Chapter 19 #2
That night, when the house had finally settled into its quiet rhythms with Papa long abed, Pike having completed his final security round, his heavy tread evidence that he trusted nothing to chance, and Betty having retired with the flawless discretion that had earned her every one of her thirty-five pounds a year, Millie came to Nick’s room.
She knocked once, softly.
“Come in.”
He was seated on the edge of the bed in his banyan, the fine linen open at the throat, his injured leg stretched out before him.
The liniment pot waited on the small table, and candlelight flickered across the strong line of his jaw and the dark sweep of his lashes.
He glanced up as she entered, and licked his lips the moment the door clicked shut behind her.
Millie removed her spectacles with resolute fingers and set them neatly beside the pot.
Then she sat beside him on the mattress.
For a moment, habit took over. She reached for the liniment, scooped a generous amount onto her palm, and began working it into the tight, scarred muscle of his thigh with the firm, knowledgeable strokes she had perfected over their time together.
The scent of camphor and rosemary filled the warm air between them.
His skin was hot beneath her hands, the muscle corded and knotted.
She pressed deeper, thumbs circling, and felt the faint tremor that ran through him.
Neither of them spoke for long minutes. The only sounds were the wet slide of liniment, the crackle of the low fire, and the soft rhythm of their breathing.
Then she stopped and looked directly into his eyes, because she had never looked at him any other way.
“I do not want to wait for the wedding,” she said.
He stared. For one of the rare times since she had met him, his usual composure shattered completely. Surprise, heat, and awe moved across his face in rapid succession.
“Are you certain?” His voice had gone rough.
“I am always certain when I have decided,” she answered. “You know this about me by now.”
He studied her for a long, searching moment. Then that slow, crooked smile … warm, genuine, devastating … curved his mouth. “I do know that.”
He reached for her with both hands, cradling her face with the reverence she now recognized for what it was.
When his mouth met hers, the kiss was slow, deep, and devastatingly thorough.
His lips were warm and firm, tasting faintly of the tea he had sipped earlier.
At first, he simply brushed them against hers, once, twice, teasing the seam until she parted for him on a soft exhale.
Then his tongue slid inside … velvet heat, deliberate and possessive.
Stroking along hers in long, languid caresses that made her stomach tighten and her pulse between her thighs.
Millie kissed him back without a shred of moderation.
She met every slow thrust of his tongue with her own, sucking gently, then harder, chasing the taste of him like a woman starved.
A low, hungry sound vibrated from his chest into her mouth.
One of his hands slid back into her hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt her head exactly where he wanted it, deepening the kiss until she felt dizzy, consumed, claimed.
His other hand trailed down her neck, thumb stroking the frantic beat of her pulse before continuing lower to cup the swell of her breast through her gown. He squeezed gently, then rubbed the pad of his thumb over her nipple in slow, maddening circles until it stiffened into a tight, aching peak.
She arched into his touch with a broken whimper, her own fingers fisting hard in the front of his banyan, pulling him closer, closer, as if she could crawl inside his skin.
Their tongues tangled hotter, wetter, sliding, stroking, teasing.
He sucked on her lower lip, then soothed it with another slow glide of his tongue.
She nipped his in return, earning a rough growl that sent fresh slick heat flooding between her legs.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard.
She could see the glint of moisture on his lips for a heartbeat before it vanished.
His eyes were black with lust, pupils blown wide, and her own mouth felt slightly swollen.
He appeared wrecked already, and she felt wrecked and they had barely begun.
“Blazes, Millie,” he rasped, voice low and ragged. “You kiss like you argue. Absolute and unrelenting.”
She smiled, breathless and fierce, running her fingertips lightly down his muscular chest. “Then stop talking and keep kissing me exactly like that.”
He laughed softly, the sound low and hungry, and obeyed. His mouth crashed back down on hers with renewed urgency. This time there was less patience and far more raw need, his tongue deep into her mouth in deep, rhythmic strokes that left no doubt what he intended to do when the time came.
He drew back just far enough to pant, “If at any point—”
“Nick.”
“Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement.
Then he lowered his head and pressed his open mouth to the curve of her throat.
The heat of his tongue against her pulse made her shiver hard.
He took his time, savoring her, lips and teeth and tongue mapping every sensitive inch while his fingers worked the long row of buttons down the back of her gown with diligence.
Each button released with a tiny pop. Cool air kissed her shoulders, then her back as the fabric slid down.
He undid her stays, which she regretted not removing before her arrival in his bedchamber. Then that too loosened and her breasts tumbled free, and she drew air in relief as he drew it off and tossed it to the floor.
He kissed the slope of one shoulder, then lower, until his mouth closed over the tight peak of her breast through her shift.
Millie gasped, arching into the wet heat.
He sucked gently, then harder, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks racing down her spine.
His hand cupped the other breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger until she was panting.
“Are you taking notes,” he murmured against her damp skin, voice dark with amusement.
“I am … trying to,” she managed.
“Allow me to assist with that.”
He eased her back onto the bed, stripping the gown and chemise away until she lay completely bare beneath him.
For a long moment, he simply stared, eyes still black with desire, drinking in every curve and shadow.
Then he kissed his way down her body with ruthless thoroughness.
The valley between her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach, the sharp jut of one hipbone.
When he reached the juncture of her thighs, he spread her legs slowly, reverently, and settled between them.
“Nick …” His name came out shaky.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of her trembling thigh, then another higher. “Shh. Let me learn you.”