Chapter 3 The Storm #3
She did. The climax struck her with the force of the storm outside. Her body shuddered. Her walls clutched around him. She cried out. He swallowed a trembling cry with his mouth. The waves rolled through her. Spasm after spasm. Her body shook.
He followed. His rhythm broke. His hips stuttered. He drove deep. One final thrust. She felt him thicken inside her. Then the hot spurt of his release. Filling her. Spilling. He groaned. A broken sound. His body shuddered. His arms shook as he held himself above her.
They stayed there. Joined. His forehead against hers. Their breath mingling. The storm howled outside. The bed was warm. The world was small.
He rolled to the side. Took her with him. She curled against his chest. His arm wrapped around her. His heart hammered against her cheek.
Neither spoke. There was nothing to say. The line was crossed. The fracture was complete. Whatever calm they'd maintained was gone. Unraveled.
She pressed her lips against his chest. Tasted salt. Sweat. Skin.
"What happens now?" she whispered.
He pulled her tighter. "Now we wait."
"For the storm?"
"For everything."
The storm lasted three days.
They spent them in the east wing. In the bedroom. In the bed. They ate when hunger drove them to the kitchen. They slept when exhaustion took them. The rest of the time, they touched.
She learned his body. The scar on his ribs.
A bullet wound, he told her. Afghanistan.
Three years ago. The tattoo on his shoulder blade.
A Latin phrase meaning through darkness.
The way his breath caught when she took him in her mouth.
Sucking. Licking. Running her tongue along the length of him.
The sounds he made when she took him deep.
The broken groan. The trembling in his thighs was evident.
He learned hers. The sensitive spot behind her ear. The way she gasped when he nibbled her inner thigh. The arch of her back when he pressed his tongue against her slit. Licking. Sucking. Swirling his tongue until she shattered against his mouth, he Her trembling cry. Her shaking hands in his hair.
They took each other in every way the small wing allowed.
Against the window. On the couch. In the bed.
Face-down on the mattress while he took her from behind.
Straddling him in the armchair while rain hammered the glass.
Each time was different. Each time was the same.
Forbidden. Reckless. Ruinous. And impossible to stop.
On the second night, she lay on top of him. His cock buried inside her. She rocked her hips. Slow. Grinding. His hands gripped her waist. His eyes watched her face.
"Tell me something true," she said.
His thumbs stroked her hips. "I've wanted you since the hallway. Before the will. Before the clause. Before I knew your name. You're not a means to an end. You never were."
She leaned down. Kissed him. Pressed her forehead against his. "Tell me something else."
"I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of losing you. Of you deciding this was a mistake. Of you walking away in twelve months and taking everything with you."
She sat up. Took him deeper. They both gasped.
"I'm not walking away," she said. "I'm not deciding anything yet. But I'm not walking away."
On the third morning, the storm broke. Sunlight cut through the clouds. The ocean calmed. The wind died.
They stood at the east wing door. Dressed. Clean. The last three days pressed between them like a third body.
"The caretaker will be back this afternoon," he said.
"I know."
"We should talk about what happens next."
"I know."
"Vesper." He turned. Took her face in his hands. The same way he'd done the first time. "Whatever you decide, I meant what I said. I'm not going anywhere."
She covered his hands with hers. "I know."
She waddled back. His hands fell. She opened the door and walked into the main house. The hallway was quiet. The storm had left water stains on the ceiling. A window in the library had cracked. The house had taken a beating.
She went to the estate office. Her files were still on the desk. His files. The compatibility report. The will with its breeding clause. Eleanor's note.
She sat. Read the note again. She's the one. Make sure she stays.
The old woman was right. Vesper was the one. Not because of genetics. Not because of compatibility indices. Not because of a breeding clause.
Because she'd kissed a stranger in a hallway and never forgot him.
She pulled out a blank piece of paper. Wrote a single line.
I'll do this. On my terms.
She left it on his desk in the east wing. Went back to her room. Showered. Changed. Stood at the window looking at the ocean.
The sun was bright. The water was blue. The world was different.
She pressed her hand against her stomach. Flat. Empty. Maybe not for long.
A knock at the door. His voice. "Vesper."
She opened it. He stood there. The note in his hand. His eyes are dark. His jaw is tight.
"Your terms," he said. "Name them."
She took the note from his hand. Folded it. Put it in her pocket.
"Come inside," she said. "Close the door."
He did.