Chapter 22 The Spies
THE SPIES
“Up here, Vivienne,” Battle ordered hoarsely. “Now.”
His cock still deep in my mouth, I looked up his defined abs, over his perfectly-sprinkled-with-dark-hair pecs, his strong throat to his flushed face and dilated eyes and kept sucking him off.
I got in two more strokes with my mouth before his hands were under my arms, and he was hauling me up his body while he sat up.
Then he was grinding me down on his cock while he groaned and I gasped.
He fisted a hand in my hair, yanking it back sexy-rough, so my spine arched.
His arm tight around my hips held me full of him, unable to move, as he kept me positioned for him and tortured my nipples with his lips and tongue.
Such a damned tease.
“God, honey,” I begged.
He tipped my head forward, kissed me and used both hands clenching my ass to control my rhythm as I rode him.
Eventually, I had his head in my hands, one of his skated over my hip so he could roll my clit with a strong finger, we were gaze to gaze, lips to lips, Battle purring, me whimpering.
Then I came.
He slid down in bed, pulled me off his dick, planted me on his face, and he ate me through my orgasm, built and unleashed another one, and when I heard him groan up my pussy, I knew he’d taken care of himself with his hand.
A quick squeeze of my thigh giving me the message, and I expended energy I did not have to swing off him, collapse on my back, settling at his side.
“You eat me out while you jack off, you position me the other way so I can watch,” I bitched wheezily (what could I say? That was hot. I was still recovering).
“Darling, you’ll be where I put you,” he replied.
I turned my head to look at him, uncertain I wanted to countermand his order because I always liked where he put me, like I did just now.
I still would have liked to watch.
I didn’t get the chance to make up my mind.
He leaned into me, touched his lips to mine and rolled out of bed to head to the bathroom.
After he cleaned up and came back, he didn’t come back to me.
He put on his boxer briefs, then his trousers, and shrugged on his shirt but didn’t button it.
Only then did he come to me.
Another lean in, another lip touch, and when he pulled back, he said, “Stay there. I’ll return.”
With that, he walked out.
I didn’t stay there.
We fucked upon waking.
Or we fucked upon Battle waking me.
This meant I got out of bed and took care of business, including brushing my teeth.
I went back to bed and considered hitting the smart screen to order a pot of coffee.
By the time he got back, Snowball and Gingerface were hanging with me.
Bartholomew wasn’t, but that was probably because he was having breakfast.
When Battle returned, Baby Blue was prancing behind him.
But I was staring at him.
He was still in the same clothes.
And he had a thin, long, darkest dark-blue velvet jewelry box with him.
As I stared at that box, Battle stretched his long body out beside me in bed, still wearing his trousers, open shirt, bare feet…yum.
And he handed me the box.
“Battle,” I whispered, now only having eyes for him.
He reached out and flipped the box open.
I forced my gaze to what was inside.
Nestled in a bed of robin’s-egg-blue satin was a diamond tennis bracelet, set in white gold.
The diamonds weren’t ostentatiously huge, it was a classy piece, albeit it could never be described as lowkey, because even if the diamonds weren’t large, it was a tennis bracelet, so there were a lot of them.
But…fucking hell.
“Baby,” I said.
“I’ve noticed you don’t have enough jewelry,” he stated.
Annnnnd…
Yes.
A tear slid down my cheek.
“Your diamond earrings are set in white gold too,” he remarked.
Of course he noticed.
Of course.
He slipped a thumb over the trail of my tear. “Don’t cry, Vivienne.”
“My mom bought me those earrings.”
His face gentled, and he cupped my jaw. “Sweetheart.”
“Now I can have her at my ears and you at my wrist.”
He took that wrist and kissed the skin on the inside, then he moved his hand to the back of my neck and pulled me to his mouth.
We kissed, wet and sweet, before he ended it, and I asked, “Will you put it on?”
He didn’t reply, except to take the box from me, pull the bracelet from its bed of satin, casually toss the box on my nightstand, and when I offered my wrist, he bested the fiddly clasp with a few flicks of his thumb and there it was.
Flashing brilliant, rich and meaningful.
Battle on my wrist.
“I take it you like it,” he murmured.
I shifted my gaze from the bracelet to him. “It’s beautiful.”
“I suppose we’re making progress that you didn’t throw it in my face,” he quipped.
I swatted him.
Then I kissed him.
He rolled on top of me.
And he kissed me.
* * *
Tennis Bracelet Day, as it would henceforth be known for all eternity, was Friday morning.
It was now Saturday afternoon.
Battle and I had worked yesterday.
This morning, we had sex (again, my room), got showered, dressed and went down to have breakfast with the girls.
After that, we went riding, and Tempie came with us.
Battle was impressed with how much more comfortable I was on Noelle, but I left my ride to continuing to get used to a canter while they took off at a run.
Watching them race through the field, I doubled down on my intent to learn how to ride better so I could someday do that with them.
Truth, Tempie was totally the shit (she was wearing black riding breeches and boots, with a crisp white blouse (another mental note: buy riding breeches—not only were they the shit, it seemed like they gave your legs more freedom, even than jeans, which could be restricting), and her horse, Calpurnia, was an unusual, lustrous silver black).
But Lord…
In faded jeans and an olive-green button down, Battle bent forward, racing his sister on the back of his blood bay?
Be still my freaking heart.
After our ride, we cleaned up and Battle took me into the village for a pub lunch and a half pint of cider.
The day was nice, and they were getting warmer, so we sat outside at a picnic table with hanging baskets and pots of England’s famous lush, bright flowers all around.
He knew people and nodded when he caught their eyes, or they stopped by the table for a moment to say hello, whereupon he always introduced me, and never failed to wedge in the words “bestselling author,” something I freaking loved, because he seemed almost as proud of that as me.
It was cool to see him out and about and being just Battle. He was too danged tall, built and gorgeous not to give off a certain presence, but it wasn’t a duke-ish one. And it was clear all of these people who he’d lived among all his life were as comfortable with him as he was with them.
In other words, they didn’t act like Henry Cavill stumbled into their pub for a bacon and brie sandwich, chips and a pint of Guiness.
When we returned, I took him to the studio to show him the photos I wanted to use (he approved). We then sat on the chaise so I could show him my outline on my laptop (he approved of that too).
After that, he asked if he could see Marie’s journal.
I dug it out for him.
He then lounged all sexy-hot duke on the chaise, one hand behind his head, the other holding up the diary, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, Gingerface hunkered down on his chest (Snowball, by the by, was on my desk (her favorite spot in the studio if the fire wasn’t going), Baby Blue hadn’t ventured out with us, but Bartholomew had somehow wedged himself under the desk and was resting his head on my feet).
Battle read while I went to the desk and did some online shopping.
Tempie had confirmed “spring formal” for Rally and Courtney’s wedding meant some springtime-esque formalwear…
“But, dearest, Battle is a man, so he missed part of it,” she stated. “The ceremony will be smart dress and hat. Everyone is changing for the evening reception to formalwear.”
So I needed two outfits.
And a hat.
Although shopping for a wedding hat was a fun online trip (I’d never purchased a hat that wasn’t a baseball cap), I got sidetracked in this endeavor (though, before that happened, I’d found two sexy nighties, which I bought).
What sidetracked me was doing a bit of side research on something that had been intriguing me since I learned of it.
I was in the middle of that when Battle ended our companionable silence.
“Christ,” he said. “This woman is tedious.” He rested the book on his thigh with his thumb in the page and looked at me. “Did you get through this whole thing?”
I nodded.
“Bloody hell. How?”
I smiled at him. “It’s my job.”
“I actually feel foul this woman’s blood runs through my veins. She was vapid to extremes, and a revoltingly slipshod mother.”
I grimaced, because I got him as well as agreed with him.
His eyes dropped to the laptop and came back to my face. “What are you doing?”
“Researching the disappearance of Lord Arthur Hughes-Davies, the viscount from Northumberland who went missing in 1946.”
His brows inched together. “Why are you doing that?”
I shrugged. “Because it’s a mystery.” Then I got into it. “Get this, the dude was not a good dude. He got three deferrals, all medical, all suspected to have happened because he paid people off so he didn’t have to serve during the war.”
“If he had that kind of pull, he could have done the same thing and found himself a safe officer’s commission where he didn’t leave English soil and not taken that kind of hit to his reputation,” Battle noted.
“He could. Another reason people thought he was an asshole. If you didn’t do your bit for the war effort back then, whatever that bit might be, you were persona non grata.
And as far as I could tell, he didn’t do anything.
It was like the war didn’t happen for him, and he worked hard to make it that way.
But there were also rumors he cheated at cards, left his companions with bar and dinner tabs, maybe had fascist tendencies and was inappropriate with the ladies. ”
“So did anyone give a shit he was gone?”