His chuckle rumbled. “Kind of you to notice.”
“I didn’t, you know. Not before the soiree.”
“The soiree?”
Curse her flapping tongue. “You—you looked nice.”
“Nice?”
“Handsome.” Edible, in fact.
“And now?”
“Obviously, I’m aware.” No mistaking the hardness against her belly, nor the way his hardness left her head feverish and her mouth dry. She swallowed. “I am very aware.”
He cupped her chin and lifted her face. No doubt her eyes held truths she had yet to acknowledge, truths she could not dice into words. She blessed the shadows for concealing two contradictory Amelias.
One—aware allowing Bellamy to hold her was dangerous and could have no good end. The other—submersed in the joy of sensation and the heady pleasure of knowing she hadn’t mistaken his desire.
Soon, one of those Amelias must wither.
He slanted his mouth over hers, urging her lips to part. She gave in to his onslaught.
He shifted their bodies, pressing her back against the bookshelves, delivering each kiss in a full-bodied, wave-like motion. All she could do was hold on.
“Mrs. Sartin.” Her name floated on his breath. “Amelia.”
The fight—what little there had been—when out of her limbs. The intimacy of her Christian name broke her last defense. Rational Amelia withered.
His lips rested by the side of her temple, just above her ear. Roughly, he whispered, “Tell me what you want.”
Want? Want implied choice. This did not feel like want.
This felt like fate.
Like destiny.
Alive awareness focused on every point of contact. Later, she would parse consequences. Much, much later.
“What I want…?”
“Yes.”
She worked her fingers into his simply tied cravat until the knot loosened. She left it hanging on either side of his shirt as she parted the laces and inhaled.
A familiar scent. Comforting and yet, at the same time, full of new promise.
She touched her lips to the hot, smooth valley at the base of his throat.
“Have I not made myself plain?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well then, Matthew Bellamy, let me be clear. I want you. All of you.”
***
Pleasure surged through his veins, trailing concentrated desire so caustic, his cock thrummed with pain. “I am yours.”
Always. His unspoken response balled up against two more, compacting his lungs. Why haven’t you seen? And what comes next?
He hadn’t told her he was a virgin—confession could bring an abrupt end to this burgeoning moment. And how could he explain his unwillingness to dally in—or, worse, pay for—pleasures of the flesh without prematurely betraying his affection?
Was he under obligation to tell her something she had not asked?
He’d seen pictures. He knew what went where and how. If he followed her lead, there may be an awkward misstep of two, but the dance would proceed. He was a quick learner, after all.
Half-lucid thought ceased altogether as she trailed her mouth down the skin exposed beneath his open collar. She took small tastes of him with the tip of her tongue—pin-pricks directly to his testicles.
“Amelia,” he said again. She hadn’t corrected him. And he liked her name. He liked the way the consonants and vowels filled his mouth.
“Bellamy,” she replied.
Bellamy. Always Bellamy. “Call me Matthew. Please.”
Her chest moved as she breathed. In…out.
Silence turned his tendons to bails of straw. If she refused this small recognition, he’d scatter like yellowed strings of dead flax. He worked his hand from her hair to her neck, tracing her spine down to her waist.
Please.
“Matthew.” She tested his name. “Matthew.” She said with conviction. “I want to feel your skin against mine.”
“Which part?”
“All your parts.”
Choice parts eagerly responded. “I am going to take you upstairs.”
She smiled. “Do.”
Bending, he placed one arm beneath her legs while cradling her back with the other. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted. With a sigh, she laid her head against his shoulder.
Like this, anything seemed possible.
He swung sideways and ascended the narrow stairwell. At the top, moonlight cascaded through the skylight, bathing his bed in silvery light.
Magic, indeed. Potent and beautiful.
“Matthew?”
“Yes?”
“You can put me down, now.”
“Of course.” He lowered her to her feet.
She glanced doubtfully at the small bed—a simple mattress hardly big enough for one.
“Skin against skin.” He removed his waistcoat, cast aside his cravat, and then pulled his shirt over his head.
She turned back—gaze resting on his chest. She signed again—a sigh like none he’d ever heard.
What came next?
He moved to her side, and then ran the fabric of her fichu through his fingers.
“May I?” he asked roughly.
She nodded.
He untucked the white silk, carefully releasing the fabric of her bodice. She tilted her head to one side, allow him greater access. He kissed the long column from her hairline to her shoulder, delighting as her skin warmed to his attention.
“My dress laces beneath my arms,” she murmured. “I can’t—”
“Say no more.”
He found tiny, knotted strings hidden under her voluminous sleeves and set to work. Men’s clothing could be complicated, but nothing like this.
When the bodice finally gave way, he suppressed a cheer of triumph.
Her dress was not a dress at all, but a separate bodice and skirt.
She worked a tie at her waist. Heavy fabric fell to the floor in a woosh. A tantalizing show of ankle and calf rose from the pool of silk. But a high waisted, stiff garment crossing over her breasts kept her confined, shielding the top of a near-transparent shift embroidered with tiny flowers.
Unexpected. Fanciful.
He would have sworn he knew her like the back of his own hands.
She could still surprise.
He unlaced her stays. She removed them and tossed them aside. Then, she splayed her small, cool hands against his fiery flesh.
“You’re beautiful, Matthew.”
Odd choice. “Beautiful?”
“Beautifully made.”
She moved her hands over his muscles down past his softer flesh. His stomach flinched. Tension coalesced in his groin.
In another moment she’d take his manhood into her hand.
He wouldn’t last.
He walked her backwards toward his bed, her thighs brushing his as they moved. At the last moment, she twirled him around and shoved him down.
Unexpected again.
If nothing else, he would always remember the way the moonlight glowed against her pretty shift, providing shadowy hints of the rewards beneath.
He situated her between his thighs. Then, he cupped her legs, lifting her shift as his caress climbed her thighs. Up, up, over her rounded bottom and then—
She stopped him.
“I’m not,” her breath hitched, “what I once was.”
“You are lovely.” So lovely his taught muscles trembled. He met her dubious gaze. “Trust me.”
She nodded, lifting her arms.
An earthy, musk joined her usual citrus. Shaking, he freed her from the last barrier between them as he rose to his full height.
He had no prior experience with a naked woman, but he deemed all he could see in the darkness natural perfection. The primal drive between them did not care to identify flaws. Her curves were full and feminine; he was pleased. His cock was practically weeping.
If he did not sit back down, he would soon fall to his knees.
Tenderly, he took her into his arms. Skin against skin. A sensation more indulgent than imagination—a melding of silken heat. He learned what she liked, delighting as her embarrassed tension melted away, and she loosened, putty in his hands.
“What next?” he whispered.
“My breasts. Touch my breasts.”
He lowered them both back onto the bed, and then she situated herself against his pillows. Bracing the lion’s share of his weight on his knee. He passed the calloused base of his palm over the roughened peak of her nipple. she arched into his hand and moaned.
Ah. That sound.
He drew the back his hand beneath the curve and circled around, repeating his prior motion.
“Don’t tease!”
She gripped his nape and placed his mouth directly on the raised, raspberry-like flesh—something he would not have thought to do. Her flesh became a feast, first to savor, and then, urged on by her breathy moans, to devour whole. The more he gave—licking, sucking, even softly blowing against her skin—the more she demanded.
“Touch me.” Her panted words were husky with desire. “Touch me there.”
There proved no strain to deduce. Touch proved the crux.
With his mouth or with his hands? Light or heavy? At a single point or with a caress knitting together all her sensitive places?
“Show me what you like.” His voice scratched in his throat as he nuzzled against her ear. “Guide my hand.”
She wrapped his rough hand within her dainty fingers and steered him to her mound. Soft curls gave way to silken, wet warmth. He cupped her heat as she rocked against his palm, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
Captivating.
She moaned again. A slight shiver passed through her body—a harbinger, a warning, a breeze preceding a storm.
She abandoned his hand; he continued to stroke. She cupped her own breasts, squeezing her nipples.
Asphyxiation brought stars before his eyes before he remembered to breathe. The sight was going to kill him. If not now, then later, in his dreams.
Every muscle in her body tensed. Then, she arched her back, and her mouth fell open in a silent, breathless scream.
Time stopped but for the blood humming through his cock.
She inhaled in a rush. A sound tore from her lips—simultaneous pleasure, pain, and release. With a final shudder, she collapsed.
Beneath his trousers, his erect staff whined in pained silence. Not tonight.
What if there’s only tonight?
That, he refused to believe.
Instead, he wiped her tousled hair from her brow. Her skin, in light, might have been pink as dawn, but night left her sketched in shades of silver-grey.
Her eyes flew open. Her sudden, intense gaze left a sheen over his own.
“Matthew,” she whispered. “You haven’t—”
“No.” He stopped her from reaching toward his cock.
“But you—”
“Don’t worry about me.”
She frowned.
“Yet,” he added.
He rolled onto his back and clasped her close to his chest, moving his thumb along her jaw. He’d learned enough for one night. Knowledge he wanted to savor. And, far more than sweaty, needful joining, this—the quiet aftermath—was, in fact, the culmination of his day dreams.
Amelia content and still in his arms.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Furniture shapes shrouded in ghost-hued darkness slowly came into focus. Beside Amelia, Matthew Bellamy’s chest rose and fell. Fireplace coals had chalked over in chilly grey ash, but the Matthew emitted more than enough warmth.
She’d suspended reason. Now, rational propriety clamped down, breaking all she’d done into boxes whispering shame.
She’d allowed—practically begged—a man in her employ to pleasure her.
Worse still, she’d taken that pleasure as her due and left him unsatisfied.
Constance ended liaisons when male lovers did the same.
How embarrassing.
She’d begged him to touch her, moaned like a cat in heat when he complied, and then promptly drifted off into the netherworld. She’d probably even snored.
Heavens! Please, no. Please.
Mortification beyond bearing.
How were they going to go back to working together?
She’d known better than to give into her lust. She’d known, and she hadn’t done a thing to restrain her desires.
What kind of woman had she become?
Her body played Judas to her thoughts—still languid, still content, still happy to be curled against his side, safe and certain as new born pup.
Bellamy stroked her arm, slow and reassuring.
Not asleep then.
He’d known she had awakened and needed comfort. He always knew her needs before she spoke. Then again—she self-corrected—not quite always.
Tell me what you want. Guide my hand.
She frowned into the darkness.
Bellamy—Matthew—was either a very considerate lover or an inexperienced one.
And if he was inexperienced—though how could he be at his age—she was not just a selfish lover, she was worse than a pleasure house madam!
Considerate had to be the explanation. Of course Matthew was considerate. Silly to even entertain any other explanation.
Matthew was considerate, eager, and, for the moment, all hers.
She gave up a hopeless fight, nestling within his embrace. Nothing good was ever decided in the wee hours of morning, anyway.
Matthew kissed the messy line of her part. “You’re awake, I take it.”
“As are you,” she pointed out. “Did you fall asleep, too?”
“No.”
She shuffled around—shifting position until faint light outlined his features. “Do you mean to tell me you watched me sleep?”
“Couldn’t help myself, I’m afraid.” He traced her nose with his finger. Moonlight touched his smile. “You’re beautiful.”
She wasn’t.
She sunk back against his chest, eyes fixed to the skylight. “Has the sky lightened? Is that the grey of dawn?”
“No.” He stroked her face. “The nightingale, and not the lark, pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.”
She frowned. “Are you quoting?”
“Romeo and Juliet.” His caress stalled. “The morning after they declare their love.”
Dreams tightly budded in her heart, uncurled their hopeful petals.
“Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy.” She tucked them back into the darkness.
“Depends on your perspective.” He ran a lock of her hair through his fingers. “Their deaths end a longstanding feud. I imagine quite a few benefitted.”
“Heartless, Matthew. Heartless.”
He hummed. “Merely pointing out the greater good…and its limitations.” His lips touched her outer temple. “Heading off the inevitable argument, you see.”
“What argument?”
“The one where you tell me we cannot be selfish and forget our duties and considerations.”
A long note of pain played against her heartstrings.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said. “Tell me you’ve discarded caution and will follow wherever your heart leads.”
“You know that’s not me, Matthew.”
“I know.” He sighed. “Not me, either.” He resumed stroking her arm. “Earlier tonight, you asked if I needed a matchmaker.”
“Ah yes. Your perfect woman.” Her breath hitched. “I hope I haven’t harmed your prospects.”
“You still don’t see, do you? You still don’t understand?”
You are everything. His words echoed in her mind. Good heavens—he couldn’t have meant her.
She looked up into his eyes. “Matthew—” she whispered. “Surely you must know I cannot—we cannot—"
He placed a finger to her lips.
“Hear me out?”
Bad idea. She nodded.
“I
don’t require a matchmaker,” he said “However, I find myself in need of a ball.”
“A ball?”
“Well, a ball without the people, music, or fancy clothes.”
She chuckled. “Not a ball then.”
“Ah, but what is a ball but an assembly for dancing? And what is an assembly for dancing but an excuse to abandon cares and griefs in order to enjoy, for a time, light spirit and good company.”
“…light spirit and good company?” She hadn’t known he could be so poetic.
He nodded. “In this case, yours.”
“But we see one another almost every day.”
“Not like this.”
Her mouth dried again; her heart bounced in hopeful leaps. “What are you asking?”
“All I ask is the same time the fairy godmother gave Cinderella—three nights…two, as a matter of fact, since the first is nearly spent. Two more nights to be your prince.”
“Oh, Matthew.” A colossally bad idea. But, for the life of her, she could not come up with a single reason why she should refuse. “Two nights?”
“Two more nights.”
“Is this a trick?”
He pointed at his chest as if astonished. “When have you known me to be deceptive?”
She flashed him a look . “Never.”
“Coercive?”
“Not once.”
“Prone to flights of fancy?”
“Not in my experience,” she answered quietly.
He turned so they faced one another, suddenly serious. “Amelia—sweet—time is about to play a terrible trick. One blink and I’ll be on to new endeavors. Jeremy Pritchett will have taken my place.”
“Jeremy will learn to care for his inheritance.” Her voice wobbled. “No one could ever take your place.” No one.
His features softened. “Surely we should take advantage of the time we have left.”
Not only poetic, but persuasive. “Two more nights? Consecutively?”
He considered. “What would you prefer?”
She’d prefer a lifetime, if a lifetime weren’t out of the question. “Saturday next for the first of the two.”
“Very well.” He kissed her neck, just below her ear. “Imagine. Two nights lying skin to skin, indulging secret desires.”
“You cast an intoxicating spell, Matthew Bellamy.”
“I want to intoxicate you.”
Second Chance Love: A Regency Romance Set Page 5
