Chapter 9 #2
She swallowed, probably louder than she wished.
“As I said, you need not concern yourself with the details tonight,” he said at last, though his voice had lowered, the steadiness of it now carrying something beneath it.
“You said we would not—” she began, then stopped, her breath catching slightly as he took a step closer.
“Yes, I said we would not lie together tonight,” he corrected.
The distinction was subtle.
Arabella did not move, though every instinct urged her to either step back or close the distance entirely. She did neither, caught somewhere between the two.
“Then what is it that you intend?” she asked, quieter now.
Maxwell’s gaze held hers for a moment longer, as though weighing something, before it shifted, briefly, to her mouth, then back again.
“To ensure,” he said, “that you are not unprepared when the time comes.” The words sent a ripple of uncertainty through her, though not entirely unwelcome.
“I am not afraid,” she said, though her voice betrayed her slightly.
“I did not say you were.”
He took another step toward her and now stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, even through the thin fabric of her gown, close enough that the firelight caught in his eyes in a way that made them seem darker.
Arabella’s breath slowed, then quickened again, uneven.
“You are trembling,” he observed.
“I am not,” she insisted, though she was.
His hand lifted.
She did not expect the way it paused, just short of touching her, as though giving her time to refuse. And when she did not, the contact, when it came, was light. It sent a shock through her all the same.
Arabella drew in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening at her sides as something unfamiliar stirred beneath her composure, something she could not name, something she was not certain she wished to understand.
“This is not necessary,” she said, though the protest lacked conviction.
His hand shifted, not hurried, not forceful, but certain. The room seemed to narrow around them, the fire’s warmth pressing closer, the silence deepening until even her own breath sounded too loud.
Arabella’s thoughts scattered, slipping away from her one by one, replaced by sensation, by awareness, by something that coiled low and unfamiliar and undeniably present.
“You are right,” he agreed quietly. “It is not.”
The space between them had already narrowed to nothing, though neither of them had named it aloud.
Arabella’s breath came unsteady as Maxwell’s hand remained at her waist, steadying rather than claiming, as though he were allowing her time to retreat.
She did not. The firelight flickered against the walls, casting shifting shadows that made the room feel smaller, more intimate, as though the world beyond it had ceased to exist.
He moved then, slower this time, in a way that made her acutely aware of every inch of space between them. The light fabric of her gown did little to dull the sensation of his rough hands traveling up and down her body, and Arabella felt her breath catch again.
“This is only to ease you into it,” he murmured, though the steadiness in his tone did not match the heat building between them. “Without kissing.”
Arabella let out a soft, uneven breath, her gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again to meet his. “But this… is… it feels…”
“You may tell me to stop,” he said softly. His touch shifted again, more assured now, as though he had made some decision she had not been privy to. The room seemed to tilt slightly as the hem of her dress slowly lifted.
Arabella pressed her knees together, “This is… unnecessary,” she managed, even as she leaned closer rather than away.
“Yes,” he said again, quieter now.
There was no urgency in him, no haste. That, more than anything, undid her.
Every movement was measured as though he were studying her reactions and learning her.
The tension that had defined their every interaction until now did not disappear.
It tightened into something that made her pulse quicken, and her thoughts scatter.
Her hand found his sleeve without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric as though to anchor herself. Maxwell’s breath shifted, just slightly, the only sign that he felt the moment as keenly as she did.
Arabella’s eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment before opening again, her composure slipping further with each passing second. Something unfamiliar stirred within her, something she could not name, something she was not yet ready to examine.
And yet, she did not resist it.
She leaned into it.
Into him as his thumb dragged over her lip with one hand and his other hand caressed the soft skin of her inner thigh.
His name broke on her lips, half plea, half question. “Maxwell—”
“Shh… sit. Unless you wish for me to stop,” he said.
“No, I do not wish that.”
“Let me guide you, then,” his tone was rougher, but his hands were still gentle as she let him guide her onto the bed.
Arabell knew that she should have been embarrassed or scandalized, but the way he touched her, like she was something to be savored, made her feel neither. His fingers slid higher, brushing lightly between her legs, and her whole body jerks, hips lifting up to greet him instinctively.
“Easy,” he soothed, his voice a dark velvet rumble. The pad of his thumb found her slick and swollen, waiting for him, and the first slow stroke made her gasp sharply.
She could not have disobeyed him if she tried. His touch was gentle and purposeful, his thumb moving in slow circles that sent sparks skittering through her veins. Her legs fell open wider, and his fingers slipped lower, parting her with excruciating care.
One finger pressed inside her, and her entire body locked around him, muscles clenching around the intrusion. It was a stretching, aching fullness, a sensation that bordered on intoxication, and then his finger sank deeper. Her hips rolled forward, seeking more.
Arabella’s head fell back, her body moving with the rhythm of his hand, her breath coming in ragged little pants. She was absolutely drowning. The heat of his body. The weight of him on top of her. The way his fingers worked with her.
“Maxwell, please—” she cried.
“Please what, Arabella? Tell me what you want.”
“I— I do not know,” she confessed, her voice breaking as his fingers continued to work her.
She felt like she was about to fall off a cliff or explode or something inexplicable.
“Yes, you do,” he said darkly, his fingers pulsing in and out of her, his thumb pressing harder, and Arabella’s vision blurred at the edges. “You want to come.”
She did not even know what that meant, but the way he said it, like a promise and a command, made her nod frantically. “Yes. Yes.”
“Then let go,” he said simply, and at that moment, her mind blanked into an abyss of pleasure. Waves crashing over her, her body clenching around his fingers as her back arched toward him.
She felt his arm twist around her, holding her through it, as his fingers worked her through the storm.
When she finally sank back onto the pillow, breathless and utterly spent, the heaviness that settled over her was immediate, dragging at her limbs and making it difficult to keep her eyes open for long.
She barely registered the moment Maxwell withdrew from her, nor the quiet adjustment of her nightgown, as though nothing at all had occurred.
Only when he spoke did her awareness return, slow and reluctant.
“Now you know,” he said quietly.
The bed shifted as his weight lifted, and she forced her eyes open, watching him as he crossed the room toward the door, his steps steady, without any real hurry to them.
“And we have only just begun.”