15. The Uncomfortable Journey #3
Kate’s soft gasp seemed to unlock something in both of them.
She pressed closer, deepening the kiss with a hunger that had been building for months now.
Her body molded against his, soft curves fitting against hard angles, her hands sliding over his shoulders and down his back, pulling him closer with an urgency that made him groan—a sound torn from somewhere deep inside, where he’d buried every natural desire.
The sound seemed to embolden her, for she shifted, moving to straddle his hips, but he was faster.
His hand at her waist guided her movement, rolling her back onto the mattress in one motion.
Still kissing her, his hand slipped beneath the fabric of her nightgown, trailing her skin with his bare fingers.
She gasped against his lips, and they broke apart, staring into each other’s eyes.
His hand stilled.
“Please,” she begged. “Do not stop.”
“Do you truly wish this?”
“Yes, I want this… I want you.”
His hand moved up from her thigh, where it had stopped, caressing her with a gentle touch.
Kate spread her legs instinctively to give him better access, while a soft cry escaped her lips as his middle finger slid over her most sensitive area over the thin fabric, so gently she thought he barely touched her.
Her cheeks flushed crimson and her skin burned with such heat she thought she might be falling ill.
Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in as he touched her reverently.
Jason was captivated by the vision of her in such state. So given, so completely his. If only he could frame this moment alone for eternity.
“Trust me,” he whispered.
And she closed her eyes, letting him see that she did.
He slipped that very hand beneath her underwear and touched her skin, sliding his finger downward from her bellybutton ever so slowly, tracing the path toward her pubic hair.
Kate’s eyes fluttered open at the exact moment that finger touched her wetness. And neither of them was able to look away as Jason discovered just how hot and wet she truly was.
She was so ready for him. For her. For Gina.
Jason licked his lips, desperately wishing to taste that warmth with his mouth instead of with the tip of his finger.
“Yes,” Kate breathed, dragging out the “s” as she released the tension from her body at his touch.
He watched her face as he gifted her a pleasure she had never known before, learning what made her pant, what made her tremble, what made her bite her own lips. Her breathing became ragged, her movements more urgent, as he led her—for the first time—to an unknown place.
It was maddening, the look of her. So beside herself.
Jason felt it in his body, or rather, Gina felt it in her own body, the same wetness, the same desperate need that Kate was experiencing.
By all that was sacred, she wanted her so much.
Carefully yet without pause, Gina—because the one truly feeling this was Gina, not Jason—slipped that same finger inside Kate ever so gently, as if asking her body to yield slowly, to soften around her touch without resistant.
The little cry that escaped Kate’s throat made her arch her back against the bed, and she fixed her wide eyes on the person who owned that finger—now inside her.
That person she saw was Jason. But Gina was the one looking back at her, the one who felt the warmth and tightness of Kate’s response, the closeness pressing in like an embrace, the roughness on the back of her finger, and the raised texture on her fingertip.
A shiver of longing passed through her, and she wished, more than anything before, that she could feel that same warmth elsewhere in her body, in a part she didn’t—or couldn’t—have as a woman.
It was at that moment, and at that moment alone, that Gina truly wished to be a man instead of a woman. Every thought, every pulse of desire, began and ended with pleasing this other woman who had become her everything, with being able to fill her entirely and make her lose all logical reasoning.
“Am I hurting you?” Jason’s voice had shifted, grown breathless and rough.
Kate could not respond, only shook her head. She bit her lips and arched her hips, offering herself entirely to him.
Jason lowered his head and claimed her lips, muffling her gasps as his finger moved within her, in and out, in a rhythm that made her dizzy and breathless and sweaty.
Kate grasped that hand, pressing it tightly against herself, as if she wanted to pull him even closer. She tugged at his shirt, trying to draw him toward her, and her hands began to unbutton it when—
Reality slammed back with brutal force.
Jason abruptly withdrew his finger from inside her and practically threw himself off the bed, pulling away from Kate as he staggered backward until his back slammed against the wall.
“Jason!”
Kate sat up immediately, her hair disheveled and her lips swollen from the kiss. Her legs snapped shut instantly as she covered herself with her nightgown.
Jason stood with his back pressed against the wall, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if blocking out the sight of her—rumpled and beautiful and utterly bewildered—might somehow make this easier.
“I apologize,” he managed to say with his voice rough and unsteady. “I’m not feeling well.”
When he opened his eyes, Kate was staring at him in astonishment. She had sat up on the bed’s edge, her nightgown twisted around her legs.
“Not feeling well?” Disbelief and growing anger sharpened her voice. “Is that what you’re going with?”
“It’s late. We should sleep,” he said looking away, not wanting to see her so vulnerable and so desirable.
“Look at me when you lie to me, at least,” she demanded, her voice rising.
He turned his head again, forcing his face into composure even as his heart hammered against his ribs. Kate sat there, her hair loose around her shoulders, her expression a mixture of hurt, confusion and desire that made him regret every decision he had taken up to this moment.
“What are you so afraid of?” she asked.
“I simply think it unwise, given our early departure tomorrow.”
Kate studied him for a long moment, and he could see her trying to make sense of his behavior, searching for explanations that would never occur to her.
When he didn’t offer any other explanation, she sighed heavily.
“Very well,” she said finally, turning away from him with wounded dignity. She returned to her side of the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Goodnight, Mr. Moore-Sullivan.”
The formal address hit him like a slap, instantly cooling him down after such a heated moment.
Jason remained standing, conflict clear in every line of his body.
After what felt like an eternity, he moved to the chair by the fire and settled into its uncomfortable embrace, watching Kate’s still form on the bed and wondering how much longer he could maintain this huge deception.
The hand that had touched her was still damp, still held her essence. He rubbed his fingers together, letting it dry.
When he was certain she wouldn’t look back, he brought that hand to his nose and breathed deeply, closing his eyes. This was Kate’s scent, something he knew he would never forget.
He resisted the overwhelming urge to taste what remained on his fingers, though every instinct demanded it.
* * *
Morning brought no relief from the tension that refused to dissipate, like a dense fog between them both.
The carriage atmosphere was strained, heavy with silence, hurt and confusion.
Kate stared out the window at the passing countryside, her expression distant and wounded.
Mr. Moore sat across from her with his jaw set tightly, the picture of a man wrestling with old demons.
Vikram, oblivious to the adult tension crackling around him, chattered enthusiastically about the day ahead. “Will we search for the Gray Lady tonight? I’ve been thinking about what you said, Mr. Moore-Sullivan, about ghosts appearing when you’re not looking for them.”
No one answered him.
The silence stretched until even the boy’s natural enthusiasm began to waver. He looked between the adults, finally sensing the strained atmosphere.
“Is something wrong?” he dared to ask shyly.
Kate didn’t look away from the window, and her voice was cool and precise when she answered, “Nothing at all. Mr. Moore-Sullivan simply had trouble sleeping.”
“The chair was not as comfortable as I had hoped,” Mr. Moore added stiffly.
Vikram’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why did you sleep in a chair?”
Kate turned to look directly at Jason, her gaze challenging him further. “Yes, Mr. Moore-Sullivan. Why did you?”
The question was more intended to cut into his chest rather than hoping for an answer, loaded with all the hurt and confusion of the night before. Jason met her eyes briefly, then looked away, unable to bear the wounded accusation he saw there.
Outside the carriage windows, Thornfield Manor waited in the distance, its ancient stones holding secrets and ghosts of their own. But none, perhaps, as dangerous as the ones traveling toward it in the tense silence of a marriage built on the most fundamental of lies.