start screaming like a banshee.
“Tell me.” He hooked his hand across her hip, settling her more securely. But she reached a stage where Hugh’s touch through layers of dress and petticoats wasn’t enough. He spread his other hand beside hers. She merely needed to shift her fingers an inch to make contact. But shyness made her hesitate.
“You’re cruel,” she forced out, through a throat so constricted she feared she might strangle.
“I’ve had two days of hell since you banished me from your bed,” he grated out. She’d never heard Hugh sound like this, as though he might shatter. “Who’s the cruel one?”
“So this is revenge?” She hardly knew what she said.
“No, it’s torture. For me and for you.”
Licking dry lips, she pressed harder into his shoulder. She cursed the neck cloth and high collar that denied her the taste of his skin.
“You can’t stop now,” she gasped, as a jolt of the carriage rubbed his rod against her.
“No, by God, I can’t. But I want you to be brave enough to tell me what you want.”
“It’s not proper.” She cringed at the spineless response.
He gave a short, grim laugh. “No, it’s not. Proper isn’t the word to say, when your breasts are bobbing against my hands and your skirts are up around your waist.”