Free Jonathan and Amy by Grace Burrowes

beside the bed. “I’m old, you know.”
    â€œAncient, I’m sure, and yet I am older than you by several years.” He kept his hands at his sides lest he tear her clothing from her body and reveal her in all her glorious maturity. In his imagination, the sound of ripping fabric was drowning out the violins, and yet, Amy did not hurry.
    She held his gaze while she unbuttoned her dressing gown—the thing had fourteen buttons. When he married her, he’d make sure all her nightclothes had only three buttons. Or two.
    Or a simple sash around her middle on those few occasions when he permitted her to don a dressing gown.
    She passed him the dressing gown, and he brought it to his nose to inhale the flowers-and-lemon aroma of her. “Do you need my assistance with that nightgown, Amy?”
    She nodded, which he interpreted as an admission that her courage had deserted her. He took pity on them both and drew the nightgown over her head, his ability to count beyond three in any language having abandoned him.
    â€œI wish you would not stare at me, sir.”
    â€œJonathan. The bed is behind you. The covers are available to soothe your modesty, but, Amy?” The impulse to lash his arms around her was a palpable, writhing thing.
    She stopped peering around the room to cast him a glance.
    â€œMy dear, you are gorgeous. You are beautiful, and if you do not get into that bed this instant, I will fall on my knees to worship what I see of you by the light of this candle.”
    Not poetry, but it put a hesitant smile back on her face. She scooted under the covers, and he followed her into the bed, crawling across the mattress to poise over her on all fours.
    â€œDear heart, how eager are you?”
    She regarded him earnestly. “Quite.”
    â€œSpread your legs a little.”
    She might have recalled a similar importuning from the departed Robert, because she frowned when she complied. “Now what?”
    Now nothing came between them but his self-restraint. “You might kiss me.”
    By dint of iron self-discipline, he remained crouched above her under the covers, close but not touching, while she considered his suggestion. A gentleman would know flowery speeches and pretty words; Jonathan knew only lust and an abiding regard for his lady.
    No—not regard . In those moments while Amy’s gaze traveled from his eyes to his forehead to his lips and back to his eyes, Jonathan faced a truth: he had loved his wife. He described the feeling to himself as part duty, part deep fondness, part fast friendship.
    He loved this woman too, but the mix was different—it included eagerness and panting lust, and while a gentleman wouldn’t likely be pleased to admit it, this was in Jonathan’s estimation an improvement over the marital relationship.
    A brush of soft lips obliterated his ability to ruminate. “Do that again, Amy. Please , do that again.”
    She smiled this time, smiled right against his mouth. He wanted to growl—would she consider that grunting? Her hand sank into his hair and without thinking, Jonathan allowed his arousal to brush against her sex.
    He did growl—and she moaned, and the kiss turned into an oral wrestling match involving their entire bodies—tongues, hands, torsos, legs, and lips. In the melee, he came perilously close to penetration, and they both went still.
    â€œJonathan, you must…” She swallowed and found his free hand with her own, then laced their fingers. “Please. I can’t bear to wait any longer.”
    He’d wanted to make her come at least once before suffering the pleasure of joining their bodies. The plan was selfish, intended to hedge a bet against his flagging self-control and their mutual eagerness . The plan was also insupportable, given the feel of her naked body beneath his and the way she said his name.
    â€œListen for the violins, my love.” He laid his cheek against hers, and in