Chapter Seven #2
He kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, until the world shrank to the span of his arms and the thrum of her pulse in her ears. When he drew back at last, it was only to press his forehead to hers, eyes shut tight as if willing himself to hold the moment, to never let it break.
Victor’s hands, always so steady, trembled at her waist. “Come with me,” he whispered.
She nodded, unable to trust her voice. His hand found hers, broad and warm, and together they left the drawing room, the hush of the Abbey pressing close around them.
Pearl walked beside him, heart racing, conscious of every point of contact, his thumb grazing the web of her fingers, the brush of his sleeve at her elbow, the weight of his gaze in the corners of her vision.
They climbed the main stair, their footfalls muffled, ghosts.
His room was at the far end of the hallway, the door already ajar.
Inside, the fire glowed. The space was spare, purposeful, the trappings of comfort secondary to the demands of function.
The bed dominated the far wall, four-poster, draped in dark blue damask, the hangings gathered back in heavy knots.
Victor closed the door, and for a moment, he stood with his back to it, as if to block any possibility of interruption or escape. He looked at her then—really looked—and she felt the last of her defenses fall away.
He crossed to her in two strides and lifted her face to his. The kiss was slower this time, exploratory, his lips tracing the contour of her mouth, her jaw, the hollow just below her ear. She gasped, surprised by the strength of her own desire, by the hunger that had lain dormant all these years.
He began to undo the fastenings of her gown, fingers deft but unhurried.
With each one, she felt herself coming undone at the seams. Her own hands found his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the pulse beneath his collarbone.
She slipped his coat off his frame. It landed on the rug without a sound.
He broke the kiss, eyes searching her face. She answered with a touch, her palm at his cheek, her thumb at the corner of his mouth, tracing the half-smile that had haunted her for so long.
He smiled, but there was nothing mocking in it now. He kissed her again, deeper, and with each pass his hands grew bolder, finding the curve of her ribs, the hollow at the base of her spine, the rise of her hips through the thin fabric of her shift.
The gown slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood in her chemise, the air sharp on her skin, but she didn’t think to cover herself. He stepped back, gaze reverent, letting her see the wanting plain on his face.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, as if it were the simplest fact in the world.
She laughed, a little wild, a little unsteady. “You’re a liar.” Even as she said it, she knew he believed it.
He shook his head, one hand cupping the side of her neck, the other spanning the small of her back. “You are. Always have been.”
She let herself believe it, just this once.
She undid his waistcoat, her fingers clumsy now, breath coming short and shallow. He helped her, his own hands moving with a gentle urgency, undoing his cravat, his shirt, his trousers, until at last there was nothing between them but bare skin and the warmth of the fire.
He gathered her to him, and she was stunned by the feel of him—so solid, so alive, every inch of him burning with the same impossible longing that blazed in her own chest. He kissed her again, and this time she opened to him, letting him taste all the things she had never dared to give anyone, not even Percy.
He lifted her as easily as one might a child or a prize and carried her to the bed. The hangings shivered with their passage. He set her on the coverlet, his hands never leaving her, his eyes never straying from her face.
He took his time. Every touch was a question, every caress a promise. He kissed the inside of her wrist, the slope of her shoulder, the thin blue vein at the base of her throat. He traced the line of her clavicle with his tongue, then moved lower, lower, until her whole body arched to meet him.
She wasn’t shy. She wanted this—wanted him—and when she reached for his cock, he shuddered at the contact. He pressed his mouth to her breast, teasing her until she gasped, then groaned, her hands fisting in his hair.
Victor helped her shimmy out of the chemise, and suddenly she was naked before him. She waited for the old terror, the shame of the lines marring her belly after giving birth. It didn’t come.
He kneeled between her thighs, his hands splayed on either side of her, his gaze worshipful. “If you want to stop—” he began, but she cut him off, pulling his mouth to hers.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, and he laughed, low and incredulous.
He pressed her back onto the bed, covering her with his body but not crushing her, holding himself up with trembling arms as he mapped her skin with lips and tongue and the press of his palms. She arched into him, greedy for contact, for the weight of him and warmth.
He explored every inch of her, learning her with a care that bordered on awe.
He entered her slowly but deliberately, each inch of his throbbing length invading her tight, wet heat as if it belonged to him.
Her cunny fluttered around him, hot and clenching, as if her body couldn’t decide whether to fight or submit to the delicious stretch.
She gasped, sharp and needy, her nails digging into the muscles of his back.
“Damn, you’re tight,” he growled against her ear, his voice rough and raw, like gravel and sin. His breath was hot as it whispered over her neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He paused, hips flush against hers, letting her adjust to his girth.
She pulsed around him, slick and greedy, as her hips bucked upward, desperate for more. “Move,” she whimpered, her voice breaking on the word, her thighs quivering as they wrapped around his waist. “Please, just—move.”
And he did. Oh, my, he did.
His thrusts were measured at first, each one deep and deliberate. Every time he pulled back, she could feel the ridges of him, the swollen head catching against her clenching walls before he plunged back in, filling her to the brim.
Her breath came in ragged little gasps, her breasts bouncing with every movement, nipples stiff and aching for attention.
She arched her back, pressing herself closer to him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she dragged his mouth down to hers.
The kiss was needy, all tongues and desperation, her moans swallowed by his hungry lips.
He shifted slightly, angling his hips, and when he thrust back in, it was like lightning shot through her entire body. His cock hit that sweet spot inside her, and she cried out, her voice echoing off the walls of the room. “Oh, God, there! Please—I’m so close—”
He let out a low, guttural moan, his rhythm faltering as he buried his face in her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there.
“You feel so good,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust. His thrusts became faster, more erratic, the slap of skin against skin filling the air as he drove into her relentlessly, chasing his own release as he pushed her toward hers.
Her clit throbbed, aching for attention, and she reached down between them, her fingers rubbing quick, desperate circles that had her moaning loud and shamelessly. “I’m going to come,” she panted, her thighs shaking as she clung to him.
“Do it,” he ordered, his voice rough and commanding as he fucked her harder, deeper, his cock hitting that spot over and over until she was ready to shatter. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you.”
And she did. Her orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing over her with enough force to leave her breathless, her body convulsing as she screamed his name. She clamped down on him, milking his cock for every drop as her release washed over her in waves, leaving her boneless and trembling.
She whimpered, her body still thrumming with pleasure as he moved relentlessly, his cock hitting all the right spots as he chased his own release.
She could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic, and when he finally came, it was with a roar that shook the walls, his cock pulsing inside her as he filled her with his seed.
Spent and trembling, he collapsed on top of her, his breath hot against her skin as he pressed a kiss to her neck. “Good lord,” he muttered, his voice rough and wrecked. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
She grinned, her body still humming with pleasure as she reached to stroke his hair. “You’re welcome.”
They lay tangled in the bedding, the fire guttering down to coals. Pearl’s head was on his chest, his hand stroking her hair, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath her ear.
She closed her eyes, letting the peace of the moment soak into her. For the first time in a year—perhaps for the first time in her life—she felt truly safe.
Victor spoke, voice barely a rumble. “I don’t deserve you,” he said. “I know that.”
She smiled against his skin. “Deserving has nothing to do with it.”
He turned her face to his, kissing her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips. “I want to make you happy. For the rest of my days.”
“You already have,” she whispered.
He laughed, the sound loose and incredulous. “Good. I intend to do it again first thing in the morning.”
She traced a finger along his chest, mapping the constellation of freckles there. “It’s Christmas.”
“Then I’ll make you come twice.”
She laughed, and the sound echoed off the high ceiling, filling the room with warmth.
They spoke softly of the future and children and the places they would go. When the fire died, he rose to stoke it, then returned to her, pulling her close beneath the covers. The room was warm, the world silent.
Pearl drifted to sleep in his arms, her body aching, her soul at peace.
When the sun rose, it found them still entwined, the old ghosts banished, the Abbey brighter than it had ever been.