Chapter 36 Livy
Livy
The kiss wasn’t what Livy expected.
It wasn’t gentle, but the sentiment behind it was.
The roll of Derek’s tongue over hers, the way his teeth tugged on her bottom lip, the continuous flex of his hands on her back—there was a confused desperation behind it.
As if he needed her like his last breath.
But he couldn’t possibly admit that. Not to himself, not to her.
When they’d kissed before in this very room—heavens, that kiss seemed like a lifetime ago—it’d been a claiming, a war waged, one against the other, even if the lust had been shared.
The intent to seduce had been loud in the way he’d touched her in the past. As had her reminders to herself that she’d only allowed the liberties as a strategic tactic, to further her cause.
They had both been calculated.
But he didn’t need to seduce her any longer.
And she no longer had a cause.
Tonight at the theater, she’d realized something. When Warren had touched her, she’d flinched. He didn’t feel safe. He didn’t feel like home the way he once had.
It was easier to see now, after having lived more in the last month than she had in her entire twenty years.
What she had felt for Warren was a comfort, familiar.
She’d been starved for affection for so long; her only balm had been losing herself in numbers or a gallop with Bonny.
Then Warren, with his blue eyes, windswept blond hair, and charming smile, had swooped into her life.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to put into words what it had felt like, going from an aching loneliness to finally being wanted by someone.
What Warren had given to her…she had truly thought it was happiness.
It was something worth reshaping herself for. She’d settle for hiding certain parts of herself if it meant laughter and conversation, the warmth of another’s arms. Or so she’d naively thought. She didn’t have to settle.
There was one man who saw every part of who she was and appreciated that woman. Who argued she shouldn’t change.
And he was currently making quick work of divesting her of her clothing.
Her gown already pooled around her ankles, the fabric of her petticoats whispering through the parlor as they fluttered to join it. He pulled away, but she thrust her hands into his hair, yanking him back.
She needed him to understand. So she did her best to explain.
Not with words.
With want.
With touch.
That this—being with him—was as elemental as the fundamental theorem of calculus.
Two completely different souls, his dark, sardonic cynicism stark against her hopeful, bright optimism.
An improbable combination. But just as integration and differentiation were opposites, one couldn’t have one without the other.
He growled deep in his throat, his whisky-coated tongue clashing with hers. His fingers flexed around her waist and then squeezed. His hands almost spanned the entirety of her. Heat washed over her. She loved it.
A hand came down hard on her bottom, and she squeaked in surprise, breaking their kiss. She stared wide-eyed at a smirking Derek.
He arched a brow and waved his finger in a small circle, silently ordering her to spin. She did instantly, and his hand landed softly on her backside again, giving it a soothing rub before giving it a possessive squeeze. He let out an appreciative rumble that she felt straight between her thighs.
“You’re wearing far too many clothes, minx,” he murmured against her ear. His hands moved to her stays while his lips did wicked things down the curve of her neck. Her stays thumped to the ground, leaving her in nothing but her chemise, stockings, and slippers.
He slid his hands up her ribs, traveling leisurely to her— He stilled just beneath where she needed him. Her head fell back against his shoulder. Her skin prickled, her breasts aching. But all the maddening man did was trace just under the swell of her breasts over her chemise.
“I’ve dreamt of this moment,” he whispered.
“Tracing every inch of your silky skin with my fingertips.” His fingers slid up and around her breasts, avoiding her nipples.
“Following with my lips.” Lips grazed over skin, a soft nuzzle into her neck, nothing more.
“With my tongue.” His tongue dipped out, a quick tease that had her shivering.
Her body was completely overwhelmed with feeling, and just below her skin, an incessant thrumming burned.
A need that was something only he could deliver.
His warm palms finally cupped her, and she arched into his touch. His shaky breath danced over her skin. “Perfect.” There was a slight tremor in his voice. Like he was just as overcome.
It wasn’t enough, though. She needed the heat of skin. His against hers. That shock that came when two people finally came together with nothing between them. Her hands found the hem of her chemise, and she pushed away from Derek, pulling the garment over her head and letting it fall behind her.
His curse filled the chamber. Low. Rough. Thick with desire.
Ever so slowly, she spun to face him.
His fists were balled, knuckles white. His eyes roamed over her, never touching one spot longer than a heartbeat, like he could consume her purely with that lush green gaze.
She’d let him if he could. She wanted nothing more than to be devoured by him.
And if the way he was wiping the back of his wrist across his mouth was any indication, he was picturing something very similar.
She squeezed her thighs against the demanding pulse there, so much stronger under his hungry gaze.
Her lips tilted up in a content little smile, and his eyes flashed with amusement.
Yes, she might be a touch smug at his bold appreciation.
But how could she not? When this man looked at her like she’d finally given him everything he’d been missing.
It was probably the most foolish thought she’d ever had, considering who this man was.
She paused just before him and settled her hand on his abdomen over his thin lawn shirt.
Her fingers splayed out as wide as they could go, greedy to feel as much of him as possible.
His muscles twitched under her touch, and then instantly went rigid.
It was her turn for amusement. Her attention lifted to his face, and she bit back a smile.
The rogue was flexing. He arched a brow.
I’m not above showing off, minx. Was it bad she was fairly certain she could hear his thoughts at this point?
She knew exactly what to do to put that arrogant eyebrow back in its place. She slid her hand down until she palmed his obvious arousal.
“My aunt was right. Such hardness,” she whispered.
His eyebrows dropped, lids lowering over eyes so dark their green was nearly nonexistent.
“You’ve barely skimmed the surface, darling.
” He’d attempted a bored drawl, but the crack in his rough tone gave him away.
He was losing his composure. Because of her.
It made her feel…powerful. In control. Like he was the one at her mercy.
She’d never had that with intimacy before.
Never really wanted it. But things were different now. Now she needed it.
“Well, we’ll just have to rectify that, won’t we?” She tugged his shirt free from his breeches.
He didn’t need telling twice and tore his shirt over his head.
Her hands were on him before she could even think, touching every inch of skin she could manage.
Finally. Ever since she’d seen him in that drawing room at the Chesterfield Ball she’d been dying to know what he felt like.
She traced over the hard swells of his chest, circled a nipple just for fun and delighted when he shivered.
She drew a lazy path down his ribs. He was lean, maybe too much so.
Everything about him was sharp, angular, hard.
She paused at the bottom of his ribcage where one rib stuck out at an odd angle, quite obviously having been broken. Her gaze flicked up to his, but his immediately darted away. Something he clearly didn’t want to discuss right now.
In the next breath, two strong arms scooped her up, and she found herself tucked against that rock-hard chest. Her eyebrows flew to her hairline. Definitely something he didn’t want to discuss right now.
He brought her over to the sage chaise in the corner of the room and laid her down. His gaze raked over her, his cheeks flushed a soft red as his chest rose and fell with rough breaths. “Impossible.”
“What is?”
He knelt on the end of the chaise, hooded gaze boring into her own, one hand sliding up her stockinged calf. “My dreams didn’t do you justice, love.” He prowled over her, eyes glinting with promise. “You’re unparalleled.”
Oh.
That tongue was awfully talented. A pang of lust shot through her at the visions that thought provoked.
She reached for him, and he hurried the rest of the way up her body, his mouth crashing down on hers.
His tongue wasted no time, pressing past her lips, tangling with hers in a delicious whisky-flavored glide.
This kiss was hungry, wild in its want. His forearms surrounded her like a cage, hands delving into her hair, holding her head still for his onslaught, his body pressing into her.
And her blood froze over.
Turned to ice, and like a frost it wilted every vital organ inside her.
Hazy images of that night came barreling back, all distorted from the effects of the laudanum. But one memory from that night had been unmistakable. That man’s unwanted weight on her.
Everything in her body screamed in panic, her heart clawing at her chest the same way her hands clawed at the assailant atop her. Her lungs refused air, nothing but choked, strangled noises erupting from her as she tried to call for help, but her body failed her.
Blackness stole over her vision, a resounding echo filling her ears.