Page 30 of The Wallflower’s Great Escape (The Wallflowers’ Revolt #1)

J ason lay flat on his back in the massive bed, one arm flung over his eyes, the sheets tangled around his legs.

Sleep was an impossibility. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.

He saw the way she’d looked sprawled on the settee beneath him — her lips parted, her hair coming loose in soft waves around her face, her cheeks flushed with heat and surprise and something that had damn near undone him.

He could still hear her little whimpers in the back of her throat, the way her breath hitched just before she took her pleasure against his hand.

That sound—God help him—that sound was carved into his bones now.

And the look on her face as it washed over her…

He groaned softly, dragging his hand down his face, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on him like a leaden quilt.

He wanted to give her that feeling every single night.

He wanted to make her forget every cruel word her family had ever flung at her, every cutting whisper from the gossiping hens of the ton .

He wanted to watch her come apart under his hands, over and over, until she knew— knew —she was wanted.

Cherished.

His.

He should have said more tonight—should have told her he was falling in love with her, that he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

But he’d held back, afraid it would be too much, too soon.

Nothing about their courtship had been traditional, and Georgie was nothing if not clever—and cautious.

If he bared his heart too quickly, she’d almost certainly doubt his sincerity.

And the last thing he wanted was to send her retreating behind those walls again.

Not now. Not after all the ground he’d fought to gain.

He exhaled a shaky breath and stared up at the ceiling.

He’d been serious when he’d told her that the last thing he wanted was to pressure her.

That wasn’t who he was.

Yes, they were attracted to each other— greatly so, if the ache in his chest (and lower) was any indication—but he wasn’t some rutting animal who couldn’t keep himself in check.

There were things still between them.

Unspoken things.

Emotional things.

Things that mattered more than his own damnable desire.

He wouldn’t take her to bed until she wanted to be his wife in every way—not just on paper.

And God help him if he’d just condemned himself to a life of celibacy waiting for her to decide.

He turned onto his side, glaring at the shadows on the far wall, the quiet ticking of the clock mocking him.

Every nerve in his body was strung tight, every muscle taut and restless.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of something—anything—else.

But all he saw was her.

The curve of her breast under her bodice, the softness of her thighs parting beneath his hand, the way her hips had rocked helplessly into his touch.

He let out a guttural curse and shoved the sheet down, his hand sliding lower of its own accord.

He didn’t even bother to fight it anymore.

He took himself in hand, his mind full of her, the heat of her skin, the way she’d gasped his name, the stunned pleasure in her wide brown eyes as she’d fallen apart.

It was her name he bit back as release finally came, leaving him shuddering alone in the quiet room, the only sound his ragged breathing and the steady tick of the clock counting down the long night.