Chapter Twenty #2
“Things might have been different, had you wanted us to stay friends,” Wilfred said in a low voice, and he ached to see her face fall. “But then, things would have been different.” He squeezed her hand again. “And I rather like things the way they are.”
Irene gave a shaky laugh. “Good.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
There it was, that little line that always appeared between Irene’s brows when she was quizzical about something.
Fighting down the urge to lean forward and kiss it, Wilfred asked the question that had been dwelling on his mind ever since she had first admitted her affections for him. “When did you first fall in love with me?”
Irene did not miss a beat. “Oh, about a fortnight ago.”
The jaw that dropped was entirely out of Wilfred’s control. So was the spluttering as Irene laughed. “B-But—But—”
“You look so crestfallen!”
“I feel so crestfallen,” he admitted with a wry smile, his stomach twisting.
Had he truly been so invisible to this wonderful woman for that long? How could he possibly hope to deserve her if she had essentially never noticed him?
And in that moment, despite the gladness in the room and the laughter around him and the welcome he had received and the woman standing beside him—
In that moment, Wilfred was filled with doubt. He could never deserve such a woman—he had always known that—but to hear so plainly that she had not considered him anything more than a friend for so many years, when he had been right there, pining after her, desperate to gain her affection…
It was disheartening, to say the least.
And then there was the scent of honey and lavender, and a kiss was being pressed into his cheek by the softest lips.
Wilfred turned, sadly not in time to capture a kiss, but to see the love and devotion in Irene’s eyes.
“I was already in love with you,” Irene said quietly, her cheeks pinking at the intimacy of the admission. “I just did not know it.”
Glancing around the room, Wilfred saw the family chattering away without much need for them. No need for them at all, actually. Which meant…
He turned to Irene, and evidently what he wished—what he desired—was so evident upon his face that she immediately replied to the unasked question.
“Wilfred!”
“Well, no one would miss us,” he protested in an undertone, doing his best not to grin and failing miserably. “And I have missed you, Reeny.”
In times past, she would have glared most furiously, perhaps elbowed him hard, and opined that the next person to call her ‘Reeny’ would be shot out of a cannon the next time they visited Stanphrey Lacey.
As it was, her breath hitched. “And I have missed you, but we can’t—”
“Isn’t it a little late for carols?” someone was saying across the room.
“Nonsense! Is Lilianna here? She can play the pianoforte and we can—”
“I’ve told you before, Frank, I am never again playing that damned instrument—”
“Lilianna!”
“We could literally march out of here with a band,” Wilfred said in a murmur, allowing his hand by Irene’s waist to slowly drift down to her delectable behind. “And no one would notice.”
He glorified in the way that Irene stiffened, then softened into his hand, her welcoming buttocks resting perfectly in his palm. As though they had been made for him.
And hadn’t they?
“Fine,” Irene said imperiously, as though she were deigning to give him a most great favor. Which, in a way, she was. “But if anyone stops us—”
“No one is going to stop us,” Wilfred reassured her.
In truth, he half-expected her mother, or one of her sisters, or at the very least Michael to interrupt them on their way to the door and ask why they were leaving their own engagement party.
As it was, they were almost completely ignored.
The family appeared to be debating whether Frank should be made to change into one of Gwen’s gowns, what the newest dragon in the family should be called, whether Thomas and family would be in Bath for the spring—
“And poor Great-Aunt Tessie, she’ll be off soon,” said Benjamin blithely as Wilfred and Irene passed him.
“Benjamin!”
In fact, as Wilfred closed the door behind the raucous bunch and stepped into the thankfully silent hall with Irene by his side, he wondered whether they would all have a better time without the pair they were supposed to be celebrating.
And he had something else he would much rather be doing.
This time, when he and Irene rushed upstairs to enjoy each other’s bodies, Wilfred did so in the perfect knowledge that in just one day, they would be man and wife. Not that there had been any shame in what they had shared before—he had known it even then, innately.
But now she was his, and the wedding date set, and Irene—
“In here,” she whispered, pulling him into her bedchamber.
Wilfred could do nothing but obey. In many ways, nothing had really changed in the last two decades.
The door closed behind them with a firm snap, and this time, Irene turned the key in the lock.
“No interruptions,” she said darkly. “But you’ll have to be quiet.”
Quiet? How on earth was a man supposed to remain quiet with a woman like Irene beneath him?
Well, he could think of one way.
“Reeny,” Wilfred groaned, stepping toward her and pulling her into an embrace before his lips crushed hers.
Oh, it was wonderful, holding her and knowing that nothing and no one could ever take her away.
The pleasure she so swiftly wrought upon him was almost overpowering, and Wilfred could only hope that as his tongue trailed a devoted line across her lips, teasing them open before it delved into her mouth to eke out pleasure for her, that she was enjoying just as much.
She certainly appeared to be. Irene whimpered in his mouth, her fingers scrabbling at the many layers of fabric that were separating them. Her impatience only heightened his need, Wilfred’s manhood throbbing and aching in his trousers.
How had he ever managed to keep from proposing in years gone by?
“I love you,” Irene murmured as she broke the kiss—but seemingly only so she could get a better view of his waistcoat. “What the devil is going on with these buttons?”
“Who cares?” Wilfred said with a grin, all the crushed-down need that he had attempted to ignore for years bursting forth.
Rather like his waistcoat buttons. Irene gasped as he wrenched the garment from his body and stepped toward her.
“You—You wouldn’t,” she whispered, eyes wide and clearly begging for the same.
A sense of power, of domination and yet devotion, swept through Wilfred. “I would.”
He seared hot kisses down Irene’s neck and brushed the tops of her heaving breasts with more as his hands found the delicate buttons that trailed down the back of Irene’s gown—and ripped the fabric apart.
Buttons flew in all directions, bouncing off the bed and covering the floor, and Irene moaned, her legs quivering as her head fell back and her hands grasped his shoulders.
Swiftly moving an arm around her waist to support her, Wilfred tried not to think about the pressing need to plunge himself into her and focused instead on doing what he had wanted to do a week ago: strip the woman he loved to the skin.
It did not take long. For all that Victorian ladies now wore more layers than were sensible, Wilfred’s fingers were swift and before long, stays and ribbons and stockings and more were lying on the floor. Standing in the center…
Wilfred swallowed. “Dear God, you’re even more beautiful than I thought.”
And she was. There Irene stood, utterly nude, her hands pressed together before her and her nipples nubbing in the cold—and he hoped, from desire. Their precious pink-shell color exactly matched the lips that she wetted as she stood, allowing his gaze to meander over every inch of her.
“Damn it, woman,” Wilfred growled, wrenching at his shirt. “And I had promised myself our next time would be slow and seductive.”
“Wilfred Matthew Kirk Chesterham Zouch, Duke of Aynor,” Irene said lightly, “if you don’t ravish me right now, I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”
He did not think; he only moved. Picking her up by the waist and throwing her onto the bed, amongst her yelps of surprise, Wilfred allowed his shirt to drop to the floor and swiftly pulled off his boots.
Before Irene could even sit up, his trouser buttons were undone and the fabric dropped to the floor.
He had worried that she would be afraid. What Wilfred had not expected to see in Irene’s eyes…was hunger.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Now.”
Wilfred had never disobeyed an order from Miss Irene Chance in his life, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now.
Covering her body with his own on the bed, he groaned to feel the warmth of her, the wetness between her folds as he slid an exploratory finger down her slit.
“So ready,” he murmured, pressing a kiss on her nipple. “So ready for me…”
He took her other nipple into his mouth and nibbled at it with his teeth as he slipped two fingers within her and Irene arched against him, her back curved as she invited him in deeper. Wilfred could have wept at the welcome.
This was where he was meant to be.
“Ready?” he managed to say.
Irene looked up with lust in her hooded eyes, mingled with love. “Ready. Do it now, before—”
He silenced her with a kiss, almost certain he would explode right there if he heard much more, then slowly nudged her knees apart and nestled himself between her.
Slowly, lip-bitingly slowly, Wilfred sheathed his throbbing manhood into her secret place. Her whimpers of hedonism and twisting hips only made it more difficult to retain control. His jaw gritted, not with pain but with patience as he plunged himself deeper.
Finally, he rested, balls-deep in the woman he had made completely his own.
Irene stared, all confusion. “Why—Why have you stopped?”
Wilfred grinned, leaning on his elbow and kissing her deeply before replying, “Now you have to ask me.”
“‘A-Ask’ you?” She kept staring, then laughed as she teased, “Is ordering you not enough?”
“No,” he returned, hoping to goodness he could maintain his composure and not pour himself into her at the first opportunity.
“I would have you ask. Beg. I’ve longed after you, Reeny, pined after you for longer than you can know, and for much of that time, I have dreamed of you begging me to please you.
To pleasure you. Will… Will you do that for me? ”
For a heartbeat, Wilfred thought he had gone too far. It was a huge ask for any woman, he had to presume, but for Irene—
“Please,” she said quietly.
Wilfred slowly lifted his hips, pulling his erect manhood almost completely out of her—and then stilled.
Irene whimpered. “Wilfred!”
“Beg me,” he whispered, taking one of her nipples into his mouth and sucking hard. “Beg me.”
“Do it—do me—I want you, Wilfred. Please, please, there’s such an ache in me—”
“Christ,” Wilfred moaned, thrusting forward and picking up the pace almost immediately, her words going straight to his loins. “More, Reeny. More.”
“All I’ve wanted is you,” gasped Irene, her hips now thrusting up against him, matching his pace. “I’ll do anything, anything for you, Wilfred, just make me feel, please—”
It was all he could do to hang on. With Irene’s begging words whispered into his ear and Wilfred’s whole body desperate to climax, he somehow managed to pound himself into her, eking out his own pleasure as he slowly built up hers, until Irene’s fingers were digging into his shoulders and her head had fallen back and—
“Oh, yes, yes—yes, Wilfred!”
He did not need her to shout his name to know that she was climaxing—he could feel the ripples within her, feel her body taking every inch of bliss it could—but it was damned gratifying, to say the least.
Now. Now I can let go.
“Reeny!” Wilfred cried into her hair, allowing his body’s instincts to take over as he reached his peak and soared over it, ploughing into her and pouring himself into her depths.
When it was over, and it seemed to take far longer than he had ever expected, Wilfred fell into his lover’s waiting arms and knew—knew—he had not come home.
No, he had made one, with his best friend.