Chapter Seventeen
This is madness, Kalila thought, following Oliver deeper into Rosewood, her pulse thrumming in her veins. It was madness, but she wanted it. She hadn’t denied herself the opportunity to join the Society, and so it followed that she should not deny herself this.
She would not deny herself this.
The kiss in the shed had made her most aware of one crucial thing—Oliver wanted her in the way she wanted him.
But wanting someone was different than liking them, and there was something terrifying about the fact that he had admitted to both.
About the fact that he’d had her admit that she felt the very same.
And so, as she trailed him into a bedchamber lit only by a crackling fireplace, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was willfully tossing a match onto something that was destined to become an uncontrollable, painful blaze.
She was momentarily distracted as she took in the finely furnished room.
It was fitted with a four-poster bed canopied with forest-green drapes embroidered with twisting, golden vines.
A large mirror hung to the left of the fireplace, which cast its light onto a pair of padded chairs that were positioned on either end of a small table piled with books.
Kalila wandered over and picked one up, her heart lodging itself in her throat when she saw the title: Ancient Civilizations of Mesopotamia
The book below it was about Mesopotamian art, and she had no doubt she’d find descriptions of metalworking in it if she flipped through.
If she’d wanted evidence of his desire to know her, then these books told her just that.
To her relief, the next volume that caught her eye was about microscopy. Picking it up, she said, “I don’t think I’ve read this one.”
“Kalila.” She pulled her attention away from the object in her hands to see him leaning against the mantelpiece. “Would you tell me what it is that you want?”
She placed the book down, willing herself to stick to the one rule she’d made for them. “I—I don’t have the words for it. I only ever—it happened twice. That’s all. And I didn’t feel very much. Maybe some pressure, but that was all.”
“You didn’t feel very much?”
Kalila shrugged. “I suppose he didn’t know what to do.”
“No,” Oliver murmured, voice rough, “I suppose not. But I think I know who does know what to do.”
“Indeed? And who might that be?”
She was feigning innocence, of course. He would tell her that he knew just what to do to bring her to the heights of ecstasy, assure her that she’d fall apart in his strong hands. Wasn’t that how most men advertised their particular skills?
“You,” Oliver said, pushing himself off the mantel. Slowly, methodically, he began to roll up his sleeves, behaving as if he hadn’t uttered the most shocking thing she’d heard all day.
“Me?” Kalila repeated, giggling despite herself. How could he possibly know—
“You do touch yourself, don’t you?” He paused, his facade of nonchalance melting away as the lopsided grin she was growing so fond of erased the sharp planes of his face. “We agreed to be honest, did we not?”
“We did,” she grumbled, wishing she hadn’t instated that particular rule.
Wishing she weren’t so closed off to begin with.
Another woman might have dragged him to bed by now, reduced to a puddle by the mere sight of his well-defined forearms. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I do. But I don’t see how that is helpful for you to know. ”
His grin shifted from cheeky to wicked in a heartbeat. “It’s very useful. You know as well as I do that practical demonstrations work wonders on scientists looking to learn new techniques.”
“Practical demonstrations?” she squeaked. Her body reacted to his meaning with startling speed, a shiver tripping down her spine and a familiar warmth blooming in her belly.
“It’s up to you, of course,” he said with all the politeness in the world, despite the wolfish smile that still lingered. “Far be it from me to—”
“How do I—we—do that? Show me.”
“Show you?”
“I’ll—I’ll tell you to stop if I’m not enjoying it.”
Take the reins. I don’t know how to do this anymore.
Finally, blessedly, he seemed to read her mind. He approached her, standing so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body, and cupped her face in his hands. Something like pain flickered across his features as he gazed down at her, but before Kalila could ask about it, he spoke.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, the words husky and soft.
She nodded, all at once aware of every part of her—every limb, every stray freckle.
Oliver bent his head, lips grazing hers for one brief moment before kissing her properly.
She almost stumbled with the force of it, reaching up to cling onto his shoulders in response.
He kissed her thoroughly and purposefully, in a way that left very little room in her head for doubt.
Breaking away, he pressed his mouth to her cheek, then to her jaw, and then to her neck.
The sensation was electric, heightened by the scrape of his beard-roughened jaw against her sensitive skin.
His hands—so much bigger than she’d realized, now that they were trailing down her body—came to rest at her waist, fingers brushing against the buttons of her trousers.
He lifted his head away from her neck. “May I?”
“Yes,” she whispered, grateful that he’d thought to ask. “You may.”
She’d never been asked, not once a certain threshold had been crossed.
Oliver knelt before her, and she marveled at the way the light of the fire played across his tousled hair.
Her admiration was cut short by the sensation of her trousers loosening from around her waist as Oliver carefully tugged them off.
Much to her relief, her shirt fell at her thighs, tailored to perfection by Caroline.
Standing once more, Oliver offered her a hand. She took it, stepping out of the pool of her trousers. She felt far more naked than she truly was, especially once the heat of the fire reminded her that she wasn’t wearing undergarments of any kind.
“Hmm.” Oliver tore her away from her thoughts. “How shall we do this?”
“I beg your pardon,” Kalila said, “I thought you already knew.”
“I’m weighing our options,” was his cheeky response.
She nodded in mock understanding. “Of course.”
Oliver moved to drag an armchair away from the fireplace. Positioning it in front of the mirror, he turned toward her.
“Come.”
Kalila joined him by the chair, curiosity barreling through her. “Shall I sit?”
“In a moment.” He winked at her and sat. “Now you can sit.”
Heat flooded her face. And her body. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” A lazy smirk pulled at his mouth. “Are you?”
Instead of responding, she perched herself on his lap. Immediately, her attention was drawn to the mirror. Oliver met her gaze in the glass, his expression one of complete satisfaction.
“Well?” she prompted, aware that her most sensitive parts were at risk of brushing against the fabric of his trousers.
Oliver sat back, the shifting of his body beneath hers making her want to squirm. “Have at it, then.”
Be brave, she willed herself. It isn’t the same. He isn’t the same. This is not a trap.
Kalila dragged her hands along her thighs, grasped onto the edge of her shirt, and pulled it upward to reveal herself to the mirror.
To Oliver.
Leaning against his broad chest, she felt his hardness press against the small of her back. A flood of intense need coursed through her, so strong that it almost made her want to hide. But the time for hiding—the time for composure—had long passed, and she knew it.
Beneath her, Oliver moved his legs, causing her to fall back against him, thighs completely spread. His breath came in strangled exhalations. “Go on,” he ground out, knuckles white as he grasped the arms of the chair. “Please.”
Her eyes met his in the mirror, and she could have sworn that he was seconds from losing control. But he didn’t. He remained still, betrayed only by the evidence of his arousal. Taking a deep breath, Kalila reached between her legs, dragging her fingers through her folds.
Wet. She was wet.
Behind her, she heard his sharp intake of breath, and a whispered “Christ.”
And that was all it took. The walls she had so carefully built around herself came tumbling down as she repeated the motion, rubbing a slick finger against her swollen bud. She made no sound—she never had—but saw the rise and fall of her chest as her breath quickened, pleasure coursing through her.
“Right there, hmm?” Oliver crooned, prompting Kalila to nod as one finger became two.
Then it was her turn to have an idea. Her turn to weigh options. She shifted against his length, pulling a curse from his mouth before saying, “Give me your hand.”
He raised his eyebrows at her in the mirror before obeying. Kalila guided his hand, pressing it against her. She shivered at the contact as her hips involuntarily pushed against him.
“This is no practical demonstration,” he growled in her ear, allowing her to maneuver him to her liking. He increased the pressure of his touch, coaxing a quiet sigh from her throat.
“It’s called an assisted performance,” she huffed, arching to grind against him. “Do keep up.”
“I’ll try,” he said, circling the most sensitive part of her with unrelenting pressure.
Sharp, delicious pleasure coursed through her in waves, so overwhelming that she released her hold on his hand and collapsed against his chest. They made a wicked tableau in the mirror, and Kalila was sure she had never, ever looked this way before.
Her cheeks were flushed, her back arched, her hair wild.
She was, for the first time in her life, the very picture of depravity.
And there was no risk to it. Which made it that much easier to simply give in.
Oliver mimicked her own ministrations to perfection until she was at the very edge of ecstasy. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, urging him into working her just a little harder, a little faster, until—