Chapter Thirteen #2
Imogen’s hand came down to rest in his dark hair, her fingers threading through the strands. She did not pull or guide him, merely held on as the familiar dimensions of her world began to tilt.
“Ash,” she breathed, the word a small, fractured sound as his mouth pressed a kiss to the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.
He gathered the hem of her shift in his fists, pushing the cotton higher, exposing the long line of her legs to the cool air and the damp heat of his mouth. Her breathing shortened into a ragged rhythm, completely abandoning the composure she had worn for four seasons.
He rose, sweeping the shift over her head in one fluid motion, leaving her completely bare.
The morning sun illuminated the soft curves and pale shadows of her figure.
A heavy, dark flush climbed her throat, painting her collarbone and the swell of her breasts in pure, unmasked desire.
It was her own untamed reaction, unprompted by performance, and the honesty of it brought him to his knees in an entirely different way.
He guided her backwards until the backs of her knees hit the narrow mattress. She sank onto the worn quilt, the scent of dried lavender and clean skin enveloping them both as he followed her down.
“You are so quiet,” she whispered, her eyes wide and dark as he bracketed her body with his forearms.
“I am trying very hard not to rush.” He brushed a stray curl from her cheek. “Tell me if I am too heavy.”
“You are exactly right.”
He mapped the landscape of her body with a slow, agonizingly deliberate palm.
He traced the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, the flat expanse of her stomach, before his fingers brushed the damp, heated curls between her thighs.
Her center was already slick and swollen, and at his first direct touch, she gasped, and her hips involuntarily lifted off the mattress.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his thumb finding the sensitive peak of her sex.
Her dark eyes met his, the usual steady intelligence shattered by raw sensation.
Her lips parted as he stroked her, a long, trembling sigh escaping her throat.
He adjusted his pressure, learning exactly which movements made her lose her breath and which made her arch closer.
She answered his hands with a demanding directness, entirely devoid of shyness.
Ash lowered his head, his mouth closing over her breast. He licked a slow circle before drawing the peak between his lips, sucking deeply.
Imogen’s fingers dug fiercely into his shoulders, her back bowing off the bed with a low, broken moan that he immediately wanted to memorize and reproduce for the rest of his natural life.
“Please,” she choked out, her head tossing on the lavender-scented pillow.
He stepped back from the bed just long enough to rid himself of his breeches and underwear. When he stood bare before her, heavily aroused and straining, she did not flinch or look away. A bright splash of color marked her cheeks, but her gaze remained intent and fiercely curious.
“I have read about this,” she said, her voice breathy but remarkably resolute. “I have imagined it extensively. I am not afraid.”
“Good,” he murmured, settling his weight between her parted thighs. “Because I intend to be incredibly thorough.”
The shock of their bodies meeting, bare skin sliding against bare skin, sent a jolt of absolute rightness straight through his chest. It settled into the hollow space behind his ribs where a constant, dull absence had lived for eight years, filling the void completely.
He braced his weight, letting the blunt tip of his length find her entrance.
“Ash,” she whispered, her hands gripping his upper arms.
He pushed forward, entering her with an excruciatingly slow, steady pressure. Her body yielded, opening tightly around him, incredibly warm and impossibly close. She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingernails biting into his skin, and he froze instantly, pressing his forehead against hers.
“Am I hurting you? I can stop.”
“Keep going,” she demanded, her voice tight but unwavering. “I want this. I have wanted this since the conservatory. Do not dare stop now.”
He pressed deeper, burying himself fully within her.
He felt her muscles adjust to accommodate him, the initial resistance melting into a wet, clinging heat that nearly unmade him.
He held perfectly still for a long moment, allowing the profound intimacy of the connection to anchor him.
He was not a man given to moments of awe, but holding himself buried in the woman he loved felt dangerously close to losing himself entirely.
He began to move, establishing a slow, deep rhythm. The narrow bed protested with a rhythmic creak, the sound weaving into the rustle of the quilt and the trill of a garden bird outside the window.
“You are the only thing I have wanted to keep in eight years,” he rasped, his hips driving forward.
Imogen arched up to meet his thrust, a ragged sigh tearing from her lips.
“You have rearranged me.” He withdrew and sank back into her with a sudden, harder force. “Every room I walked into was empty, and now none of them is.”
Her hands scrambled down his back, her nails scraping over his skin as instinct took over. She met his movements with a sudden, desperate urgency, her hips rocking against him in a perfect, untaught rhythm.
“I love you.” The confession spilled out of him without forethought, landing heavily in the quiet room. It was not a grand theatrical declaration; it was simply the unavoidable truth of a man moving inside the woman who owned him.
Imogen let out a tiny, concentrated note, a sound pulled from the very center of her being.
Her body contracted violently around him, her thighs clamping against his hips as she shattered beneath him.
Her eyes fluttered shut, her mouth open in a silent cry as the flush on her chest deepened into a vibrant, mottled pink.
The velvet grip of her climax dragged him straight over the edge.
Ash surrendered completely, his own release tearing through him with a guttural groan.
He collapsed against the warm curve of her neck, spilling his seed into her with a profound, bone-deep relief.
He had spent a decade defending a hollow fortress, and laying down his arms was the easiest thing he had ever done.
He bore his weight on his forearms until his breathing leveled, then rolled to the side, pulling her against his chest. He pressed his ear to the rapid thud of her heart, his fingers lightly tracing her ribs one by one, counting the steady, reassuring beats while they both waited for the world to stop spinning.
The afternoon light was beginning to come through the curtains. The morning had passed without either of them noticing.
He showed her the license again, in bed, the parchment resting between them on the quilt, and she looked at the blank space where her name would go.
“Tomorrow at the Carlisle ball,” he said. “Eight o’clock. I will be waiting near the orchestra. I am going to ask you in front of everyone.”
“Do not make me wait until eight.”
“You will have me at eight. And then you will have me every day after that.” He kissed her forehead. “Trust me one day longer.”
“I have been trusting you for weeks, Your Grace. One more day is not going to be the difficulty.”
He dressed. Slowly, because dressing meant leaving and that meant being apart from her which had become, in the space of one morning, the most unacceptable state of affairs he could imagine.
She lay in the bed and watched him dress, the quilt pulled to her chin, her hair loose on the pillow, and the watching was lazy, satisfied and lit with something that looked, in the afternoon light, remarkably like happiness.
He kissed her once and left before Cassie returned. He walked down the stairs and through the morning room and past Mrs. Glass, who was standing at the kitchen door with her mending and who did not look up as he passed, because not looking up was its own form of discretion.
The afternoon was bright, the street was quiet, the license was back in his coat, the watch was in his waistcoat, and his body was carrying the memory of her body the same way his father’s watch carried his mother’s portrait, close, warm and permanent.
He walked home to Grosvenor Square in the late afternoon light and thought about the Carlisle ball, the blank space on the license and the words he was going to say to her.
His words were going to include the truth: the wager, the brothel and the name on the page.
It was going to hurt, and the hurting was the price that he was going to pay it, because the woman who was lying in her narrow bed in the afternoon light with the warmth of him still on her skin deserved a man who paid his prices, and he was that man now.
Tomorrow. The Carlisle ball. Eight o’clock.
He was not yet afraid. He would be, by tomorrow. But for now, walking home through Mayfair in the late afternoon with the taste of her still on his lips and the sound of her small note still in his ears, he was not afraid. He was, for the first time since his father died, simply and entirely alive.