Chapter 5
By Kerrigan Byrne
Charles's face hardened, his blue eyes turning to ice as he gently released Felicia. "Watch your filthy tongue, Loxley, before I cut it out."
Loxley sneered, his gaze sliding over Felicia with a lascivious appraisal that made her skin crawl. "I'm merely pointing out what everyone will soon know. The Montclair spinster spreading her legs for a Harrington. How the mighty have fallen."
Charles moved with startling speed for a man his size, placing himself between Felicia and Loxley. "Apologize to the lady. Now."
"Lady?" Loxley laughed, the sound ugly in the moonlight. "Is that what you call your whore? Tell me, Your Grace, does she moan prettily when you—"
The crack of Charles's fist connecting with Loxley's jaw echoed in the garden. Loxley stumbled backward, his hand flying to his face in shock.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "You'll regret this. I'll tell the earl everything. By morning, all of Devonshire will know about the Montclair slut and her duke!"
The duke’s second blow took the starch out of Loxley’s knees as he crumpled to the ground.
Felicia stared at the unconscious man, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. "Charlie..."
He turned to her, chest heaving, eyes still blazing with fury. He grabbed her hand, his fingers warm and strong around hers. "Come with me."
She glanced back at the house, at the sprawled form of Loxley. "But—"
"He'll wake soon enough, and when he does, he'll make good on his threat. We need time to think."
Without waiting for her response, Charles pulled her across the lawn, away from the house and toward the stables that bordered both properties.
The night air was cool against her heated skin, dew soaking through the thin fabric of her slippers.
She should have been terrified, should have been pulling away and running back to the safety of her bedchamber, but all she felt was exhilaration coursing through her veins.
The stable door creaked as Charles pushed it open, the familiar scent of hay and horses enveloping them. Moonlight filtered through the high windows, casting silver shadows across the stalls. He led her to the back, where a ladder climbed to the hayloft above.
"Up," he said, his voice rough.
Felicia gathered her nightrail and climbed, aware of his gaze on her as she ascended. The loft was warm, fragrant with fresh hay. Charles followed quickly behind her, pulling the ladder up after them.
They stood facing each other in the dim light, both breathing hard. His cravat was askew, and his dark hair tumbled across his forehead, making him look younger, more vulnerable. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the strong line of his jaw still tight with anger.
"He had no right to speak of you that way," Charles said, his voice low and dangerous. "No right at all."
Felicia's heart hammered against her ribs. "You didn't have to defend my honor."
"I did." His eyes burned into hers. "I would do it again."
The heat between them was palpable, crackling in the small space like lightning before a storm. Charles took a step toward her, then another, until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"Loxley is a snake," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "He's been stealing from your father for years. And now he dares to insult you? To threaten your reputation?" His hands clenched at his sides. "I should have done worse than knock him senseless."
"Charlie," she whispered, reaching for him. “What are you doing here? Tell me the truth.”
He caught her hand, his thumb tracing circles on her palm. "Do you know how long I've wanted you? How many nights I've lain awake thinking of you?"
Her breath caught. "I thought you hated me."
"Hate?" He laughed softly. "Is that what you thought this was? This fire between us?"
His free hand came up to cup her face, his touch gentle despite the strength she knew he possessed. Felicia leaned into his palm, her eyes fluttering closed.
"Look at me, Felicia."
She opened her eyes to find his face inches from hers, his gaze intense and searching.
"I have wanted you since I was sixteen years old," he confessed. "But our families—"
"To hell with our families," she breathed. "To hell with all of it."
His kiss was different this time—not desperate or furious, but deliberate, as if he were memorizing the feel of her mouth beneath his.
Felicia wound her arms around his neck, pressing herself against the hard planes of his chest. His hands spanned her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her nightrail.
When he lifted her, she went willingly, wrapping her legs around his hips as he lowered them both onto the soft hay. His weight above her was exquisite, pinning her in the most delicious way. She arched against him, drawing a groan from deep in his throat.
"Are you certain?" he asked, his voice tight with restraint.
In answer, she pulled him down to her, capturing his mouth with hers. Her fingers found the buttons of his waistcoat, fumbling in her eagerness to feel his skin against hers. Charles helped her, shrugging out of his coat and waistcoat before returning to her with renewed fervor.
His thumb caressed the soft swell of her breast where it rose above her nightrail. His fingers worked at the ribbon ties, loosening them with deliberate care until the fabric parted, revealing her to the silver moonlight. The air caught in Felicia's lungs as his gaze traveled over her exposed skin.
"Beautiful," he breathed, his voice thick with desire.
Heat bloomed across her skin, spreading from her cheeks down to her chest. She should have felt shame, should have covered herself, but instead she reached for him, pulling him closer.
His mouth found her breast, and Felicia gasped at the sensation, her back arching off the hay.
His tongue circled her nipple before drawing it between his lips, sending shocks of pleasure coursing through her body.
She buried her fingers in his hair, holding him to her as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other.
"Charlie," she whispered, her voice breaking on his name.
He raised his head, his eyes dark with need. "Say it again."
"Charlie," she repeated, louder this time, delighting in the way his eyes flashed at the sound of his name on her lips.
His hands slid down her sides, gathering the fabric of her nightrail, inching it higher and higher until it bunched around her waist. The cool night air kissed her thighs, making her shiver—or perhaps it was the hunger in his gaze as he looked down at her.
"I've dreamt of this," he confessed, his fingers tracing patterns on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. "Of touching you. Tasting you."
Felicia trembled beneath him, desire coiling tight in her belly. "We still might be dreaming," she sighed, her voice surprisingly steady despite the riot of sensations threatening to overwhelm her.
A wolfish smile curved his lips before he lowered his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her stomach, her hip, the tender skin of her thigh. Felicia's breath hitched as his mouth moved higher, closer to the ache at her center.
The first touch of his tongue against her most intimate place tore a cry from her throat. She clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified by the sound, but Charles reached up and gently pulled it away.
"Let me hear you," he murmured against her skin. "I want to know what pleases you."
He returned with a hunger that bordered on ferocity, his hands splaying her thighs as if he meant to devour every trembling inch.
His tongue worked in relentless, clever circles, never settling into predictability, always finding some new edge of sensation to ignite.
Every clever flick and soft suck shattered her into raw, staggering sensation.
Her hips bucked helplessly; she clutched at the hay, then at his dark hair, desperate for something to anchor her as the world telescoped to the wet heat of his mouth and the primal, exquisite pressure gathering inside her.
She’d been touched before—clumsy, tentative, forgettable encounters arranged by well-meaning chaperones and concluded with polite mortification.
This was something altogether different, carnal and reverent all at once.
He worshipped her with tongue and lips and hands, as if she were something holy and forbidden that he alone had the right to taste.
Felicia felt herself dissolving, each gasp and whimper clawing free as her pleasure built, spiking beyond the borders of anything she’d ever known.
Her legs trembled around his shoulders, the hay pricking her bare skin, the air impossibly cold, and yet her blood impossibly hot.
She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them wide, needing to see the truth of him between her thighs, the sight almost as intoxicating as the sensation.
Charles met her gaze, blue eyes blazing with a feral tenderness, a smile curling the edge of his mouth even as he drove her higher and higher. The tension wound sharp and tight, a violin string ready to snap, and she feared it, craved it, ached for the inevitable shattering.
He slid a finger inside her, slow and gentle at first, curling expertly to coax her into new realms of sensation.
She sobbed his name, the syllables torn from her with every thrust. When his mouth and hand worked in tandem, she nearly convulsed, a ripple of sensation tearing up her spine and bursting behind her eyes in a shower of white.
The world disintegrated, collapsing to a single, blinding moment of release—no, not a moment, but a wave, battering her against the brittle wall of her own restraint and carrying her under.
She spasmed against his hand and lips, cried out, and then collapsed, boneless and shaking, the taste of his name still raw in her throat.