Chapter 21 #2
Arabella let out a small breath, something like relief threading through it. She hummed in agreement. “Eleanor did not seem nearly as inclined to challenge you as she did last week.”
“She will, in time,” he said. “When she believes it necessary.”
“Whenever it happens. I promise you, I will be prepared.”
Arabella smiled faintly at that, though her attention did not stray far from him. “And Roderick,” she added, “may never recover from tonight.”
“That is unlikely,” Maxwell said. “He appears accustomed to it.”
Their conversation carried them further into the house, through the familiar corridors that no longer felt quite so formal as they once had.
The lamps had been lit in anticipation of their return, casting a softer glow across the walls, the quiet of the house settling around them as the door closed behind.
It was only when they reached the top of the stairs that Arabella felt the shift more distinctly.
She stopped.
Maxwell noticed at once, turning slightly toward her. “Is something amiss?”
Arabella hesitated, though not because she did not know the answer.
“It is just— Well, the evening,” she said, her voice quieter now. “The way it has… is…”
Maxwell did not speak immediately. His gaze remained on her, steady, assessing in a way that did not feel distant, but closer than it had been before.
“It is the night we agreed upon,” he said at last.
The words settled between them, simple in their meaning, though not without weight.
Arabella felt her pulse quicken, though she held his gaze. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”
There had been a time, not so long ago, when the acknowledgment of it would have brought only nerves, only the quiet, uncertain anticipation of something she did not yet understand.
Now, it was different. The uncertainty remained, but it was threaded with something else, something warmer, something that made the thought of it feel less like obligation and more like expectation.
“I had thought,” she said carefully, “that it might feel as it did before.”
“How does it feel now?” Maxwell said.
“Different,” Arabella replied. “Somehow.”
The silence that followed was not empty. It held, stretched, as though both of them were aware of the change without quite naming it.
Maxwell stepped closer then, not abruptly, but with a measured intent that did not allow the moment to dissipate. “You are not opposed to it?” he said.
Arabella drew in a breath, the proximity enough to sharpen every awareness she had tried to keep steady. “No,” she said. “It is what we agreed upon. It just feels different, but I cannot say how.”
His gaze did not waver. “Are you comfortable proceeding as agreed?”
“Yes,” she said again, though softer this time. “I am.”
He did not move immediately. Instead, his hand lifted, not to touch her fully, but to rest briefly at her arm, a contact that was neither accidental nor hurried.
Arabella felt it more than she should have, the simple weight of it enough to send a quiet tension through her that had little to do with nerves.
“We should not delay,” he said.
“I agree,” she said, softer still.
The pause stretched, not with hesitation, but with something closer to restraint. Arabella became aware of the way he watched her, not distantly, not with the careful control she had first known, but with something more direct, something that made it difficult to look away.
It was she who broke the stillness first.
“Maxwell,” she said, though his name came softer than she intended.
“Yes?”
She hesitated, then continued. “You are not as… composed as you were.”
A faint shift passed through his expression. “Why do you say that?”
Arabella swallowed, though she did not step back. “I had thought perhaps I imagined it, but I can see it in your features… and I can feel it in the roughness of your voice. It is not the same as it was.”
“You did not imagine it… I am not,” he said plainly, and the honesty of it settled between them, quiet but undeniable.
“And,” she started, her voice steady despite the tension that had begun to coil through her, “do you still mean to approach this as before?”
Maxwell exhaled, the sound controlled, though not entirely even. “I mean to honor what we agreed,” he said. “But that does not mean it is unchanged.”
Arabella felt that more than she understood it.
“Then tell me,” she said, before she could reconsider. “What is different?”
For a moment, he did not answer. His hand, still at her arm, shifted slightly, his fingers tightening just enough to draw her attention fully to him.
“You are,” he said.
The words were quiet, but they carried enough weight that Arabella felt something in her chest tighten in response.
“And because of that,” he continued, his voice lower now, more deliberate, “I would ask something of you.”
Arabella’s breath caught, though she did not look away, and there was a brief pause from the care with which he chose his words. “It may not be what you expected,” he said.
“At this point, I honestly do not think anything about this has been what I expected,” she replied.
That seemed to settle something in him.
His gaze held hers, steady, though there was a tension beneath it now that had not been there before, something that edged closer to urgency than control.
“When we go to bed,” he said, “I would have you trust me in a different way.”
Arabella felt the words rather than simply hearing them, the meaning not yet fully clear, but the intent unmistakable.
“How? What do you mean?” she asked.
His hand shifted again, not withdrawing, but grounding her more firmly in place.
“I would ask,” he said, more quietly now, “that you allow me to take you as I wish.”
The words settled between them, heavy with implication, though not spoken with force.
Arabella did not answer at once.
She could feel the change in him, the way the control she had first known had not disappeared, but had been altered into something more difficult to maintain. It was not frightening. Not entirely. But it was different enough to make her aware of the choice being offered.
“And if I say no?” she asked.
“Then I will not press it,” he said at once.
There was no hesitation in that answer.
Arabella studied him, searching for something in his expression that might give her reason to doubt it. She did not find any.
“And if I say yes?” she asked, softer now.
Maxwell’s jaw tightened, just slightly, though his voice remained steady. “Then I will not hold back in the same way I have before.”
The admission did not feel like a threat.
Arabella’s mouth went dry, her pulse steadying even as the tension between them sharpened. “Okay, then… yes,” she said.
Maxwell stilled for a fraction of a second, as though confirming he had heard her correctly.
Then suddenly, the distance between them closed, as he leaned in closely and opened a door that had been just behind her.
She turned, surprised. Were we moving toward his room this entire time?
His hands were on her hips in the next breath, and his broad frame was positioned flush against her back as he led her into his room. The faint click of the door was her only cue to know what might happen next.
And her guess was right.
The warmth of his body behind her disappeared as he made quick work of the laced corset and frock. The next thing she heard was the sound of him shrugging out of his coat and tunic, and them landing on the floor.
His bare chest leaned up against her now bare body, and he guided them toward his bed.
“Do you trust me?” she heard him say, but his lips were within an inch from her bare shoulders, and she shivered; she felt rocked through her entire body… all the way down to her bare feet.
“Y— yes,” she said, voice shaking, unsure of what was about to happen next, but comforted to feel the heat of him close to her.
He leaned against her then, wrapping his arms around her hands and placing them atop the bed before they caressed her as he straightened, his voice, a low growl, “Stay there.”
Arabella nodded her head in understanding.
His hands mirrored each other as they slid over her shoulders, down her ribs, and cupped her bottom before traveling lower still. Next thing she felt was both hands wrapping around her thighs, urging them wider.
“Good, wider,” Maxwell demanded, and she complied.
She felt his hands travel back up her thighs, wrapping around still until one of them slid between her thighs, rubbing her now sopping core with the knuckle of his thumb, nearly causing her knees to buckle.
“Oh my—” she let slip softly, and she heard the unmistakable sound of his boots and trousers pooling on the floor.
Moments later, she felt his hands grip her hips and his hard arousal press against her until finally pushing through and filling her. Slowly at first, and then again, and again until finally he was fully buried inside of her.
His grip on her hips was tight as he held her up, thrusting into her with more force each time.
Arabella heard something else clunk against the floors between his growling pulses and her heavy breaths, and suddenly something shifted in his movements.
He was less controlled and more frenzied, but she could not string together even one connecting thought between those two truths.
Until she felt it. The careful distance he had maintained between them had changed, and she felt his hands wrap around her breasts, lifting her off the bed, and his lips pressed softly against her bare shoulder.
His mask is off.
Her fingers tightened against his arm; the feeling was not quite anger or hurt, but an insistent feeling to turn around and face him while he still buried himself inside of her.
Then he moved.
She was face down on the bed now, chest against the blankets, hips in the air, and he was kneeling behind her, taking her with a relentless force that she had never felt before.
But Christ above— the sensation of it was intoxicating.
And with every thought she had to fight him and turn over so she could see him, a stronger force told her to stay precisely where she was.
The world narrowed to the firmness of his hands and the way he held her as though she might come undone without him.
It was control… and surrender… and then— “Well done, Arabella. Take it all. God, you are so beautiful,” she heard him praise her softly, which did incredibly wretched things to any sane part of her mind that she held onto.
The next thing she knew, her back arched, angling her to him in a deeper and more exposing way, and the hiss she heard him make made her smile before he slammed into her harder and faster than ever before.
“Max—” she heard herself drag into the pillow. “Maxwell,” she cried again, this time a plea for more.
She begged him not to stop, and she wished so badly that she could turn around and see him and watch him lose all control, but she knew that would be too much.
Arabella heard him groan, and the bite of his grip on her hips made her gasp, as his pumps into her quickened until finally she let the quake of her body take over. All thoughts seemed to leave her as she fell into an abyss of pleasure and passion.
The room came back into focus a few minutes later, as her breath slowed and she felt him lying beside her. This was different. This was him, closer than he had ever allowed her to be before, and she knew that if she moved to see him without his mask on just now, the moment would be over.
His hands curled around her, pulling her against his chest. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said, careful to keep her eyes closed and cheek firmly against his bare body.
“Was that… good?
“Oh yes,” she said quickly and laughed at her own eagerness. The sound of his own laughter in his chest warmed her still, and she knew that this night had changed things between them.
Not everything. Not yet anyway.
But some, yes.