"I am myself," Henry insisted while his hips rolled against hers in a slow but deliberate rhythm, "I am never anything else. He leaned down to kiss her again. "And I love you, too."
For a moment, Henry wondered if he was going too far. All the time they had been together, he had treated Gabriella as a very different kind of woman from the fans and lovers he had outside of their relationship. They knew the wild, heated and insatiable lover and Gabriella knew the doting, sentimental one. It was, he supposed, not unlike the marriage his historical self had known with his contemporary Jane Seymour.
But now, here he was, ravishing his fiancee on the couch, barely disrobing and not waiting for her comfort or ease but taking his own pleasure first. Was it too much? Or was he letting Gabriella see the other side of him that had once frightened her so?
As he felt her unfold and open to him, warming around his length, Henry lost that train of thought and left himself to the sensation of it.