Chapter 17 #2
They sat in companionable quiet for a moment, the fire snapping softly between them.
Then James spoke.
“You defended your sister today.”
Eleanor nodded. “You defended me today.”
He studied her profile and hummed a response before taking a sip from his glass. The silence stretched only momentarily. “Tell me about your family,” he said finally.
She hesitated, then drew a steadying breath.
“You know my father came into his title at a very young age. Raised by governess after governess until finally he kept his own house.”
“I see,” he said with due consideration. “And your mother?”
“My mother was not born to a title,” she said quietly. “She was a maid in my father’s household.”
James’s brows rose slightly.
“She was young,” Eleanor continued. “Very young. And kind. And clever. My father married her in a moment of sentiment and then seemed to resent her for the rest of her life.”
James leaned forward slightly. “The ton?”
“Yes,” she said. “She died of a fever. I was still small. Arabella barely remembers her. After that… we were no longer daughters. We were reminders.”
His jaw tightened.
“He kept us,” she added softly. “Which is more than he had to do. At least he did not send us away.”
James nodded once.
“Charlotte’s mother came later,” Eleanor continued. “She was everything my mother was not. She was fashionable, well connected, polished albeit less fortunate than he. Charlotte became his golden child. Her dowry was already spoken for.”
“And you?” James asked.
Eleanor gave a small, bitter smile. “Arabella and I are… acknowledged. But only just. The treatment started with Charlotte’s mother, and was never corrected by my father.”
James shifted closer.
“You are not illegitimate,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “But we were never fully claimed either.”
His hand lifted almost unconsciously, brushing the back of her fingers.
She inhaled sharply.
“You deserved better,” he said quietly.
Her gaze lifted to his.
They were very close now.
Too close.
Her lips parted slightly. “You are the first man who has ever looked at me as though I am… someone worth choosing.”
James leaned in then boldly.
The kiss was not tentative this time.
It was hungry. It was the kind of kiss that spoke of everything he had tried to restrain. Her hands curled into his jacket, and he drew her closer without thought, the warmth of her body fitting against his like something that had always belonged there.
Her breath trembled.
She tasted faintly of port and a sweeter, unique taste, and it made his pulse race.
He pulled back sharply.
“We cannot,” he said hoarsely.
She stared at him and then caught his hand, “Please.”
The word was barely more than breath.
But the way she looked at him undid him, and James’s restraint broke like a snapped cord.
He drew her against him again, his mouth reclaiming hers, his hands sliding over her shoulders, her waist, her back. Her breath came in soft, broken sounds that made his vision blur.
He murmured her name.
She answered him with a sound that was half sigh, half plea.
He guided her backward, the strength in his arms unwavering, until her back met the edge of the sofa arm. He followed her down, his body covering hers, a welcome weight that stole the air from her lungs.
There was no grace, only a desperate, primal need as their hands roamed and tore at clothing. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, while his slid beneath the hem of her dress, his palms hot against the bare skin of her thighs.
He craved how she moved without thought, arching into his touch, her body knowing his without instruction.
“That’s it, El,” he rasped, his voice a low, rough thing. “Just like that.” He praised her with a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her neck and across her collarbone, a silent worship before he positioned himself between her thighs.
With a single, deep thrust, he buried himself inside of her. A sharp cry of pleasure escaped her lips, a sound that sent a violent shiver down his spine.
He needed to hear it again.
He withdrew almost completely, then drove back into her, harder this time, and was rewarded with a louder, more desperate moan. Her need grew stronger, nails digging into his shoulder.
“James,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Please…”
“I’m here,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering for a second as her words hit him. Her face was a portrait of pure pleasure and sensuality, her lips parted, her eyes half-closed in ecstasy. The soft gasps and breathy moans drove him crazy, pushing him to a faster, deeper rhythm.
Each powerful stroke sent waves of pleasure crashing through his body, building an unbearable pressure deep within him. He felt her begin to clench around him, her inner muscles tightening like a fist.
The world narrowed to heat, closeness, hearts thundering wildly and breath to the crackle of the fire and the weight of her in his arms until the rest of the house might as well not have existed.
Her back arched off the sofa, her head thrown back as the levy finally broke and she crashed into her climax, a ragged cry tearing from her throat.
The intense, pulsating grip of her pleasure around him was his undoing, and with a guttural groan of her name, he buried himself fully inside of her and let go completely, his own release flooding him in a blinding, all-consuming wave.
And when at last he lowered his forehead to hers and whispered, “Stay,” she did.
They did not speak again.
James lay beside her on the couch, Eleanor tucked close against his chest, her breathing slow and even. He drew a blanket over them, his hand resting protectively at her waist, his body curved around hers as though instinct itself had claimed her before his mind ever could.
Eleanor stirred faintly and tucked closer.
As the fire burned low, James closed his eyes, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he slept soundly the full night.