Chapter Twenty-Two
Vesper hadn’t known quite what to expect from this evening’s itinerary, but to the best of her recollection, “shagging in a cupboard” had not been anywhere on the agenda.
And yet, that seemed to be the route they were on.
Ashbridge’s kiss was like a flame to kindling; she felt as though her body had come alive beneath his touch, the press of his hand at her waist, on her arm, cupping her breast, leaving sparks in its wake each time it moved.
She made short work of shifting onto her knees, then flinging a leg over him so that she was straddling his lap, and he laughed against her throat, the sound low and a bit ragged.
“Very lucky you didn’t accidentally knee me in the bollocks,” he said, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “I can’t see a goddamn thing in here.”
“It’s muscle memory at this point,” Vesper said. Her fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck that she feared she was becoming perversely obsessed with. She pressed down into his lap, causing a groan to work its way up from his chest, and his hands were suddenly at her hips, stilling her.
“Keep that up, and this isn’t going to last long,” he warned, and it was Vesper’s turn to laugh, a bit breathlessly.
Another moment—occupied, quite pleasantly, by Ashbridge’s mouth on hers, and one of his hands sliding from its spot anchoring her hips, up to her bare arm, dragging down the strap of her dress—and then Ashbridge added, sounding impressively coherent, given their current circumstances, “I wish this cupboard had a lock.”
“Don’t… think… that they’re going to come looking for us,” Vesper said; Ashbridge’s mouth was now occupied with the bare skin exposed by her gown’s sagging neckline, and she felt the wet heat of his tongue through the silk of her brassiere.
She hadn’t precisely selected her underthings with the goal of getting Max Ashbridge to remove them, but it would be a lie to deny that the thought had occurred to her.
She drew back, just enough to fumble for the buttons on his shirt.
Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness; she still couldn’t make him out in any great detail, but she could at least perceive the outlines of his shadowy figure beneath her.
Somehow, the darkness made the experience feel more intimate, not less so; Vesper had always been a make-love-with-the-lights-on sort of girl—after all, she looked spectacular when she was naked.
Furthermore, she’d always found that it heightened her pleasure, being able to see exactly what she was doing (and what was being done to her).
But here, in the quiet of this closet, with Ashbridge’s breaths heavy in her ears, able to feel him but not see him… it felt private. Special.
She suddenly, in a moment of blinding clarity, realized what it could be like to do this with someone who only wanted to be doing it with her, specifically.
She only had a second to dwell on those thoughts, however, because Ashbridge didn’t allow her much chance to think.
He was sliding down the other strap of her dress, and she was—after a brief struggle—able to free her arms, exposing her entire chest and stomach to the cool air.
She banged one elbow against the door, and laughed against Ashbridge’s neck, the skin of his stomach warm against her palm.
“I’ll have a bruise there tomorrow,” she gasped, still suppressing giggles, but she was distracted by the feeling of Ashbridge’s fingers on the complicated buttons and laces of her brassiere; removing it would have been a somewhat challenging task under the best of circumstances, but the darkness slowed his progress considerably, and he exhaled a frustrated breath.
“You would make this as difficult as possible,” he muttered, the only acknowledgment of his struggle.
“Watch it, I paid an awful lot of money for that lingerie set.” She shifted on his lap, and he stifled another groan against the bare skin of her breast. She could feel him, hard beneath her thigh, and she slipped an exploratory hand down to the buttons of his trousers, which prompted yet another groan.
This was growing quite satisfying—she thought she could listen to those groans all day.
He, however, had other ideas, and clearly decided that turnabout was fair play, because he slipped a hand beneath her skirts, and up her stockinged legs; he traced a finger along the ribbons of one of her garters, up the bare skin of her thigh, and—with little warning—pushed aside the damp fabric of her knickers to give her a stroke.
“Nugh,” she said eloquently, and dropped her head to his shoulder as he slid a finger inside her.
His thumb began working in small, tight circles, and Vesper’s eyes actually rolled back in her head.
He kept his movements agonizingly slow—enough to drive her wild, but not enough to send her over the edge.
She shifted her hips restlessly, trying to force his hand into a faster pace; instead, he merely added a second finger, prompting another sound from Vesper that, had she been capable of coherent thought, she would probably have felt embarrassed by.
There was a muffled thump as his elbow hit the wall. “For fuck’s sake.”
“It… lacks a bit… in romantic atmosphere,” Vesper said, the words coming out as gasps. “But it… is sort of charming… in its own way.”
“I don’t think you should be able to speak right now,” he said, his tone stern in a way that her body liked very much; her thighs tightened around his hand.
At that precise moment, they heard the sound of footsteps, and he clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Quiet,” he murmured against her temple.
They stilled for a moment, but the footsteps grew more distant; his fingers increased their pace, and Vesper whimpered against his palm.
“You’re so wet,” he said, his voice ragged in her ear, his breath hot against her cheek.
“Do you hear yourself?” He did something with his fingers that prompted Vesper to cry out, muffling the sound against his neck, and she felt him twitch against her thigh.
Vesper would not, in any universe, have taken Max Ashbridge to be a filthy talker in bed.
“I’d be even wetter if you’d speed the hell up,” she said, breathless, and he laughed, the sound low and throaty.
Vesper hadn’t thought it possible to be more aroused than she had been a second before, which just went to show that Ashbridge liked to surprise her.
The tight circles his thumb was rubbing grew smaller, quicker, and Vesper ground her hips against him helplessly, small whimpers falling uncontrolled from her mouth.
Another minute or so, and she was almost…
almost… there. She leaned back, her head falling back to allow her to gaze, unseeingly, up at the shadowy ceiling, and he leaned forward to place a kiss on the hollow between her breasts, and then seal his mouth over one of her nipples.
A slight graze of his teeth, and she was gone, shuddering around him, her thighs clenching so tight around his fingers that she thought dimly, with faint amusement, that he might be trapped there for some time.
A minute, or perhaps an hour, passed.
“I’m going to get a wrist cramp,” he said, and she laughed against his neck. It felt so odd to have a man’s hand between her legs but to be laughing with him at the same time. She’d never thought anything was missing from her bedroom life, but she realized in a flash that laughter was rare.
“Is this how you normally conduct your investigations?” she asked, and she could imagine his frown at her, even though the darkness prevented her from actually seeing it.
“Vesper. For Christ’s sake.”
“Just wondering. You’re really quite skilled at maneuvering in tight spaces.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.” The way he phrased it made it sound like a compliment, Vesper thought, growing warm all over.
She drew back so that his hand could slip free from between her thighs and wasted no time in fumbling with the buttons on his trousers, reaching to take him, hot and heavy, in her hand. She gave him a slow stroke, and his breath grew unsteady, but then his hand was on hers, stilling the motion.
“No?” she asked, and gave him another stroke.
“I—Christ,” he said, his grip on her wrist tightening. His hand was slippery on her skin—still wet with her. Merlin. Surely fumbles in a cupboard weren’t meant to be this good? She stroked him again, and rose up on her knees.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a condom in that scrap of fabric masquerading as a dress?
” he asked, and she froze. Despite her flighty reputation, there were some things Vesper was very careful about.
There were potions that allegedly helped prevent pregnancy, but she’d never entirely trusted them, especially as they were somewhat time-sensitive (like all magic these days), and so she always employed secondary measures to be safe.
She was fond of George, but had no desire to give him a cousin just yet.
“It’s only… I know there are potions”—his voice was apologetic—“but, given what happened with my mother and… and him, I like to be careful.” She wished it was light enough to get a proper look at his face, because he sounded almost embarrassed, when there was nothing at all embarrassing about anything he was saying.
“Of course,” she said, fumbling to press a reassuring hand to his cheek.
“It makes perfect sense… and I like to be careful, too. I wasn’t thinking.
” She was feeling embarrassed now, truthfully; it wasn’t as though she was some naive virgin.
She couldn’t believe she had forgotten herself, even for a minute.
“But,” she added, deciding—in a fit of philosophizing—that she might as well make lemonade out of lemons, “you’re in luck. I have a very talented mouth.”