Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,213

her throat.

“Phillip,” she moaned, and then again, as if his name were the only word left to her.

“Yes,” he grunted, “yes.” His words seemed torn from his throat, and she had no idea what he was talking about, only that whatever he was saying yes to, she wanted it, too. She wanted everything. Anything he wanted, anything possible.

She wanted everything that was possible and everything impossible, too. There was no more reason, only sensation. Only need and desire and this overwhelming sense of now.

This wasn’t about yesterday and it wasn’t about tomorrow. This was now, and she wanted it all.

She felt his hand on her ankle, rough and callused as it moved up her leg until it reached the edge of her stocking. He didn’t pause, did nothing to implicitly ask her permission, but she gave it anyway, urging her legs apart until he settled more firmly between them, giving him more room to caress, more space to tickle her skin.

He moved up and up and up, pausing every now and then to squeeze, and she thought she might die from the waiting. She was on fire, burning for him, feeling strange and wet and so completely unlike herself she thought she might dissolve into a pool of nothingness.

Or evaporate completely. Or maybe even explode.

And then, just when she was quite convinced that nothing could be stranger, nothing could wind her even tighter than she was, he touched her.

Touched her.

Touched her where no one had ever touched her, where she didn’t dare touch herself. Touched her so intimately, so tenderly that she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming his name.

And as his finger slid inside, she knew that in that moment she no longer belonged to herself.

She was his.

Sometime later, much later, she’d be herself again, back in control, with all her powers and faculties, but for now she was his. In this moment, for this second, she lived for him, for all he could make her feel, for every last whisper of pleasure, each moan of desire.

“Oh, Phillip,” she gasped, his name a plea, a promise, a question. It was whatever she needed to say to make sure he didn’t stop. She had no idea where this was all heading, whether she’d even be the same person when it was done, but it had to go somewhere. She couldn’t possibly continue in this state forever. She was wound so tight, so tense that she’d surely shatter.

She was near the end. She had to be.

She needed something. She needed release, and she knew that only he could give it to her.

She arched to him, pressed up with a power she would never have imagined she possessed, actually lifting them both off the sofa with her need. Her hands found his shoulders, biting into his muscles, then moved down to the small of his back in an effort to pull him even closer against her.

“Eloise,” he groaned, sliding his other hand up her skirt until it found her backside. “Do you have any idea—”

And then she had no idea what he did—he probably didn’t know, either—but her entire body went impossibly tense. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe as her mouth opened into a silent scream of surprise and delight and a hundred other things all rolled into one. And then, just when she thought she couldn’t possibly survive even a second longer, she shuddered and collapsed beneath him, panting with exhaustion, so limp and spent she couldn’t have moved even her littlest finger.

“Oh, my God,” she finally said, the blasphemy the only words coursing through her mind. “Oh, my God.”

His hands tightened on her backside.

“Oh, my God.”

His hand moved, came up to stroke her hair. He was gentle, achingly gentle, even though his body was rigid and tense.

Eloise just lay there, wondering if she’d ever be able to move again, breathing against him as she felt his breath on her temple. Eventually he shifted and moved, mumbling something about being too heavy for her, and then there was nothing but air, and when she looked to the side, he was kneeling next to the sofa, smoothing her skirts back down.

It seemed a rather tender and gentlemanly gesture, given her recent wantonness.

She looked into his face, knowing she must have the silliest smile on hers. “Oh, Phillip,” she sighed.

“Is there a washroom?” he asked hoarsely.

She blinked, noticing for the first time that he looked rather strained. “A washroom?” she echoed.

He nodded stiffly.

She pointed to the door leading to