Chapter 56 Maeve
Maeve
Maeve was no stranger to trysts. Quick exploits, often hurried and rarely satisfactory.
Nothing more than an itch scratched. She’d liked most of the people she’d been with enough to share that part of herself with them, enough to risk the Abbey’s retribution should she be caught.
But she’d never let any sort of vulnerability permeate the equation.
But this, this, standing wholly naked while Jude looked at her with reverence in his eyes, was something she’d never experienced.
She studied the part of his lips, the moonlight painting him with a delicate touch.
His eyes took on an unfocused sheen as his gaze travelled across her collarbones, lingering on her breasts, her navel, down even further.
He tilted his head, meeting her eyes from beneath his lashes.
At her sides, Maeve’s fingers twitched. She wanted to touch him. Badly.
Slowly, he began unbuttoning his shirt.
His bravery wasn’t lost on her – she knew he found this difficult.
Tattoos littered his torso, layered thickly on his inner arms and the thin skin over the jut of his hipbones, tallied in even lines across his lower stomach.
She stepped forward and gently pulled the shirt from his grip, taking over the task of undoing the buttons.
She traced down his chest with her fingertips, lingering on the tattoo for SAINT.
His pulse beat in his throat, a rapid thrumming just below his skin.
Maeve pressed her lips to his neck, sucking gently at his skin. He inhaled sharply. She chuckled, pulling back as his shirt fell to the floor. ‘Let’s get in the bath.’
She lowered herself in slowly, hissing at the sting of the water on her various scrapes and burns.
It passed quickly, the heat working the tension from her muscles.
She pooled water in her palms, rubbing away the remnants of smoke and sweat, giving Jude privacy as he finished undressing.
The soft sound of shucking fabric sent goosebumps down her back.
‘Move up,’ he murmured, stepping into the tub behind her. She complied, water sloshing close to the edge as he got in. His fingertips ghosted down her spine before curling around her hip. She felt his mouth beside her ear, his scent in her nose. ‘Now come closer?’
Her heart felt ready to launch from her throat as she moved until her back was against his chest, his legs bracketing hers. The feeling of his bare skin was feverish. Overwhelming. He pressed a lingering kiss to the juncture between her shoulder and neck. Maeve shivered. ‘Jude?’
‘Yes?’
He’d moved one hand to her right thigh, the other to her stomach, where he traced slow circles with his fingertips.
The point of his nose skimmed up her neck as he breathed her in.
The wanting turned her to liquid. Maeve’s breath hitched.
She pressed her thighs tightly together to relieve some of the ache.
‘You know we can do whatever you want,’ she said.
She prayed the desperation didn’t leak into her voice. ‘I’ll like it. Anything. Everything.’
‘And what if I want to do it all?’ he asked with his mouth still against her skin. The hand on her stomach shifted infinitesimally lower.
She swallowed. ‘As I said.’
The backs of his fingers brushed the underside of her breast. Maeve laid her hand on his under the water, tracing the delicate bones of his fingers, the raised shape of his veins and the contours of his wrist. The sight of his hands on her threatened every shred of control still available to her.
‘Are you…’ Jude began, shifting behind her. His chest had gone still. She looked at him over her shoulder, catching the edge of hesitation in his gaze.
‘Am I what?’
‘The tea,’ he replied succinctly.
It took her a moment to gather what he meant. When she did, she laughed, planting one hand on his bent leg to lever herself around to face him. Jude’s gaze quickly darted to her chest and back to her face like he feared she’d catch him looking. ‘Am I protected from pregnancy, you mean?’
He nodded.
‘The tea lasts a month. And I haven’t had my next monthly, so…’
He made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, pulling her back around and tight to his chest. ‘That’s… good. Very good.’
‘Don’t want children?’ Maeve asked as he began washing her hair with a small vial of soap they’d found perched on the windowsill. The smell of summer mint filled the air. She caught a sigh behind her teeth as Jude worked her strands into a lather.
‘Never really thought about it, to be honest.’
‘Me neither. Maybe someday, but not anytime soon.’
He pressed a kiss against the back of her neck in reply.
‘When you first arrived, even though you made me angry—’ he chuckled, running his hands down the length of her hair.
‘So angry, I couldn’t stop thinking of you.
Couldn’t get myself to quit picturing your face, your hair, and the way your eyes shone when you glared at me.
Every bit of your frustration and, eventually, your smiles. Those I could never forget.’
She smiled then; she couldn’t help it. Jude pressed his face into her neck as he spoke. ‘And all those shifts, Maeve. The nightgowns.’ He groaned. ‘They about killed me. Did you realize how see-through they were?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I thought so.’
She turned her head to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Unlike past times she’d experienced happiness, the shimmering vein of it she felt here, now, was of a more solid variation. Like her limbs were dipped in gold, a steadfast coating of something that wouldn’t be easily shed.
She’d often wondered whether she’d find someone who saw every one of her dark corners and wanted her still – a dream she rarely allowed herself to indulge in.
The fear it would never come true was too much to bear, so she’d pushed it to the back of her mind into the space that occupied the vulnerable hours between sleeping and waking.
She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Jude she’d like whatever they did.
She couldn’t imagine anything that might pass between them as less than a perfect representation of everything she felt for him come to life.
Like the heady feeling of her magic when she painted, something almost religious in strength of her joy, so euphoric she’d commit her life to it in an instant.
They took turns washing in the slow, comfortable quiet of the moonlit bathtub.
He had yet to kiss her lips, though he’d mapped across her neck and shoulders enough to make her shivery with want every time his mouth touched her overheated skin.
He seemed content to take his time, exploring her body with his usual careful, observant precision.
Finally, when she thought she could bear the teasing no longer, Jude drew his hand up her thigh. She released a breath. ‘Took you long enough.’
He chuckled, a bitten-off sound that shifted to a sigh as he slid his fingers through her, slow and languid. Behind her, his chest stilled. ‘Maeve,’ he breathed. ‘Fuck.’
She closed her eyes and pushed her legs wider, moving his hand where she wanted him.
His other hand fastened tightly around her hip, holding her still.
Their panting breaths filled the silence.
Her nails dug into his skin, even when she no longer needed to guide him.
All the while, he whispered into her hair, telling her how beautiful he found her, how well she was doing.
Admonishing her when she looked away from where they connected.
‘That’s it,’ he murmured against her neck when her head dropped back at the feeling of his fingers sliding inside her.
Maeve reached for him, fastening her hand around the back of his neck.
She needed to touch him as she came, the bliss a slow-moving wave that left her gasping and trembling in its wake.
Their breathing didn’t slow for a long while after. Jude continued to touch her like he didn’t quite know how to stop – slow, lazy passes of his hands up her thighs, over her breasts, a featherlight brush between her legs where he’d left her wrecked. She shuddered in his arms.
The cooling water eventually urged them apart.
He wrapped an oversized towel around her shoulders, kissing her forehead before grabbing one of his own.
Maeve took the opportunity to study him as he moved, as both an artist and a lover.
She’d known he was tall and slim, with graceful limbs and a certain elegance she’d enjoyed capturing in paint, but she hadn’t been prepared for the reality.
She wet her lips, trailing her gaze down to his narrow hips, his legs’ long expanse, the subtle definition of his chest and abdomen.
The harsh lines of his tattoos only emphasized his beauty, their existence a tangible reminder of all he had survived.
Emboldened, she moved closer, placing her palm flat on his chest, directly over the SAINT tattoo, and kissed his throat.
Jude stilled. He sucked in a tight inhale, pulling his towel closer around his hips.
Maeve continued her path downwards, pressing her lips against the line of his collarbone, the swell of his chest where it rose and fell. Ran her fingers over his ribs, the soft insides of his arms. At his sides, his hands grasped and released.
‘Is this okay?’ she murmured as she lowered to her knees.
Jude stared down at her, his eyes so wide it was nearly comical. She concealed her smile against the edge of his hip. If she’d read him correctly, he was going to like this. His mouth parted, but nothing came out.
‘Jude?’ Maeve asked, kissing the soft skin just above the towel, featherlight touches across each inked tally on his lower stomach. She pressed her tongue to the point of his hip, nearly moaning with the taste. He threaded his fingers through the hair at her nape, angling her head to meet his gaze.
‘I—’ his throat bobbed. ‘I mean – yes? Please.’