Chapter 11 #2
He had not thought this through. Where would he go? Down to the public room, perhaps? Maybe if he got good and drunk he would forget her up here in her sweet white dressing gown, tucked up in his bed, soft as the devil and smelling of roses.
Although, he reflected, his previous attempt to get drunk and stop thinking about Matilda had been nothing short of disastrous. So perhaps not.
She bounded to her feet, taking a step in his direction. “You cannot go. That’s—it’s—absurd. We are meant to be a married couple.”
Christian wished she had not reminded him. “I’ll take the floor then.”
Her lips turned down. “Don’t be ridiculous. If anything, I should take the floor. It’s your bed. Mine is out of commission due to my own impetuosity.”
He could not precisely argue with that. “Matilda, I would have to be on my deathbed to sleep on the mattress whilst you sleep upon the cold floor.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “And do you not imagine that I feel the same?”
He paused. Actually, no. He had not imagined such a thing.
Grace would have taken the bed, and happily. But—God, what an idiotic thing to think of now. Grace would not have brought a stray cat in from the cold and attempted to make a present of it to his sister.
Matilda was not Grace. She was only herself, vibrant and softhearted and devastating.
“I would share the bed with you,” Matilda said, and she put her chin up in the way he liked so much. “I would lie with you, Christian, if you wish it. Or if you do not, I would lie beside you and share nothing but bedcovers. You have only to tell me what you want.”
Everything seemed to go out of focus but Matilda. He could see her—clean and sweet-faced, her hair falling down her back—and he could see the afterimage of her, flushed and half-naked on the ground.
She was like an explosion, detonating inside his mind, inside his ribs. He wanted her so much he could not stand it—and he admired her. God, he admired her fearless, determined spirit.
Except—he could see her pulse beating hard at the side of her throat.
She was not fearless, was she? She was afraid of what he might say. She was afraid, he realized, that he would turn her down.
Fearless was not the word then. Brave, rather.
Braver than he had ever been in his life.
It shamed him, how much more brave she was than he, this slip of a girl thirteen years his junior.
And it made him want to meet her halfway.
She had put out her hand, stretched it across the sharp gulf between them, and he had only to take it.
He had been quiet too long. She took one half-step toward him, then dropped her arms to her sides.
And as she did, her dressing gown slid down off her shoulder.
Her shoulder was bare. There were freckles—a whole sky’s worth of stars on her shoulder. He had not known that before.
He took one step toward her. Then another, and another, and he was across the room, drawn straight toward her, a planet pulled into her orbit.
“Matilda,” he said, and it was his dark voice again. Low and commanding. He had not heard himself use that voice in a very long time. “Are you naked underneath that dressing gown?”
She looked up at him, and it was a long way up. He stood over her, his presence not quite a threat.
And oh, she liked that. She shivered, and the dressing gown slipped farther off her shoulder, baring the top of one breast.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I—I did not have time to put on another shift…”
Her voice trailed off as he reached out and took the edge of her dressing gown in between his fingers. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, and the back of his knuckles brushed the swell of her breast. She made a little whimper, and desire was a drumbeat in his head, in his cock.
He wanted more of her sounds. He wanted all of them.
“Is that right?” he asked. He slid his fingers up the edge of the dressing gown and then back down.
The back of his hand passed over her tight, hardened nipple.
She made another sound, lower, longer. “I think you did it on purpose. Didn’t you, Matilda?
You put this dressing gown on, with nothing underneath, hoping to drive me mad? ”
She was almost panting now, her nipple rubbing against the back of his hand, and it took everything he had not to turn his hand over and take the stiff peak in between his fingers. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I did.”
He lifted his hand then and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “That was very wicked of you.”
He had never seen anything like her. She was so responsive, so expressive. He could see the flush of heat on her cheeks, her neck, her bosom. He looked down to where the dressing gown gaped open, and saw her squeeze her thighs together. Her hand was pressed to her lower belly.
He caught her behind her back with his other hand and dragged her up against him, his knee coming between her legs. She gasped and then, as if she could not help herself, ground her sex down against the muscle of his thigh. Her hands came around his back.
Oh Jesus, he thought wildly as her soft body pressed up against him, every acre of her warm and rounded and squirming with need.
He wanted to press her down into the bed and thrust inside her. He wanted to make her come around his cock. He wanted to take her so hard she couldn’t see straight, he wanted to make her his—
He couldn’t. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t.
But he could please her. The idea pierced the lust-fogged confusion of his mind, nearly blinding him with how very good and wise and brilliant it seemed.
He could please her.
Yes, he could do that. He could soothe the ache that had her gasping out her need, squeezing her thighs around him, dragging her nipples against his body. She needed something—she needed him.
Christ, he needed her too. But he could not think of that now.
He bent his head down to hers, almost a kiss, her chin still caught in his grasp. “Matilda,” he said fiercely, “say stop.”
She looked up at him, dazed with want. “Don’t stop.”
He gave her chin a little rough jerk, and she whimpered, and pressed herself harder into his body. She liked that, too, it seemed.
“If I do something you do not like,” he said, “say stop. If I am too forceful. If something does not please you. If you have a whisper of uncertainty, or something does not seem right, you say stop. Do you understand?”
Her eyes cleared a fraction, midday blue. “I understand.”
He kissed her. His fingers slipped free of her chin, sliding around to cup the back of her head.
He had not meant to kiss her. He had not meant any of this, but he could no more stop himself from putting his mouth to hers than he could stop his own heart.
She tasted like wine. She smelled like roses. Her lips were so goddamned soft, and she licked at his mouth, and he wanted to die from pleasure, drown in it, crush her body against his and never let her go.
But he had to be sure she understood. He broke away from the kiss—from the wonder of Matilda’s mouth—and put his lips to her ear. She shuddered, her fingers tightening on his back.
“Say stop,” he said. “So I know you’re listening.”
“Stop,” she whispered.
He froze. He eased back from her a little, putting distance between their bodies and sliding his hand from her back to the dip of her waist “Good girl. That’s very good.”
Her head tilted back. Her chin came up. Her lips were swollen from his mouth. “Stop talking,” she said. And then she twitched her shoulders, and the dressing gown slid off her body and puddled on the floor.
Matilda stood in front of Christian, her body a hairsbreadth from his, stark naked and trembling with desire.
She did not know what had convinced him. She did not know why he seemed suddenly drawn in sharper lines, dark and intense and commanding, and why all that energy was focused directly on herself.
But she wasn’t about to take any chances. Based on his reaction to the sight of her bared shoulder, full nudity seemed by far the most effective persuasion she had at her disposal.
He looked her up and down, slowly, as if he had all night. She felt a hint of anxiety at the exposure, at his ruthless gaze, and the vulnerability only heightened her anticipation and desire. She could see his ragged breathing as he took her in, his gray eyes darker in the candlelight.
She ached for him. She wanted him to touch her—her skin felt too sensitive, as if one brush from his fingers across her nipples or down her belly would send her careening out of control.
And then he did touch her. His hand, which had been warm on the back of her neck, slipped free. He trailed the tip of his forefinger over her shoulder, then down, tracing the underside of her breast.
She gasped. She felt that light touch all over her body, a hot liquid pull between her thighs.
“I see,” he said. His eyes were on hers now. He did not watch the tortuous progress of that single finger, under her breast and then up, a slow circle around her areola. “You don’t want to be a good girl, do you, Matilda?”
“I—” She could not make the words come. She was hot, cold, shivering, undone.
He caught her tight nipple between his fingers and pinched it, rolling it hard. “Answer me.”
She couldn’t. She couldn’t think. She tried to press herself back against him, and he wouldn’t let her, his other hand at her waist holding her still. She made a little wordless sound and put her hand between her own thighs, touching herself where her need was sharpest.
He let go of her nipple. He caught her hand, dragging it away from where it had crept and pinning it behind her back.
Oh God—this was like nothing she had imagined, and everything. Her hand in his powerful grip, his mastery over her body—it was threat and safety at once. She wanted this, she craved this, and he knew it.
More than that, he wanted it too. She could see the outline of his cock in his trousers, stiff and thick, and the pale skin of his throat was flushed.