Hawk was relieved that she couldn’t see his face. It was flushed with his nearly painful need. “You feel so exquisite,” he whispered against her forehead. He opened the ribbons of her dressing gown and parted the material. When his hand closed over her bare flesh, both of them jumped.
“I don’t like this,” Frances whispered, more to herself than to him.
“Be patient,” Hawk said. He eased her out of the dressing gown and her nightgown, baring her to the waist. He eased her back into the crook of his arm and simply gazed at her. “Just feel, Frances,” he said. He cupped her breast, lifting it, then began lightly to stroke her.
Frances felt as though lightning was striking her. Shafts of intense feeling darted from her breasts to low in her belly. She remembered well enough the wild sensations of the previous night, and realized that she wanted to feel them again. She wanted to kiss him again, she wanted to touch him, she wanted to feel his mouth caressing her ...
She arched against his arm, and Hawk thought he would expire with the pleasure of it.
He eased her further down, lowered his head, and kissed her breast. He felt her trembling, felt her breast heaving with her quickened breathing. He rested his cheek a moment between her breasts. He smiled a bit painfully when he felt her trying to move against him.
“Come,” he said, his voice sounding raw to his own ears. He lifted her up from his lap and walked beside her to the bed.
“Frances,” he said, gently drawing her to a halt in front of him. He slowly pulled off her nightclothes, then stepped back to look at her. Her thick hair was flowing down her white back. His eyes followed the lines of her, her narrow waist, her full hips. He swallowed. He reached out his hands and grasped her hips, pulling her back against him. “Frances,” he said again, his warm breath against her ear.
His arms came around her body and he began to knead her belly. Frances saw herself as she had been the day of the mating, her back against him, his fingers low and caressing, her incredible need swamping her, driving her ... She felt his lips lightly kissing and nipping her throat, her shoulder. It was like the stallion, she thought. When his fingers roved downward, finding her, she couldn’t help herself, she cried out.
Hawk knew well enough what he was doing, imagined quite accurately the erotic image in her mind. He closed his eyes, reveling in her warm, moist woman’s flesh, felt her swelling against his fingers. He brought his other hand up and began to caress her breasts. He felt the instant she was spiraling toward her climax. He held her firmly, knowing she wouldn’t be able to support herself. He felt her head pressing back against his shoulder, felt her beautiful legs stiffen, felt her buttocks pressing against him.
He quickly turned her, not ceasing the play of his fingers, and kissed her deeply, taking her cries into his mouth. He felt himself fill, expand with something hitherto unknown to him. He wanted to consume her in that moment, fill himself with her, yet knew that his manhood would do the filling.
He kissed her lips, her nose, her eyes, calming her, stroked his hands up and down her back, and cupped her buttocks, lifting her.
Frances looked up at him. Her eyes were dazed, her lips slightly parted. She whispered his name, and in the next moment he eased her onto her back, spread and lifted her white legs, and came into her.
“Wrap your legs around me, Frances.” She did, and he sucked in his breath as her thighs tightened about his flanks.
He stared down at her, saw her whisper his name yet again, felt her hands stroking over his buttocks, and was lost. He plunged deep, and moaned. He felt her legs rubbing against his hips. It kept going on, this intense pleasure, this deep need that threatened to engulf him. He closed his eyes, feeling himself exploding, shattering, and he didn’t want it to stop.
“Frances,” he said softly, and collapsed against her, his manhood still deep within her.
Frances accepted his weight. She was stunned. She felt his heart pounding against hers, felt his ragged breath against her cheek. She felt weak, and strangely sated, and doubted she could move even if the bed caught fire.
This lovemaking was odd, she thought vaguely. It trapped one. It trapped two into one, she added silently. She wondered, her hands gently rubbing his strong back, calming him, if he had been right, if now she would be gentled, would be weak with love for him—which had been his purpose all along.
He had seduced her most thoroughly. He had awakened feelings she’d scarcely ever thought about. Suddenly she grinned, laughing silently to herself. How long did it take a woman to become with child if this happened very night? Not long at all, she imagined. She sighed, hugged him tightly, and fell asleep.
Hawk returned to the world, blinking at his absolute loss of control, and more disconcerting, his loss of self. Frances slept and he knew he was too heavy for her. To his chagrin, when he shifted his weight, he felt himself grow hard inside her once more. This will never do, he told himself. She was his wife, that was all. Her purpose was to bear his children. A husband didn’t rut his wife repeatedly as he did his mistress. But, he thought ruefully, he had changed all that himself. He had brought her passion, and her passion had changed him. He didn’t like it. It was not what he was used to. She had a sharp tongue, and managing ways. She could easily enrage him, she mocked him without mercy, giving as good as she got ... God, she was so lovely and so responsive.
He wanted her again, desperately. Furious with himself, he eased away from her, and rose. He stared down at her for a long moment, knowing if he stayed he would love her again. He forced himself to cover her, then quickly doused the candles and left.
His bed felt cold and empty and that made him wince. It never had before. Before he’d reveled in all the space, knowing deep down that he was free.
Frances awoke, aware of the bright sunlight flooding the room. There was a small smile on her lips, and she reached for Hawk. Her hand met nothing but pillow. She sat up quickly, her eyes searching her bedchamber. He was gone.
The bed was mussed, but not from the two of them sleeping together. He had left her after she’d fallen asleep. Why? She felt unaccountably disappointed, even hurt.
She remembered her thoughts in the aftermath of her pleasure, remembered thinking that this would perhaps gentle her, make her weak with love for him, wondering if he had been right about that.
“Damn you,” she hissed toward the adjoining door. She ordered Agnes to fetch her a hot bath. She scrubbed herself furiously, only rising when the water was uncomfortably cold.
It was while Agnes was fastening the long row of buttons up the back of her blue silk morning gown that she realized what she wanted to do.
There was a wide smile on her lips when she entered the breakfast room. To her chagrin, only the marquess was present.
“Good morning, my dear,” her father-in-law said, studying her face.
She nodded, and asked without preamble, “Where is Hawk?”