Chapter 21 #2
“Which is a terrible thing to say,” Jane said firmly, and the warmth in her voice shifted into something that was no longer entirely playful. “Because he is absolutely that, and much more. He is – Thomas is one of the most–”
She stopped and Thomas wondered if she had come to the realization that he was not as wonderful as she claimed he would be. He had always known this day would come, had always tried to ready himself for it, but still... his heart shivered anxiously, not ready to hear what she had to say.
Jane began again with an inhale, looking absolutely sure of the words leaving her mouth.
“He is handsome. And kind, when he allows himself to be.
And thoughtful, the particular kind of thoughtful that notices things people don't say and responds to the thing they meant, not the thing they said. And I would not want–” She paused.
She was looking at Thomas now, not Edward, and the drawing room felt smaller than it had a moment ago.
“I would not want any other man as my husband.”
The words sat in the room, weighed down by earnest sincerity that made Thomas’ heart warm up greatly.
Edward had gone very still in his armchair, silent understanding etched across his features.
Thomas did not know what he had intended to do with his hand – reach for his glass, perhaps, adjust his position in the chair.
What it did, without particular instruction, was find the curve of Jane's waist where she sat beside him on the settee and settle there, light and warm and entirely natural, as though it had simply been looking for that spot for weeks and had finally arrived.
Edward glanced at it pointedly, much to Thomas’ irritation. Then he glanced at his own glass, drained the remainder with commendable efficiency, and rose to his feet.
“I've just remembered,” he stated, patting his coat pockets purposely, “An appointment. Very pressing. I cannot overstate –”
“Edward,” Thomas cut him off, intending to tell his friend to take his leave already.
“You don't need to thank me,” Edward disclaimed, already slipping his gloves on. “It was no trouble at all.”
He ignored the flabbergasted look on Thomas’ face, instead bowing to Jane with genuine warmth.
“Duchess. Truly, it has been a very great pleasure. You are every bit what he needed and he is too thick-headed to see it, but I have every confidence that will resolve itself.”
He shifted his attention to Thomas, affection, amusement and a kind of quiet insistence etched to the smile he gave his friend. “Thank you for having me. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
And he was gone, as suddenly as he had arrived, leaving Thomas was still aware of his hand at his wife’s waist.
The room felt different without Edward's noise in it.
Jane was aware of Thomas' hand at her waist, his warm touch eating away at her awareness of much else besides the weight of his grip She had told herself not to give in to these sorts of things and knew the best thing for her to do would be to put some distance between them as soon as possible.
Yet, even after a few minutes, she made no move to do so.
“He left very quickly,” she noted.
“He did,” Thomas agreed with a sigh of relief. “Good riddance. He can be quite the handful sometimes.”
“Were you glaring at him?” Jane wondered out loud, looking up at him.
Thomas paused, then he admitted curtly. “Occasionally.”
She turned to face him fully, which meant turning toward the hand at her waist, invertedly drawing even closer to him than necessary, but she paid it not mind, pined by his dark eyes.
“I find that hard to believe, given your reactions that I noticed during our conversation. You kept glaring at him. Every time he made me laugh.”
She peered closer to his face, keeping a close eye on his expressions. “Are you actually friends?”
“We are.” A brief moment of silence passed before Thomas cleared his throat and stated. “He is my closest friend.”
“And yet, I find that somewhat hard to believe.”
Thomas looked at her for a moment, then away, only for his gaze to drift back to her hesitantly, as though he had struggled to make up his mind to speak of that which he wanted to say.
“I was jealous,” he admitted eventually.
His words hovered above them, plain and simple and Jane felt warmth move through her chest that had no business being there.
“Jealous,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question came out delicately, almost embellished with worry. Thomas sighed and Jane wondered if he would finally stop being so forth coming.
“I did not like how easily he made you comfortable.” His jaw was tight.
“I grew a tad envious watching you laugh at things he said. I do not blame you for enjoying his company. He is a remarkable man – to the extent that I could not deny it, even if I wished to. He is earnest, much more sociable... less marred by life. I, too, value the time he spends in my presence – when he is not being a nuisance.”
Jane knew she should not feel pleased by this, but she should not help the pleasure that curled within her chest.
“I noticed you were quiet while we spoke. Was that what you were thinking about? The while time?” she asked softly.
Thomas shook his head. “Not entirely.”
Jane leaned in closer, so curious and needy for answers she knew would steal her breath.
“Well? What were you thinking about?”
He stared down at her, his gaze weighed by a particular directness, the kind that had begun to make her breath unreliable. “What I was thinking,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “Is that I wanted to mark you.”
Jane went still, her breath rattling within her chest.
“So that there would be no question,” he continued, “About who you belong to.”
“That's –” She started to say something about how childish or ridiculous or any of the other words she had prepared, and then his mouth found her throat, exactly where her pulse was doing its most obvious work, and all available vocabulary left her.
His lips were warm and deliberate. He was not hurrying. He pressed his mouth to the curve of her neck – not a kiss exactly, more like a claim, the soft drag of lips that moved up to beneath her jaw, and she felt her hand find the back of his neck without having planned to put it there.
“Thomas, wait –”
His name came out wrong to her ears. Her utterance was far too soft, clearly the voice of someone whose issued objection was purely formal.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, still against her throat, the words warm as he pressed his lips there again, and she felt it everywhere, the particular current of it that ran from her throat to the backs of her knees. “I'll stop.”
“Someone could –” She stopped herself.
The circumstances were much different than they had been last time. They were alone, in their own home, with the door closed in a house full of staff who know better than to burst into a room they knew could be occupied by the duke or duchess.
The argument she had been formulating dissipated into smoke in her head and she gave into the desire brewing within her.
His hands found her waist and pulled her closer, his grip a steady warm insistence that rearranged the distance between them.
She was pressed against his side, his mouth still at her throat, and she was aware of the fire and the quiet of the room and the completely unfair specificity of his attention.
His hands traced the line of her waist, the curve of her hip, slow and thorough, and she pressed her lips together and made a small sound she immediately tried to reclaim.
“Stay with me,” he murmured against her jaw.
She meant to tell him something – likely important, or perhaps not – and instead she exhaled slowly and turned her face toward him and let him take it for what it was.
His lips moved hotly against hers, nibbling and sucking, moaning when she opened up for him, slipping his tongue into her mouth.
Jane could feel her body relax as he touched her infuriating deliberateness.
His hands mapped her through the fabric of her dress in slow strokes, learning the curves and dips she was made of by feel.
Eventually, his hand found her spot between her legs and she clenched her thighs shut, whining breathlessly into his mouth as his fingers insistently probed past her folds.
His strokes were unhurried and languid, gradually ridding her of the thought that could distract her from the sensations being revealed to her. His mouth dropped kisses all over her face, down her jaw, following the curve of her neck. Then he settled over her pulse and sank his teeth into her skin.
“Ah!” Jane gasped, breathless and heady with desire and pleasure.
She could feel it budling within her, the crescendo of her release and she clutched at his arm, willing him to go further and faster.
But just as it was within reach, when she could swear that she could taste it, he pulled back. The disappointment hit her and threated to smother her, drawing a petulant whine as she tugged at his sleeve.
“No – why? It was... I was so close,” she whined, feeling as though she had lost her senses.
“I know,” he smirked down at her and kissed her, beginning his ministrations once more.
And just like before, just as her peak approached, he pulled back, the barest degree, and she felt the absence of him like a held breath.
“Thomas.” She moaned name again, in protest.
“Mm.” He mumbled, dragging his lips along the line of her collarbone.
“You are doing this on purpose,” she managed to accuse.
She felt him smile against her skin. “Yes.”
“That is –” She searched for the word through a considerable amount of internal noise. “Unfair.”
“Probably.” His thumb traced a slow arc against her hip.
“Thomas.”
He raised his head and looked at her, and his eyes were dark and absolutely certain, not an ounce of hurry or any care at all for time.
“I’ll give you anything you want if you admit it,” he said quietly.
She stared at him. “Admit what?”
“Admit that no one else can make you feel like this. Admit that you know that to be true and I’ll give you what you want,” he urged softly, nibbling at her earlobe.
Jane did not want to, fully aware of the implications of that statement.
But then he touched her again and she knew she would have to, because she was growing far too dissatisfied.
His fingers were like magic, sending sparks from one nerve end to another and she wanted more and more and it was unfair that he was keeping it from her.
She held out for a very respectable amount of time.
Then his mouth found the curve of her throat again and his fingers pressed even deeper and she stopped being stubborn,
“No one,” she rushed, breathy and undignified and entirely true. “No one else. No one could ever make me feel like this. No one but you, Thomas – please.”
Something moved through his expression – satisfaction, and beneath it something rawer, something that looked like relief. He pressed his lips to her jaw, gentler than before. Thomas gave her what she wanted and she fell apart moments later.