Into the Breach With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #3)

Chapter Thirteen #2

Climbing the stairs, the last bits of evening summer sun in the windows, Karl felt more nervous than he had on the last traverse of Hornli Ridge. His hands were actually sweating. He wiped them on his pants. He was reading into her invitation to come to her room. He had to be. There was no other place for them to meet, as the dining room was still occupied with Lord Rascomb.

This was merely a climber who’d experienced a hard and failed expedition who wanted to talk through what had happened. He’d seen it before. In fact, he’d been the climber needing to go over the failure points. That’s what this was. He was the guide, she was the client. This was a one-on-one expedition debrief, nothing more.

Still, when he stood at her door, he wiped his hands on his trousers and gently tapped the wood with his knuckle.

The door swung open in moments.

Waves of chestnut brown hair cascaded down her shoulders. Karl’s breath caught. He didn’t know why in this moment she looked so beautiful, perhaps because the other times he had seen her with her hair down, it was in the low light of the dining hall. Here, with the lamps blazing, he could see her fully. Her pert, upturned nose. Her lips pink and full. And her eyes filled with relief at his presence.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

She stared at him, her chest rising in shallow breaths, as if she were as nervous as he was.

“May I enter?”

Karl balled one hand into a fist. Was he doing the worst possible thing? Was entering her room, alone, dishonorable? Yes. And he knew it. If she initiated any physical act, he was vulnerable to it all. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

Before, she’d been pretty and capable, funny and energetic. But now he knew the truth of her, having been on the mountain with her, having faced disaster with her. She was calm in a crisis. She was loyal to her friends, willing to risk her safety for theirs. Before she’d slept at Schwarzsee, she’d checked on everyone to insure their health and comfort. Tante Greta had told him about how she’d tried to help here at the inn, even though she was a guest. This was a woman he wanted to make a life with. She was more than a pretty girl from England. This was Justine Brewer, vulnerable, needing him.

“Please come in,”

Justine said, moving aside.

Her dress was a plain whitish color, but the pop of dark red buttons down the top seemed to call to his fingers. Around her waist was a plain ribbon, the same color as the buttons. The waist ribbon was finished in a bow that seemed so easy to undo. As if he only needed to simply touch it, and it would unravel. He shook his head. No, he was here to listen. To speak with his client about the failed expedition.

“Tea?”

she asked, her voice sounding hopeful.

He looked around, then noticed her unfinished dinner tray, with a teapot arranged on it. Tante Greta had been so proud to order those teapots last autumn, as if those dishes proved she had English guests arriving. “No, thank you.”

She sighed with relief. “Oh good. It’s cold, anyway.”

They stood staring at each other. Where was he supposed to sit? Or stand? There were two beds in here and a high-backed wooden chair. The chair was the obvious choice, but it was on the other side of the room, and covered with what was likely her dressing gown. He certainly didn’t want to be so presumptuous as to touch her night things.

“Justine, if I may call you that—”

“I want to kiss you.”

She wrung her hands together, as if she were unsure of his answer.

“Pardon?”

Surely she didn’t say what he thought she had said.

“I do. Because I miss you, and I want comfort, but the only comfort I want is from you.”

Karl blinked. He had never thought of himself as the comforting sort of man, but he could adjust. “That . . . is fine.”

“Good.”

She stepped forward. “Do you want to kiss me, or are you only letting me kiss you out of pity? Because if it’s pity, I don’t want to.”

Karl stepped forward. “I feel many things for you, but never has it been pity.”

“Good.”

Another step towards him. Almost touching him. Almost.

“I dream of you,”

he said, not knowing what else to say to draw her closer. Nothing but the truth. “Ever since I met you. I think of nothing else but the mountains and you.”

“I dream of falling off the Matterhorn. I lose all my friends every night. I lose you. Sometimes myself. I don’t want those anymore.”

“Of course not,”

he said, finally close enough to put his hand on her face, cradling her cheek. Her skin was so soft.

“Make me dream of something else.”

Her brown eyes were liquid and pleading.

“I can try,”

he whispered, his lips so close to hers. Their noses brushed against each other. His whole body was flush and warm and greedy. He wanted her in whatever way she’d give.

“Please try,”

she whispered back, ending the distance between them.

She tasted of honey and walnuts, the dessert Tante Greta sent only to her, after Karl had told her of Justine’s preferences. Her lips were soft and lush, and he lost time as well as all sense of himself kissing her. He dropped his hand from her face and instead pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against his chest. It felt good and right. As if there was nothing else in the world that fit together better than the two of them.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, and his knees almost buckled. The sensation of her gently tugging, dragging her hand down to his neck, sent shivers through him. Before he knew what he was doing, he pulled at the satin ribbon at her waist. It didn’t budge. He tried the other side, and it flowed like water through his hand.

In return, she began picking at the top button of his coat. He broke away from her, panting, longing, gasping. “Justine.”

Her face was flushed, her lips cherry red from his, her dress gaping wide at the waist, and that dark red ribbon lay piled on the floor, taunting him. “Karl.”

“If we start this, I do not believe—”

“I want to finish this.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She stepped closer to him, an echo of their dance earlier. “I want it all.”

His mind blinked out, as if two invisible fingers pinched the wick of a lamp, extinguishing the light. And he pulled her into his arms as he sat down on the edge of the bed. She sat on his lap as he kissed her, letting his hands roam the decadent curve of her hips.

Far from the blushing maid, she grabbed back at him, clutching his shoulders as if she were falling. He was lost in her. Mad for her. Soon, her clever fingers resumed their work on his coat. He helped her, and as soon as he could, he shucked off the garment. He’d only worn it to seem more appropriate, more formal. He’d wanted distance between them, and that coat could not stop him now.

His waistcoat was just as frustrating, and he peeled that off as soon as he could. “Your turn,”

he gasped. His prick strained against his trousers, begging for the friction of her bottom and her hips squirming against him. But he ignored the whine of its insistence.

“Only if you help,”

she said with a grin.

His hands were shaking, but he attacked her first red button, standing out in sharp contrast to the cream-colored dress. There weren’t that many of them, but the buttons were large and ornate, mocking him with the difficulty of the tight fabric.

“I, I cannot—”

His hands shook with effort. He kissed her again, not able to keep control of himself, needing to taste her, be a part of her, be nearer than he was at that moment. Clothes were instruments of the devil.

**

“Are you nervous?”

she asked, hoping she sounded coy, and not terrified with the amount of wanting she felt. He’d kissed her senseless, and she didn’t know what to do next. Her entire body was aflame with desire and feelings that were heady and new, and delightful. This is what she wanted, this was what she chased when she went up the mountains. But here, she could have it with someone, share it with someone, be nearer to someone.

But she didn’t have any other someone in mind at this moment. Only the man who helped her pull her friends from safety. Who believed in her, challenged her, wanted her.

He grunted at her, pressing small kisses along her jaw and onto her neck. The skin was so sensitive, and his lips were soft compared to the rasp of his stubbled chin. She shivered. He pulled her tight to him again, and she felt hardness press against her leg. This was what Eleanor had told her about, in those whispered sessions when Ophelia left the room to consult with her father, or a map, or something important. Because Justine had wanted to know .

His hand moved to her breast, and a moan came out of her mouth. Also a new sensation. “Buttons,”

he said, trailing kisses up and down her neck.

“Buttons,”

she sighed, her fingers happily making quick work of the large, slick satin-covered fasteners. As soon as the top three were undone, he slipped his hand inside, his warm palm on the flat expanse of her chest.

“Justine,”

he said, and that smooth way he pronounced her name made her want to swoon.

She finished undoing her buttons, letting the top half of her dress gape open. But his hand didn’t move. He looked at her in a way that seemed to worm into her mind, pulling her out of her experiences and into this shared one here, this moment.

His chest was heaving, as if he were going up a hill. She opened his shirt the rest of the way and placed her hand on his, warm underneath her palm. “Karl,”

she said. There were a thousand things whizzing through her mind, all whistling with speed and fury, but here, his heartbeat strong and steady, she felt calmer and closer to him than she’d ever felt to anyone in her life.

“I need you,”

he said, his voice thick, his brows drawn. “I need more in life than guiding, than Zermatt, and you are the more.”

For once, she was silent. There was nothing for her to say, nothing she could manage, as her mind was full of light and color and for once, no other thoughts. Surging forward, she kissed him, wrapping him fully in her arms. He tipped her over onto the bed and let them fall to their sides.

He pulled at the straps to her shift, pushing everything down until the top half of her was bare. His calloused hands were skating all over her skin, raising gooseflesh everywhere he touched. Then he palmed her breast with a reverence that made her feel like a precious gem. As if she were valuable, venerable. But when he moved his kisses downward, sparks danced in her mind, and she felt desire rush in as he licked and sucked her breasts, thumbing the nipple his mouth wasn’t covering.

She clutched his shoulders, pushing the shirt off, wanting skin, more skin. He came up and kissed her mouth again, and she unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and he shucked it off. He pulled at her waist and heard fabric tear. She giggled, but he seemed incensed by the sound, yanking the pile of clothing even harder, baring her to the air. She was vulnerable, open, lying there in stockings and nothing else.

His face was intent and focus as he whipped her dress onto the floor. He stared down at her body in a way that she couldn’t decipher. He said something in German that sounded like a song. The only thing she could do was take it as a compliment, for he unbuttoned the top of his trousers only to hold himself still, closing his eyes, calming his breath.

“I am trying to slow down,”

he said, just before opening his eyes.

Justine didn’t know what to say. “That’s fine.”

He opened his eyes and grinned. “Did I tell you that I have wanted you very much?”

“I don’t mind hearing it again.”

He bent down, bracing his arms on either side of her, and kissed her breasts again, only to work further down her body. She enjoyed watching the muscles of his arms and back work as his moved, making her squirm under his featherlight kisses.

And then he touched her between her legs. Bared flesh that had ached for him. He dragged his finger down, parting her. Justine moved without thinking, bucking her hips, wanting more. His other hand dragged up and down on her thighs, squeezing as she flexed and squirmed. Then he found her wetness, delving into her to swirl the dampness onto his finger. He pulled it towards the hard nub that was the source of all her pleasure. His touch was light, and she wanted to beg for him to rub harder, but she was scared he would stop, so she stayed silent.

He lowered himself to his side, next to her, his hand continuing its soft ministrations. She bucked again, almost involuntarily. And then he bent down to find her nipple again. As he turned his attention to her aching breasts, his fingers moved faster and harder, and her head swam with it. It wasn’t long before Justine’s back arched and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

When she was able to open her eyes again, he was back to stroking her softly. His eyes were full of pride and his lips were quirked with bemusement. “Oh, was that good for you?”

she asked him, as if he were not petting her in the most private of places.

Karl smiled. “We could stop here and I would be satisfied.”

Justine shook her head. “I don’t want to stop. I want to see you fall apart.”

He looked down. “If we stop now, it’s not bad if we walk away from each other in a few weeks’ time. If it’s more—Justine—I couldn’t let you go.”

There was something in her that shifted, she heard his meaning. She knew that he didn’t mean a possibility of a child, he didn’t mean ownership. He meant that he was letting a piece of him go if they continued. Just as she would. “I don’t want to stop,”

she repeated. Because she didn’t want him to let her walk away.

They pulled off the rest of his clothing, and he took his time peeling off her stockings. Both of them were as vulnerable as they could be. He touched her face and she could smell herself on his fingers. That did feel like ownership. Like she had marked him.

“Is this your first time?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Then you should be in control. I want you in control.”

Karl shifted so that he was laying down. She pulled herself up and it was her turn to look and appreciate. She’d never seen a grown man naked before. She ran her fingers down him from chest, to stomach, to this new part. She looked at it, straining, and she took it into her hands.

He sucked in a breath at her touch.

Oh, that was interesting. “I don’t know how you like to be touched.”

Gasping again, he bucked his hips. “You seem to be doing fine.”

She pumped again, just to see what would happen.

“Justine,”

he said, his teeth gritted.

Then, as he had teased her, she bent down and licked the very tip of his cock, where a bead of wetness had gathered.

He sat up, his eyes wide, his breath short. “There are two ways this happens.”

She did not let go of the hot, hard cock in her hands. “I am listening.”

“One is this way, the other is with you on top of me. But I cannot last much longer. So you must choose which way, because I cannot do both tonight.”

It was disappointing in a way, that men couldn’t keep going the way women could. That the enjoyment would have to cease and rest for a time. But she did enjoy this control he’d given her. She pushed his shoulder. “Lay down.”

Groaning in relief, he obeyed. She straddled him, thinking of why she learned to ride horses sidesaddle and understanding it finally. She rubbed her wetness onto his shaft, wondering if this is what she should do. But then his hands found hers, and together, they found her entrance.

“Slowly,”

he advised.

And so, little by little, Justine sank onto him, the feeling strange and new and odd. When she found herself all the way seated on him, she angled and moved, finding what felt good and what felt like too much.

“Does it feel good?”

he asked, his brow furrowed.

“Yes,”

she gasped, and he threw his head back as she rocked forward. He held her hips and they found a rhythm together. It stopped feeling like he was inside of her, and more that they were one new, different thing altogether. He moved his thumb to between her legs and found that hard nub once again, rubbing in circles harder and harder. That feeling of crashing was happening again, faster than it had before. She collapsed her hands down to his hard chest, bracing herself as she clenched in ecstasy.

He gasped some words—something that sounded very much like cursing—and clamped his hands on her hips, thrusting upwards roughly in a way that only added to the waves cresting over her. His back arched, and she held onto him as everything inside her felt different. He relaxed down again, and she let him pull her down to his chest, holding her there.

Her world changed. The smell of him, the smell of her mixed with him, felt permanent somehow. As if it hadn’t been an act, but rather an alchemy. She was still herself, but now she was more with him beside her. She closed her eyes, feeling his heartbeat in her own blood, his skin on her skin, his breath matched with hers. There was nowhere in the world she would rather be.

**

Karl slipped out of Justine’s door, his waistcoat and jacket slung over his arm. Justine kissed him as he tried to exit, and he felt a surge of pride that she didn’t want to see him go. Things between them felt different, they were different. If she didn’t want marriage, then that was fine, and Karl would find a way. Whatever would keep her in his life.

“Ahem,”

came a voice in the passageway.

Karl pulled up straight as if he’d been struck. Turning, they both watched as Francis Brewer stood up, leaning against the wall of the passageway across from Justine’s door. His rumpled clothes and mussed hair made it clear that he had slept there. It was not yet daybreak.

“Francis?”

Justine pushed out of the doorway as Karl tried to block her path.

“I believe we can fetch the vicar now, can’t we?”

“Wait,”

Justine said. Karl wanted to join in, but he was at a loss of what to say. In some ways, this was precisely what he wanted—but not if Justine didn’t want it. Anything she was forced to do would diminish her, make her unlike herself.

“You cannot deny that you are ruined,”

Mr. Brewer said. “Accept your fate. Live with this one in the flea-infested hotels up and down this mountain range. You’ve made us a laughingstock, as you’ve been trying to do since you were born.”

Karl did not like this way her brother spoke to her. No one deserved such contempt. As if what they had done was wrong. “There is no reason to fault your sister. I came to her room. I did this. If you wish to make insults, direct them at me.”

Francis laughed, his shoulders slumped. “You have no idea what she’s done, parading herself around, letting men run after her for years. Years!”

“And no one caught me,”

Justine said through gritted teeth. “Until now.”

Karl looked back at her, realizing then and there that when she asked him here, to be with her, it was so that he would be the one who caught her. Whether she wanted to marry or not was immaterial. She wanted him, not any of the other English dandies. It was him. And he would be worthy of her.

“I will take my place at the altar with pride, if Justine wishes it.”

Karl faced her brother, but hoped she marked his words. His hand sought out hers. “But I will hear no more slander from you. I do not know how the English do it, but here, I would use my fists to silence you. Remember that and choose your words wisely.”

At least Mr. Brewer had the decency to look shocked.

“Plan the wedding, Francis. But this isn’t your doing. This is my choice. My desire,”

Justine said.

Karl could barely breathe. It was not the best proposal, he supposed, given that it was made by her brother, but Karl would make the best of what he was presented. “You will be my brother, and I will give you my respect. But not if you speak so poorly of my bride.”

Karl liked that word. Bride. It was so close to wife. Bound together through knots no one could untangle.

Mr. Brewer narrowed his eyes. “I suppose I should have said so earlier, but Mother and Father will arrive tomorrow.”

“What?”

Justine exploded out the door, knocking Karl’s arm aside as if he were nothing.

“I wrote to them ages ago. They telegraphed to say they were on their way as soon as possible. So congratulations. You’ll have a family wedding.”

**