Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

F rances kissed him until she ran out of breath, quickly gasped in more air, then kissed him some more.

I love you , he'd said. I love you and I want to marry you. I won't stop loving you.

She could scarcely believe her ears. And yet, here he was, kissing her like it was true. Kissing her like they had all the time in the world.

Indeed, when she pulled back for another quick breath, fully intending to continue kissing him, he put his hands to her shoulders, as if he were suffering from the insane delusion that there was anything more important than kissing in this precise moment in time.

"Frances," he said, satisfyingly breathless. "Far be it from me to stop you from doing that , but… I'm going to need you to give me your answer."

She laughed. Had it only been minutes before when she'd felt like she would never laugh again.

"Words, Frances," he said, laughing along with her. "I need you to give me your answer in words ."

"I love you, too," she said.

His eyes went wide and then he was kissing her, too, laughing and breathless, for long moments.

He wrenched himself away, even as he kept his arms tight around her.

"Wait," he said, sounding dazed. "That wasn't the answer I meant."

She felt giddy. Nothing could harm her now. She wasn't even sure her feet were touching the ground.

"It wasn't?" she teased. He pulled her in for another kiss, growling playfully against her lips.

"It was, and you know it," he said, kissing her cheeks and jaw between words. "But also it wasn't. Tell me you'll marry me, Frances. I'm done asking; I'm now demanding."

"Bossy," she observed.

His hand dropped from her waist, using his grip on her behind to press her against his hardness.

It was, she had to admit, an effective counterargument.

"Yes," she told him, floating even higher. "I'll marry you."

"Thank Christ," he said with feeling.

And then he was kissing her again.

She had to give him credit; Evan was far better at thinking while kissing than she was, for she didn't even notice they were moving until the back of her legs hit the edge of her bed. He toppled her gently onto the mattress, looking down upon her with so much love in his eyes that it made her ache.

He loved her. She loved him. They were going to be married.

It was impossible and it was true.

"I am going," he said seriously, "to make love to you now."

She gaped up at him, scandalized and delighted. "My family is home," she said in a whisper.

His smile spoke of fun and secrets and mischief. "Then I suppose you'd best be quiet, my lady."

He put just enough emphasis on the word my to tell her that the expression came not from politeness but from possession. It lit her aflame.

Being quiet was easier said than done, given the determined precision with which Evan took her apart. He had been learning, she realized, as he skated his fingers down her thighs in just the right way to tantalize her, as he slipped a finger under the edge of her bodice to skim her nipple before removing the dress entirely. He'd been keeping track of each thing that made her gasp and writhe and moan, and he deployed them now with ruthlessness.

Or perhaps it was just that he loved her. Perhaps that was what made this so much more than the other times they'd come together.

Well, he could try whatever tricks he wished, because he had taught her a trick or two.

And she intended to use them.

She waited, feigning compliance, until they were both entirely unclothed. He leaned over her once more, reaching in with one hand to cup her cheek.

And then she struck, pushing on one shoulder quickly and hard enough that he fell onto his back. Before he could recover, a startled yelp falling from him, she threw her leg over his waist and settled her weight atop him, using one hand to prop herself up and the other to cover his mouth.

"I thought you said we needed to be quiet, my lord," she said, mimicking his possessive intonation from earlier. Yes, she was his, but he was hers, too.

She thought the look he shot her from behind her hand was pride. Happiness, certainly.

He mumbled something inaudible, and she removed her hand.

"What was that, darling?" she asked with simpering sweetness.

"I said," he repeated, eyes flashing, "that you're going to torment me, aren't you?"

"For the rest of our lives," she vowed.

He sucked in a breath, his hips surging up against her briefly.

"Wicked, wonderful girl," he breathed.

And then, a wicked and wonderful smile on her lips, she did torment him—and herself. She tormented them both, making them wait, until he was straining beneath her, his brow damp with sweat, his voice a litany of love and praise and promises of ever after.

It was only when she could torment him no more that she made him feel very, very good. And before she did so, he ensured that she, too, felt very, very good.

This had to be, she mused as they embraced afterward, their bodies cooling and their breath slowing, the best anyone had ever felt. And it was hers, all hers, forever and for always.