Chapter Ten #3
She read the poem three times, then pressed the book against her chest and stared at the ceiling while her heart did complicated things behind her ribs.
He was courting her with poetry now. The frozen Duke of Northmere was leaving her books of poetry about beautiful women with red hair. He had searched through his library and found words that said what he couldn't seem to say himself.
She should be sensible about this. She should maintain professional distance, keep her expectations realistic, and protect herself from the inevitable heartbreak when reality intruded on whatever fantasy they were building between them.
Dukes didn't marry governesses. They might court them, in their way.
They might tell them they were beautiful.
They might leave them poetry about autumn hair and heart-warming eyes.
But in the end, they married women of appropriate rank and fortune, and governesses were left with nothing but memories and broken hearts.
She had known this from the beginning and had warned herself against exactly this kind of foolish hope.
But when she finally fell asleep that night, it was with the book of poetry tucked under her pillow.
***
Alistair could not sleep.
He lay in his bed, staring at the canopy above him, his body thrumming with an energy he couldn't dispel. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again—her hair, cascading down around her shoulders like liquid fire.
The most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
He had said those words aloud. And now he couldn't stop thinking about it.
He turned onto his side, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape, but it didn't help. His blood was running hot, his skin too sensitive, his body responding to memories in ways he couldn't control.
He should get up. Should read, or work, or do anything except lie here torturing himself with thoughts of copper hair and green eyes and the soft gasp she had made when he touched her.
He closed his eyes and dreamed.
She was in his bed.
He didn't question how she had gotten there, or why she was there, or any of the practical considerations that would have consumed his waking mind. He only knew that she was there—her copper hair spread across his pillows like a sunset, her body pale and perfect against his dark sheets.
"Alistair," she breathed, and his name on her lips was an invitation.
He covered her body with his own, feeling her warmth against every inch of his skin.
She was naked, they both were, and the sensation of her bare flesh against his was overwhelming.
Her breasts pressed against his chest, and her thighs parted to cradle his hips.
Her hands slid up his back, nails dragging lightly across his skin.
"I've been waiting for you," she whispered.
"I'm here." He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her; lavender and something warmer, something that was simply Eliza. "I'm here."
He kissed her throat, her collarbone, the soft swell of her breasts. She arched beneath him, gasping, her fingers tangling in his hair. He took one nipple into his mouth, and she cried out; a sound of pure pleasure that sent fire racing through his veins.
"Please," she begged. "Please, Alistair, I need…"
"What do you need?"
"You... Inside me. Now."
He positioned himself at her entrance, feeling the slick heat of her, the way her body opened for him. And then he pushed forward, burying himself in her warmth, and the sensation was so intense he thought he might die of it.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he began to move. Slow at first, savoring every stroke, but her hands on his back urged him faster, harder, and he lost himself in the rhythm of their joining.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, like that, don't stop…"
He couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to. His body had taken over, driven by instinct and need and a hunger that had been building for weeks. He drove into her again and again, feeling her tighten around him, hearing her cries escalate.
"Alistair…I'm going to…"
"Let go," he commanded. "Let me feel you."
She shattered beneath him, her body convulsing, her voice breaking on his name. And the sensation of her climax, the way she clenched around him, the expression of pure ecstasy on her face, pushed him over the edge.
"Eliza…"
He woke with a gasp, his body rigid, his release pulsing hot and shameful against his sheets.
For a long moment, he simply lay there, breathing hard, waiting for his racing heart to slow. It hadn't been real. None of it had been real.
But the wanting was very real indeed.
He threw back the covers, rose, and walked to the bathroom. The water was cold, and he splashed it on his face, trying to shock himself back to rationality.
It didn't work.
He could still feel her, and he could still hear her voice crying out his name.
This has to stop, he told himself. You're her employer. She's under your protection. This is wrong.
But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. What he felt for Eliza Harrow wasn't wrong. It was the best thing he had ever felt in his life.
And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying part of all.