“Do you?”
“Yes.” He stroked down her stomach, reigniting passion and obliterating reason. “I want to make you drunk with need.”
A helpless moan escaped. His lips attended her neck, while his fingers teased lower parts until they thrummed with demand.
“You won’t regret this, sweet.” He nibbled her earlobe. “Now, show me where you’d like my lips.”
She guided him to her mound and closed her eyes too everything but sensation.
Two nights was too much.
And two nights would never be enough.
***
If the last full week apart had been any indication, Matthew would wither when he left Sartin Trading Company. Ever-merciful angels of distraction were the only reason he pushed through relentlessly long days into the glorious promise of Saturday morning.
The offices had been quiet; Amelia scheduled warehouse visits with her heir—part excuse to limit any chance they’d betray themselves, and part necessary aspect of Pritchett’s nascent education.
Finally, however, she was due back where she belonged.
With him.
Any moment.
He tapped his quill against his cheek. The barbs separated.
He frowned at the feather. He preferred these things properly maintained.
Holding the staff, he ran his fingers up the rachis, urging the silken threads to knit themselves back together until, in concert, they glimmered green.
Would that he could so easily mend the parting seams in his heart.
He’d admired Amelia from the first, then came trust, then awe, then loyalty. And next, without him being able to pinpoint the moment, all the above coalesced, and he’d plunged over the waterfall into consummate devotion.
He loved Amelia Sartin. And, what was more, he wanted to make her his wife.
His presumption should shame him.
He had no right.
Matthew leaned over his desk. Memories of his mentor, Mr. Sartin, gut-slogged him one by one.
Mr. Sartin, clapping him on the back with heart-felt pride.
Mr. Sartin, laughing so hard, he had to remove his pipe.
Mr. Sartin, gazing in fondness at Amelia.
Mr. Sartin, at the end, breath crackling as he pleaded with Matthew to stand by his darling Mrs. Sartin.
Matthew groaned.
Certainly, Mr. Sartin’s entreaty had not included stripping Amelia bare and pleasuring her on the attic cot.
He swished the quill, fanning his heated skin.
Matthew still couldn’t believe he’d convinced Amelia to give him more time. Time to seduce. To beguile. To overwhelm her objections before she was able to give them voice.
Deception—Cinderella had nothing on him.
Is this a trick?
Amelia had, of course, seen through him at once. Thank goodness she’d also been too weary to grasp he’d answered with a question. And her reply had been correct.
He hadn’t been deceptive, coercive or prone to flights of fancy…at least not until he’d seen her in a blue ball gown the night of Lady Darlington’s soiree.
Since then, however, desperation had driven him wild. Emotions beat at the gates of his heart like Visigoths intent on sacking Rome.
Or Romans intent on sacking…well, everyone else.
He stood and wandered over to the bookcase. The company’s ledgers were bound and organized by business, then by year, and then by quarter. Together, they represented years of toil. Hundreds—no—thousands of hours.
Soon they would be Jeremey Pritchett’s to tend.
But who would tend Amelia?
A chill tripped down his spine, as his purpose came into focus.
While employed by the Sartins, he’d done more than elevate company interests. He’d served as Amelia’s sounding board, her confidant, her friend.
Leaving Sartin Trading Company marked an end—a change to the way they interacted—but leaving need not be the end.
Not if he were bold.
Not if he pursued his desire.
The tingle increased.
He was eminently eligible to wed. He’d already settled on a house in town. He was close to purchasing the cottage by the sea. He fully intended to form a company of his own.
Who better to advise him than Amelia?
And who better to care for Amelia than him?
And what better way to cement such a covenant than marriage?
Presumptuous, perhaps.
Then again, she’d said no one could take his place.
She was right.
His long-tended blend of admiration, loyalty, friendship and love would only deepen with age, mellow with the patina of something true and lasting and good.
He could leave Sartin Trading Company and still stand by Amelia.
If she would allow.
She’d given him time. He’d use every moment to convince her marriage between them was the best possible solution.
Because he did love Amelia Sartin.
He loved her with all of his heart.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As the sun dipped low in the Friday afternoon sky, Alicia exited her third hackney carriage since leaving her home. For added anonymity, she kept herself veiled.
Odd feeling, sneaking into one’s own offices.
Then again, when one found oneself midway through an intractable, colossal mistake, what else could one do but enjoy the journey?
For the first of two more nights, she and Matthew Bellamy would form a magical world of their own. And, unlike last time, she would make sure he received his fair share of sensual pleasure.
She climbed the stairs and inserted her key into the padlock. The iron squealed as arm broke from the base and turned. Before she could push open the door, she found herself pulled into the dim interior.
Matthew.
With one arm, he closed the door, fixed the lock to the inside. Then, he tucked her head beneath his chin and held her close. She floated on his breath to the rhythm of his heart’s steady thud. Could any other man transform a simple cuddle into something so completely transportive?
Magic was the only explanation.
Somewhere, she had a fairy godmother.
“I’ve been imagining this moment all week. Imagining this.” He swept aside her veil, and then trailed his lips along her hairline. “Imagining you.”
He lifted her chin, and then stole her mouth with a kiss that advanced into a seemingly endless loop of pleasure and breath.
“Me, too.” Pointless to deny. Impossible, in fact, while his hands roamed from her hair, to her jaw, to her waist.
He walked sideways up the stairs. “How were your warehouse visits?”
“Well-received.”
“And Pritchett?”
She lifted her brows. “More enthusiasm than form.”
He opened the door to her office and allowed her to enter first. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Jeremy is bright. Eager. But until recently, too consumed with putting on the outward affectation of a gentleman than learning to hold his own.”
“In other words, he did well, but you don’t trust him.”
“Yet.” She was somewhat at fault.
She’d neglected training Jeremy because Matthew had been so efficient. And, because she’d liked things just as they were.
“Have I left him too long, do you think?” She removed her gloves and hat.
“Not at all.” He hung her things on a wall hook. “Give him time.”
She nodded. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed Matthew’s reassurance.
So many times this week, she’d wanted to ask for his insight. Countless times she’d thought—wouldn’t this interest Matthew? Wouldn’t that make him laugh?
Matthew rubbed between her brows. She’d been frowning again, she supposed.
“Enough about Pritchett,” he said. “We agreed to borrow magic for a few days.”
She sighed. “I fear the stroke of midnight.
”
He smiled, crooked. “Come now. If the worst happens, surely we can find some practical use for a stray glass slipper.”
She closed one eye. “I didn’t tell you the part about the slipper. You said you hadn’t read the story.”
“I hadn’t. But I have, now.”
She lifted a brow. “How?”
“How else? Lending library. Both the original French and Samber’s translation.”
My. He was thorough. “Why?
He shrugged. “Because you enjoyed them.”
Darling. The endearment she liberally applied stuck in her throat.
Matthew did not belong in a category occupied by everyone else. She wasn’t sure what she should call him. Still, she was touched. Ridiculously so.
She cupped his cheek. “Thank you.”
He searched her eyes. “Don’t you know I’d do anything for you?”
Stay, then. Be mine. Tonight. Forever. She had no right to ask. A soft, “Matthew” was all she could manage.
She took his warm hand and led him through his office and up the attic stairs.
He’d carefully made his bed, and sat a late fall rose, its petals brownish pink, into a vase on the bedside table. Artfully, he’d draped a sheet over the window so the fabric appeared to be a real window dressing. Two Argand lamps were burning, and a coal fire burned in the grate.
Unlike last night, the room was well lit.
Bright, in fact.
In shadow, she’d opened with abandon. But to see her flesh against his youth? She forced a swallow.
“You’ve tidied.”
“Yes, well. Tidying happens to rank among my many talents.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “Do you cook, too?”
“I’ve been known to brown toast.”
She laughed.
“Speaking of food, I’ve arranged to pick up meals from the public house down the way—will that suffice?”
“Food!” She blushed. “I hadn’t even thought of food.”
“As always, you may rely on me.” He lifted her hand, kissed her fingers and then held her palm against his face. “And you aren’t here for food, are you?”
The air thinned. “No.”
Her answer puckered her lips. Matthew took full advantage.
“Tonight,” she said between kisses, “I want to begin with your wishes.”
“Let’s see what I can come up with.” His fingers spanned her neck. “I wish you hadn’t worn so many clothes.”
“I beg your pardon!” She gurgled as he nibbled her ear. “As dresses go, this one is simple.”
Hopelessly outdated, and more suited to remote country places—not that Matthew noticed.
He pulled the ties securing the wrapped dress and the coarse linen dropped. Heat pulsed between them and yet she shivered, nipples already fully peaked beneath her shift.
“No stays?” he asked, grinning.
“Only for you. And only this once. I feel naked without them. Far too exposed.”
“You feel naked.” He grasped her by her waist, gathering her shift in his fists. “And, dare I hope, indecent?”
“Oh no you don’t!” She stopped him. “I’m not letting you distract me out of all my clothes while you remain buttoned up. Not again.” She slid her hand between his trousers and his waist. “For every article of clothing I lose, you lose one as well.”
He spread his arms wide. “Consider me at your disposal, ma’am.”
She worked his buttons free and then pushed down his trousers. His shirt may have concealed his manhood, but not the fact he was fully erect.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and hummed. “Why, Matthew Bellamy. You are in quite a state.”
“Yes,” he replied, all seriousness. “I want to bed you.”
“I can see that.”
“Can you?”
She nodded. “I can feel it, too.” She cupped his buttocks and then slid her fingers between his legs, to gently stroke his tightened sack.
His eyes rolled back, and he moaned.
“You see?” She worked open his cravat. “Isn’t it better when we both are pleased?”
He removed his waistcoat. “I might need a more detailed demonstration.”
“Later.” She grinned and tugged on his shirt.
“One moment there! Aren’t you next?”
“In theory.” She pursed her lips as if considering. “However, since I didn’t wear stays, I think I deserve an extra article.”
“Impudent lass.”
“Too late now.”
“Is it?” He grasped her by the waist and lifted.
She shrieked playfully as he held her against the bedpost and made quick work of removing her shift.
She folded her arms over her breasts. “I’ll not pardon you for that!”
“Not even if I give you my shirt as penance?”
She held out her hand. “I’ll take it with due consideration.”
His face disappeared into a cloud of linen, exposing everything from thighs to the smattering of hair across his chest.
She gasped.
How had she missed the vertical line spanning his chest to groin? How had she not seen—and felt—the muscles beneath his stomach?
Matthew wasn’t just beautifully made…he was a damn specimen of the species.
He tossed his shirt onto her shoulder, nonchalant in total, fully aroused nakedness.
“Good heavens!”
He frowned. “You look angry.”
“How dare you call me lovely?” She waved her hand. “You—you’re perfect.”
His gaze softened. “Hardly.”
“Pfft.” She placed her hands on her hips and studied him toe to top. “No. I cannot compete with all that.”
He blushed and covered his cock. “Amelia, sweet…”
“Don’t pretend you’re embarrassed! Why every woman you’ve bedded must have told you—”
“They haven’t. I mean, I haven’t.” He shook his head. “No once.”
His shirt slipped out of her grip as her hands fell to her sides. “Matthew? What are you trying to say?”
He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her close.
“Amelia.” He touched his temple to hers. “I’ve never been with another woman.”
He made no sense.
“After what you did to me last week?” She shook her head no. “I don’t believe you.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re a good teacher.”
Guide my hand. She placed her palms over her eyes.
“Nothing’s changed.” He pulled away her hands. “Nothing at all.”
He grasped her cheeks, claimed her lips and incinerated her questions, leaving her blank to all but his heat.
This was a kiss.
A kiss of hunger. A kiss of entreaty. A kiss so deep and probing, she feared he’d devour her whole.
Then, he broke away. “Be my first.”
She focused on his mouth.
She’d had objections. Multiple. But then her turncoat hands rapped around the swell of his hips, and yes, yes, yes toppled out haphazardly.
His eyes, glassy with desire, stayed on hers lifted her onto his bed. He arranged her hair on the pillow, braced his palms on either side of her head, and then feasted on the most sensitive places on her neck, biting and suckling until she vaulted into him with a squeal.
“Are you sure you never did this before?”
“Never. I should warn you, though.” He parted her legs with his knee. “I intend to make up for lost time.”
He dropped his attention to her left nipple. When she whimpered, he moved to her right.
“If we are going to”—she uttered a filthy word—“you needn’t be restrained.”
“You’ll be my death.”
“Your little death, I hope.”
His fingers dipped into her folds. “You’re wet.”
“I’m ready.”
She’d been ready. All week. But now that he’d s
hed everything in favor of feral desire—now, she was on fire.
He stroked her slowly—too slow. When she tried to grab his hand, he pinned her wrist to her side.
“Please.” More hiss than entreaty. “I want to touch you. I need to touch you.”
He released her and then settled back on his haunches—a bud of arrogance wrapped in the seed of innocence. “Be my guest.”
He didn’t know no gentleman would so boldly present his cock—not to a lady.
She didn’t feel like a lady, and she didn’t want a gentleman.
She indulged her wanton need to stroke his silken skin, vein by pulsing vein. He made low and needy sounds, urging her on. She leaned down and the scent of his musk overwhelmed her senses. She ran her nails lightly around his base.
He sucked in through his teeth.
She dipped her head and brushed the tip with her tongue.
He uttered a nonsensical string of consonants and dug his fingers into her hips. “I don’t think I can wait.”
She settled back into the pillows. “Then don’t.”
He prowled toward her until his thighs were between her legs, and his upper body arched over hers. Holding his gaze, she guided his member into place. His soft moan accompanied the spread of initial entry.
Intrusion, but bliss.
An end to her separate self.
She closed her eyes.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
She grasped his buttocks bowed upward until fully sheathed. His eyes went wide with awe and a touch of shock. Her body ceded, yielding softness to his hard heat.
He withdrew and she urged him back, helping him find the rhythm he instinctively knew he needed, but had yet to learn. Their gazes held in the flickering lamplight—every raw, wordless emotion exposed as she experienced his invasion.
“That’s it,” she whispered.
Sweat beaded at his temple as he increased his pace. He swiveled his hips; she groaned.
With a half-smile, he repeated the motion, sending shivers of pleasure up her spine.
She was drunk with him—dazed.
She savored this Bellamy—a man driven outside the confines of everything he understood—and still, as ever, driven to please.
She raked her nails down his back; He lost control.
His eyes glimmered. His nostrils flared. Again and again he drove into her very center, until the panting repetition drove her to weightlessness.
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