Chapter 42
Chapter
Forty-Two
HUGH
L auren is fast asleep in my arms, and I’m exhausted, but sleep won’t come to me.
It’s almost as though a part of me is afraid to miss out on even the smallest moments, every bit as special as fucking her till we both lost control.
I listen to her breath, slow and even, a gentle rhythm that fills me with peace.
The bedside lamp casts a gentle amber glow across her sleeping face nestled against my chest, her blonde hair spilling over my arm, and I can’t stop looking at her, can’t tear my eyes away from the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her lashes, the way her lips part slightly, soft and pink, still swollen from my kisses.
The sex was better than I’ve ever had, fiercer, deeper, a fire that burned through every restraint, and now, in the quiet, I’m mesmerized by the sight of her, my heart thudding like a drum.
I don’t even breathe too deeply, because I don’t want to wake her, don’t want her to stir and realize I’m still here.
And most especially, I don’t want her to ask me to leave.
This manor has always been enough—grand, imposing, a legacy I carry alone—but tonight, with her in my arms, it feels as if it was always too big, too empty, too lonely for one man.
I’ve never felt this before, never let myself imagine a life where another being, other than my mother and I, fill these rooms. Never imagined a woman’s laughter echo off the walls, or her warmth chasing the chill from these ancient rooms.
The thoughts stir something I’ve locked away—hope, maybe, or longing—and it shocks me to realize how much I want her here, always, her body curled against mine, her breath a constant in the dark.
She shifts, her leg sliding over mine, her fingers twitching against my chest, and I freeze, my breath catching, my muscles tensing, because if she wakes, if she sees me staring, she might remember that I’m not to be trusted, and might send me back to my own cold bed.
She moves again, a soft murmur escapes her lips, and her eyes flutter open, blue and angelic in the yellow lamplight.
“Oh,” she says, her voice husky, sleep-thick, “I’m sorry, you weren’t able to leave because of me, right?” There’s a flicker of guilt in her tone, a shy uncertainty, and it twists inside my chest, because I don’t want her to think I’m trapped here, not when every second with her feels like a gift.
I shift, propping myself on one elbow, my hand brushing her hair from her face.
“I didn’t want to leave,” I admit huskily. My eyes hold hers, searching, waiting for a reaction, for a sign she feels this pull too.
Her lips part. “Ah.”
The silence stretches, heavy with possibilities.
“Do you want to take a bath together?” I ask.
A small smile tugs at her lips, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Why not?” she says, her voice light, almost teasing.
Relief floods me, warm and bright, because she’s saying yes, she’s choosing to be with me, for now. I grin and slide out of bed, the cool air biting my skin as I offer her my hand. She takes it, her fingers warm, and we pad across the room to the bathroom.
I turn the faucet, the water rushing out, steaming, and add a couple of scoops of bath salts, the scent rising, soothing and rich.
The tub starts filling quickly, forming a thick layer of bubbles.
I glance at her, standing in the doorway, her naked body silhouetted by the bedside lamp, her curves soft, and my chest tightens, because she’s here, with me, and it’s more than I dared hope.
We slip into the tub, the silky water enveloping us.
She settles against my chest with her back to me, her head resting on my shoulder, and her body fitting perfectly, like she was made for this.
With the warmth seeping into my bones, I wrap my arms around her and rest my hands on her stomach. Her skin is slick under my fingers.
We’re quiet for a while, watching the stars through the window, their light faint but steady, and it’s romantic, even beautiful, a moment so perfect it feels fragile, like it could slip away like sand through my fingers.
My fingers move, slowly tracing her thigh under the water, and she sighs, a soft, contented sound. I slide my hand higher, brushing her inner thigh, and she shifts suggestively, invitingly, her body arching, and I feel her desire mirroring mine.
“Tell me about life here,” she asks, her voice soft, curious, breaking the silence. “England, I mean. I’m so curious about how different it is from life in Chicago.”
I chuckle, my lips grazing her ear, and let my hands rest on her hips.
“I don’t think it’s very different except that this part of England is…
slower, much slower. I’ve been to Chicago twice in the past, and it’s just like London.
Everything is fast and urgent, but here, here in the countryside, people are solid and know what’s truly important and what makes for a good life.
They don’t chase after ephemeral things.
We talk more about our school years, my time at Eaton with the pranks and punishments, and her time in high school, where she was so painfully introverted that she kept to herself until she got to college and met her best friend, Sandy.
“She sounds like pure chaos,” I comment with a smile as I listen to their escapades.
Lauren nods in agreement. “She is, but I love her to death.”
I nod, my chin brushing her hair, and the conversation flows, easy, natural, until the water cools and the bubbles fade.
“Quick fuck in the shower?” I ask cheekily, and she nods, her smile sly, promising.
We step out, the marble floor cold, and move to the glass-walled shower.
I turn the water on, hot and steaming, and we step under it, the spray cascading over us, slicking her hair to her back, her skin gleaming.
She’s close, her hands on my chest, and I can’t resist, my cock stirring, hardening, as her fingers trail lower, brushing me.
I groan, and she smiles, wicked, and then we’re kissing, hard, urgent, the water pounding around us, drowning out everything but her.
I lift Lauren, and her legs wrap tightly around my waist. Her thighs are slick with water and slip against my hips, the sensation like silk sliding over steel, igniting every nerve.
I press her against the shower wall, the marble tiles cool and smooth against her back, a stark contrast to the burning heat of her body, her skin glistening, water streaming down her curves, catching the dim light like liquid diamonds.
Her breasts, full and heavy, press against my chest; her nipples are hard enough to poke my skin, and I’m consumed, my pulse hammering, my cock throbbing with need.
I grab her breasts, my hands rough and greedy, cupping their weight, my thumbs circling those slick nipples, pebbled under the water’s flow, and she gasps.
“Oh fuck!” Her voice is sharp, desperate, echoing off the tiles, cutting through the hiss of the spray.
I lower my mouth hungrily, my lips closing around one nipple, sucking hard, the taste of her skin—clean, warm, faintly salty from sweat—flooding me, driving me wild.
My tongue flicks, teasing, then presses flat, lapping at the bud, drawing it deeper, my teeth grazing just enough to make her arch, her back bowing off the wall, her cry—“Hugh, yes, God,”—ringing in my ears, raw and unrestrained.
Her skin is so slippery, so soft, the water making every touch glide, every curve slick under my palms as I knead her other breast.
Her shudder thrills me.
Her nails clawing my shoulders, scraping red trails that sting under the hot spray, the pain a sharp edge to the pleasure coursing through me.
I suck harder, my mouth working her nipple until it’s swollen and sensitive.
I don’t stop until I’m drunk on her, until I’ve had my fill, even though it’s never enough, not with her, not this.
I enter her, my cock sliding into her heat, tight and slick, her walls pulling me in, gripping me like a vise.
“Hugh, oh God that feels good. Oh, please…”
Her voice is a desperate plea that sets my blood on fire, even as the water cascades over us and pools where our bodies meet. I pound into her, hard and relentless, my hips slamming, driving deep.
Her breasts bounce with each thrust, and I grab them again, my hands slipping over her slippery skin, squeezing, my thumbs pinching her nipples, still sensitive from my mouth, making her gasp.
Her head is thrown back and water streams down her exposed throat. Her moans blend with the water’s roar. I thrust faster, brutal, unyielding, the rhythm savage, my cock buried in her, again and again. Her walls flutter, and then she comes, shaking uncontrollably.
“Fuck me, Hugh, I’m—” Her scream is cut off by her own gasp as her walls clench around me, milking me, pulling me in.
I’m close, so close, my balls tightening, the heat coiling low, but I hold on, gritting my teeth, wanting this to last, wanting to feel her slippery inner walls for a little while longer, feel her trembling frame, and hear her voice crying my name for just a moment longer, because this—her, us, this fire… is everything.
Eventually, I let go and let the pleasure take me. And what a pleasure it is.
I wait for a while to allow her to recover, then we step out of the shower stall.
I grab a towel and relish the act of drying her, my hands lingering on her hips, her breasts, her thighs, her skin soft and beautifully flushed.
It amuses me that she is still barely able to stand because her legs are so weak.
Finding a hair dryer, I blow-dry her golden hair, my fingers combing through the damp strands of silk.
I’ve never done this with a woman before, and the act is surprisingly intimate to me, a contrast to the fire we just burned through. She leans into me, her eyes half-closed, and we’re silent, just breathing, just being, the night fading around us, leaving only us in that great big manor.
We slip into fluffy robes and return to the bed. In the glowing lamplight, I pull her close, and her body curls into mine. We lie quietly, neither wanting to break the silence. I don’t know what this is, what it means, but with her in my arms, I don’t care—not now.