Chapter 13 #2
He smiled against her thigh.
Paused. Let her feel the warmth of his breath.
He eased the nightgown down until the cotton covered her, then pressed his mouth to the soft mound beneath the fabric. The heat of her radiated against his lips. He could hear the small catch in her breath. Smell the musky scent of her. Taste nothing but the ghost of what he wanted.
He was losing his mind. Slowly. Willingly.
Another kiss, more deliberate this time, letting her feel the intent behind it. She made a sound that fired his blood. He could have stayed there all night, learning the language of her body, forgetting every reason he should pull back.
Then she drew him to his feet.
He went, though every instinct screamed otherwise. His hands found her waist, her ribs, the warmth of her through the delicate fabric. He was hard and she was soft and there was nowhere near enough distance between them.
Her fingers drifted to his jaw. “I need to see you, touch you, kiss you. I can’t do that when you’re on your knees, Hugh.”
“You don’t want me to kiss you there?” He was near desperate to taste her. To prove recklessness had its rewards.
She took his hand and drew it down between her thighs, to where the cotton was damp from his mouth. “This way we can still look at each other.”
His thumb moved in a slow stroke, his eyes on her face. Then he kissed her with a hunger that said everything he couldn’t, everything he’d do if fate had been kind.
He could give her this. Pleasure. Release. One memory to take with her when she left him. But not his name. Not his future. Not the promise she deserved.
His hand slipped beneath the hem of her nightgown, his fingers tracing a path up the inside of her thigh.
He stilled.
“Tell me you want this, Emma. Say you want me.”
“I’ve wanted you since you kissed me beneath the pew. Perhaps before then.”
“Then part your legs a little.” He was thick and swollen, pressing against the fabric of his trousers, the urge to pull her closer a rapid beat in his blood.
She was soft and slick beneath his touch, and the sound she made when he found the right place nearly broke him. Lightning flashed beyond the window, but he’d forgotten to count the beats.
“Do you see what you do to me?” His mouth was at her ear, teeth grazing her lobe. “I can’t behave when I’m around you.”
She gripped his arm.
“Hugh.” Just his name as he circled the tight bud, her fingers digging into his flesh. He felt the tremor pass through her, the soft tilt of her hips into his hand.
“There,” he murmured, and slipped two fingers inside her. She closed around him and his breath left him in a rush. He watched her face, the colour rising in her throat.
He was hard to the point of pain. Close enough to the edge that it took everything he had not to lay her down on the library rug and lose himself in her completely.
Thunder rolled outside. Her head fell back, her mouth parting on a sweet moan he ought to forget and never would.
He felt her tighten around him, felt the sudden break in her rhythm as pleasure took hold.
“Look at me, Emma.” He needed to watch her come apart for him.
Her lashes lifted.
He stroked her again, his thumb keeping the same merciless circle until the breath caught in her throat and her grip on his arm turned fierce.
“That’s it. Don’t fight me now.”
The fight went out of her all at once.
Her knees softened, his name a cry from her lips, and he caught her against him as the sound struck him harder than the storm.
He held her there while she trembled, while every small pulse of her body told him what no confession could.
For a moment, neither moved. The storm still battered the windows, but it no longer owned the room.
“You’re beautiful when you’re reckless.”
She smiled. “So are you.”
He resisted the urge to kiss her again, knowing it wouldn’t end there.
“We can’t stay here. We’ve reached the limit of our teasing tonight.” He made himself step back. “Distance is all I have left.”
Her gaze moved to the open neck of his shirt, and he saw his own hunger reflected there. “Even that is proving less of an obstacle.”
“I should take you upstairs.”
“You should mind your phrasing, Mr Stanton. The owner of a newspaper should be more precise.”
He breathed a little easier, the joke familiar ground. “Then let me be exact. I’ll walk you to your room, and you must lock your door. Before I forget why we’re here.”
“Very well. Best you retire sober.”
He almost smiled. He was drunk on her and would need a cold walk around the grounds before he could think straight.
They left the library in darkness. The storm had calmed to a mutter beyond the windows, but the house kept speaking: rain in the gutters, old boards shifting in the cold, some distant shutter tapping like a cane on the desk.
He felt her beside him, the soft brush of her sleeve against his hand, the slight hitch in her breath when they reached the foot of the stairs. The craving was soothed, not sated.
“We’ll leave for London at eight, have breakfast on the road.” He kept his tone practical as they reached her chamber door. Morning could not come quick enough.
“That early?”
The sooner he was out of this house, the better. “There’s no reason to delay.” He nodded to the room. “Lock your door. Don’t wander this house again tonight.”
She looked at him for a long moment, her face pale in the dark corridor. “Will that remove all temptation?”
“No, it will make it harder to act on.”
“Then you should lock your door, too.” Her hand came to rest briefly on his chest, then slid away. “Goodnight, Hugh.”
He resisted asking her to say his name again.
“Goodnight, Emma.”
He waited until he heard the key turn, then stood there like a fool, his palm flat against the panel, wishing he were the devil people claimed.