Page 93 of My Hellion, My Heart
“No,” she whispered.
“God, Irina, you’re so small and tight. I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathed, starting to withdraw.
She clutched at his hips to halt him. “Don’t. It doesn’t hurt, not really. Please, Henry, don’t stop.”
But Henry continued to withdraw, and Irina nearly wept with fury at the loss of him—until he thrust back inside of her, sending a shockwave of relief, and a little pain, through her body. Much less pain, though, and as he withdrew once more, it extinguished completely. Again, he plunged back in, then withdrew, and returned again, each thrust reaching deeper, possessing her, marking her as his and only his. Their bodies glided together and apart, Henry’s mouth ravaging hers, his tongue diving and receding in the same erotic motion as his hips.
The bed, the room, the entire house, disappeared, and it was only she and Henry and the sensual friction of their bodies. She could barely breathe, but the only parts of her body that seemed to matter were the ones he was ravishing. Anything could have happened right then and it wouldn’t have concerned her. In that moment, Irina’s sole purpose in life was Henry and his love and the increasingly frantic motion of his body against hers.
He was bringing her up again, back onto that crest, and she felt it coming…that perfect moment of undiluted bliss, just out of reach. She grasped for it, rocking against Henry, joining him as each controlled thrust deteriorated into something more frenzied and wild. Clasping her to him, he growled her name, muttering insensible love words against her throat.
“Oh God, Henry,” she cried, knowing she was too loud and vulgar, and yet not caring at all.
“Hold on, love.”
But she couldn’t, not for another second. Pleasure spiraled and broke through her then, coursing against every nerve ending, loosening every muscle. Irina tightened her legs around his hips as she threw her head back and dragged in a deep breath, the cool sea air from one of the bedroom’s open windows rushing over her damp skin. Henry drove forward once, twice, three more times and then, with a long groan of satisfaction, went still.
They breathed into one another’s necks as the rest of the world slowly filtered back in around them. Outside the window, Irina could hear the crash of the waves upon the rocks below, the small, incessant chime of a bell somewhere. Henry kissed her temple and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him until she lay flat on his chest and stomach.
“My brazen, beautiful princess,” he said, breathless from exertion. Irina’s hair had come completely free and now hung in dark locks around her face. He pushed a few back, behind her ear, and smiled up at her.
“My handsome, wicked earl,” she replied, her own breathing just as choppy as the waters of the channel outside.
Something changed in his expression, a slight lift of his brow as a thought seemed to strike him. “I’ll be calling you my beautiful countess, soon,” he said, that roguish smile returning.
She matched it. She would be his wife. And they would make love like this whenever they pleased. Already feeling the stirrings of desire again, even as her body thrummed with loose, languid release, Irina imagined they would be spending great amounts of time wrapped together like this, limbs sweaty and tangled, and utterly satisfied.
“You will call me princess,” she commanded with as imperious a tone as possible. She kissed him, playfully nipping his bottom lip the same way he’d done to hers.
His tongue teased the inside of her lip, making her shiver. “I shall call you anything you like, as long as I call you mine.”
“I’ve always been yours, Henry.” Irina’s amusement shifted into something deeply profound as she stared down at the man she loved more than life itself. She sealed her lips to his. “I will love you forever.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Leaving Henry’s side early the next morning had been one of the most difficult tasks ever presented to Irina. She’d wanted to stay cocooned in those soft, white sheets, with the sea air blowing through the window in easy, random gusts all day. They’d slept on and off the night before, wrapped in one another’s arms, waking every few hours to make love or, when Irina became too sore, to kiss and touch.
Despite his fears of hurting her, nothing untoward had happened during the night. Henry had slept fitfully but without incident. She’d woken at one point when he’d called out in his sleep, but she’d only had to murmur softly to soothe him. Irina had marveled at her power over Henry…that she could calm those demons that had terrorized him for so long. She supposed it was the reverse, as well. She had never felt so safe as she did with Henry. Both fractured by their pasts, they had found strength and a haven in each other.
She hadn’t wanted the night to end, and as dawn had broken, lighting the room and the man lying beside her, a part of her had become anxious. Henry would be her husband. It was what she wanted, more than anything in the world, but even after last night, it felt too good to be true. Like something was going to lurch up out of nowhere and drive them apart.
Her fears were silly, though, she knew, so she’d kept them to herself and had gotten on with the day. There had been much to do to prepare their return to England, and as Irina had dressed in a simple gown that had likely been found overnight by Helene and Madame Renaud, Henry had seen to securing passage on a packet ship back to Dover. Travel being entirely dependent upon the tides, they’d had to rush to the docks in order to catch the first ship out, or be stuck waiting the whole of the day until the next tide came in. Not that Irina would have minded more time with Henry at his estate, with no prying eyes or judging stares. But the idea that Max could possibly still be close by, in Calais, weighed on her. She hoped he’d left for Paris. He had friends there. Benefactors. And now that she knew how and why they funded him, she felt sick. Heartbroken. If only he’d trusted her. But Escalles was gorgeous, and she didn’t want to think of Max anymore. They would go back there, she decided, after they were married, and stay for as long as they wished.
It was thoughts like these that swept away her anxiety as the packet ship cut across the Channel, toward Dover. She and Henry stood on deck, preferring the salty air and buffeting winds to the enclosed quarters belowdecks.
“Do we go to London, then,” he asked, stepping up behind her at the railing as the shores of Dover came into view, “to put all that betting nonsense to rest, or straight to Essex to see your family and my mother?”
The mention of the book at White’s didn’t bother her now. No gentleman would be winning another shilling, of that she was certain.
“To Essex,” she said as his hands settled on her hips, and they stared out into the water together. “You have a stipulation to fulfill, Lord Langlevit,” she added, leaning backward against him.
“Ah yes, duty first,” he said with mock pomposity. Then, brushing his lips to her ear, “I should tell you that part of King Charles’s requirement on the Langlevit title includes the earl getting his wife with an heir as soon as possible.”
Her body trembled as a wave of heat rose into her cheeks. “I shall look forward to fulfilling my duties, my lord,” she replied demurely, turning to look up at him.
Henry laughed and swiftly kissed her lips, holding her close until they neared the port. Loud voices from the harbor reached them, noises from other ships and from the pier filling the air. Suddenly, Irina had the strangest feeling of wanting to turn around and head back to Escalles. Returning to England seemed to bring with it a cold measure of reality, making it seem as if what had happened between her and Henry was part of some quickly fading dream. She clutched the arms that were wrapped around her waist, trying to calm her rapid breathing.
“Are you well?” Henry asked as if sensing her unease.
