by Erica Monroe
He held her tight in his arms and breathed in the softness of her hair. Running his fingers down her arm, he memorized the lushness of her skin and praised the Lord for modern fashion. Her purple dress had cap-sleeves, baring her forearms to him.
He ached to remove her ever-present gloves, but he feared her response. Instead, he allowed his gaze to drift downwards, to take in the round plumpness of her breasts, pushed up gloriously high by her boned corset. Though he’d deny it if anyone asked, he pretended that this closeness between them could last forever.
“Michael?” She scooted back in his lap.
“Fuck, Abigail,” he groaned. Her taut bottom hit his cock at just the right point, as if she’d been made to fit him. “That feels so good. Like this.” He moved her against him to show her the correct placement. “Is that good?”
“Yes,” she stammered, tilting her head to look up at him. “Really good. Like before, when you saw me…but almost better.” Her cheeks flushed again at the mention of him watching her.
Almost. That would never do.
“I’ll have to work harder then,” he murmured, nipping at her earlobe. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the book she’d been reading before he’d interrupted her. He started to reach for it, and she stopped him, shaking her head. He snaked it out of her grip, flipping it open to his personal favorite section. It wasn’t Wilmot, but it’d work.
Passing the book back to her, he pointed to the section he wanted her to focus on. “You still owe me a reading, remember?”
She groaned. “Haven’t I been humiliated enough for one day?”
His grip tightened around her waist, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “What you did is not humiliating. Of course, I would have preferred you sought your pleasure with me, but watching you is a second best I’ll gladly take…”
“Michael!” Her scolding had little effect with her rounded bottom snug against his cock. She’d shifted to get closer to him.
If bawdy words aroused his wicked minx, Fanny Hill would do just the trick. He tapped the paper in her hands, clearing his throat.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Very well then. You’re as sore a winner as I suspect you are a loser.”
She gave another little wiggle of her rear and he intended to tell her that his winning streak wasn’t the only thing that was sore. Then she started to read, her breaths coming faster with every sentence, her skin flushed and damp.
“Here was no room either to sit or lie but making me stand with my back towards the door, she lifted up my petticoats, and with her busy fingers fell to visit and explore that part of me.” She faltered, her grip on the book loosening. It would have slipped from her hands entirely had he not caught it in time, steadying her hold. She readjusted herself in his arms so that she could face him. “You can’t expect me to read this. This is beyond the realm of decency—”
He placed a finger over her lips, quieting her. “I do not live in the usual realm of decency, as you put it. In addition, who decides what’s forbidden? The very society you’ve been railing against.”
She considered that for a moment. “But it’s Sapphic. Do you really find that erotic?”
He winked at her. “Most men do, darling.”
She frowned, reading out the next line deliberately, as if she was proving a point to him. “With her busy fingers fell to visit and explore that part of me where I was perfectly sick and ready to die with desire. See? Men aren’t instrumental to her pleasure. You’d have no place in this scenario.”
Her confusion, and subsequent triumph over what she thought to be an adequately made conclusion, brought forth a throaty chuckle from him. “Men are not sensible creatures. We are all convinced that if we wandered into that scene, Fanny and Phoebe would want us to do all the touching.”
She regarded him skeptically. “I doubt that, because the next line is the bare touch of her finger, in that critical place, had the effect of a fire to a train. And oh!”
He’d allowed his hand to drift, cupping her breast in his palm.
“‘Her hand had instantly made her sensible to what a pitch I was wound up,’” she continued, no longer trying to find the logic in it. She leaned into his touch, coaxing him on when he grasped her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it. “And melted by the sight…”
She couldn’t read any longer. Flinging the book back, she fell into his arms, and their kiss left them both breathless. When they finally broke apart, he resolved to show her exactly how he would have orchestrated that scene.
Sliding his hands under her bottom, he scooped her up and laid her onto the rug next to him. She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already on his knees in front of her, pushing her skirts up around her. The long, corded petticoat would have to go. In a flash, he removed that from her and deposited it beside them. He let his fingers run up her thighs, tracing the seams of her pantalettes, reveling in their simplicity. She was too unique for lace. Somehow, the white cotton with no trimmings suited her.
“What are you doing?” She watched him suspiciously.
“What does it look like?”
She rolled her eyes. “I mean, I know what you’re doing. I’ve heard about it before, and in those sketches—”
He supposed he ought to be thankful for his father’s obscene collection.
“But I cannot again so soon. You saw me before.” She’d turned crimson and he had to fight not to kiss her again, she was so bloody adorable.
“Miracles of the female body.” He grinned, whipping her pantalettes off her legs.
“Someone could see us,” she gasped. Yet she didn’t move away.
“You didn’t worry about that before, did you?” He grinned wickedly, nestled between her legs.
“I wasn’t naked before—”
“Settle, my dear.” He dragged his fingers up her palm, his light touch causing her to shiver. “Smithers won’t come within a yard of this library, and he’ll tell Mrs. O’Neal not to enter either. They are aware I’ve come to find you.” He let his gaze rove down her frame, devouring the sight of her. Exposed before him, she was pink and perfect. “Do you trust me?”
She gulped, nodding her assent.
“Then know that what I’m about to do will bring you pleasure.” He dared to slip a finger across her already wet core, every touch hardening him.
Her thighs were as ravishing as he remembered from that night, but this…he’d not prepared for the sheer magnificence of her. Finding her bud, he ran his roughened thumb against it.
Her breathy sigh let him know she was enjoying this greatly. She leaned her head back against the bookshelf, closing her eyes. Oh, she’d watch him when he feasted on her, but for now, he’d allow her this moment to catch her breath. He slid his thumb across her bud, slowly. She was warm and tight around him, and he ached to be inside her.
He would wait. This night was about her, he reminded himself. His own needs came secondary. There were other ways to bring a woman to pleasure without taking her maidenhead.
He felt the changes in her body as well as saw the effects, for she shuddered in his arms, her breaths coming in jagged pants that blended with his until the very air around them felt passion soaked.
He positioned himself flat on the ground before her, spreading her legs to allow him access. Lightly at first, he touched his tongue to her center. The taste of her alone was almost enough to send him over the edge, but he’d not rush her. He flicked his tongue against her, his strokes soft and slow. She shuddered against him, and he grew bolder, grasping her bud between his teeth and nibbling lightly.
“Oh, devil take—” She couldn’t finish the sentence, for he’d returned to licking her, now at a more rapid pace. Her hands fell to grasp his head, holding him to that spot.
“Abigail.” He paused, her scent still heavy in his nostrils, begging for him to finish. “Look at me.”
She shook her head.
“Look at me, or I shan’t continue.” He had no intention of car
rying out that threat, but she seemed convinced, for she opened her eyes. “Much better.”
He returned to her, working her until she shook from the effort to stay still in his touch. He clasped one hand in hers, the other still positioned on her hip to guide her. Sparks scattered up and down his spine, eating at his resolve. He’d told himself he’d take it slow with her. But at this pace, she’d make him come like a green youth and he hadn’t felt her touch on him or had his cock in her.
She gave another push with her hips, growing more frantic. “Oh, God,” she cried, her hand tightening against his.
Her cry spurred him on. To hell with slow, to hell with pretending to be a gentleman. He’d never been one anyway.
It was poetically apt she’d want pleasure that didn’t hold back. His Abigail lived hard. She slammed against the shelves as he licked her, books spilling around them. A sketchbook thwacked him on the head, but the pain made it better. He’d found that elusive spot between coherent thought and reality, where he existed solely in this moment with her.
Then she was spiraling, her euphoric moan piercing his soul.
The next day, Michael breakfasted with Abigail. They hadn’t spoken about the event in the library. “Event” wasn’t the right word. What else could he call it? Nothing polite. Nothing properly worthy of the world-shaking sensations that clutched him, forcing him to question his previously held stances on sex.
This had been lovemaking. He didn’t make love; he fucked.
“I quite enjoy the chocolate.” Abigail took a dainty sip, cupping the mug in both her hands. “The pound cake is also delightful. Very fluffy.”
Michael nodded, half-listening to her chatter on about the various treats spread out on the sideboard. Once he’d observed her sneaking an extra slice of cake at dinner, he’d switched his normal breakfast of eggs and leftover meat from dinner to include pound cake, those Chelsea rolls she adored, and a selection of fruit preserves. Watching her gobble up delicacies she’d never been able to afford in Whitechapel had quickly become the favorite part of his day.
She paused mid-lift of the cup to her mouth. Her saucer remained on the table. She didn’t know to lift the saucer with her cup.
“You haven’t eaten any of your eggs.” She gestured toward his still-full plate. “In fact, you’ve barely touched your food. Is something troubling you?”
“No, nothing at all,” he lied. Curse her ability to puzzle out the differences in his temperament. Rarely did anyone look past his smirk, and when they did, he could dissuade them with a quip or compliment.
Abigail saw beyond the surface. He felt human in the light of her gaze, for she witnessed the worst sides of him, and she didn’t run. She stayed, damn her, stayed through the breaking of his resolve, stayed so he could drink up every drip of the pleasure he wrought from her body, stayed while he pretended it had never happened.
He piled his fork high with eggs and meat to convince her that this was a day like any other for him. She observed him, the slight tilt of her head indicating he’d have better luck fooling the charlatans he interrogated than her.
He swallowed. The eggs tasted rotten; the meat leaden.
“I may have some good news.” Another partial truth, for while the news was good for her, it was not for him.
“Oh?” She set her cup down. Chocolate sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the saucer. Instead of coloring with embarrassment as his sister would have, she blotted at the mess with a serviette, her attention focused on his announcement.
“I met with one of my sergeants two days ago,” he said. “They received a tip that Clowes has been spotted preparing to leave the country. Currently, he’s in St. Giles.”
Her fist clenched on the side of the table. “So, he’ll be gone soon.”
“That’s one theory.” He’d expected her to be jubilant. If Clowes was in the West End instead of Whitechapel, he wasn’t concerned with harming her. “However, I did receive another note from him. This time, he said we’d never stop him—that he’d win.”
Her forehead scrunched. “What could that mean?”
“I’m leaning toward believing that he’s gloating about his preparations to leave. My men are keeping a watch on St. Giles, and I’ve also got a team surveying Whitechapel. But it’s cause for hope, my dear. There’d been no sign of him before, and now we’ve got leads.”
Abigail regarded him skeptically. “If you say so.”
He reached across the table, patting her hand. The minor contact was a mistake, for he craved going to her to massage out the knots in her shoulders. He held back, reminding himself that she’d be gone soon.
“I know you don’t have much faith in the Met but have faith in me. I’ve got my finest men on the job.”
Her eyes fastened on him, shining with more adoration than he’d ever deserve. “I do have faith in you.”
She saw all his faults and she hadn’t deemed him less. How could she care for him so?
Michael drained his mug of coffee, not minding that it was too hot. The burn gave him something else to focus on, besides her sweet body encased in another of Frances’s dresses, the pink one again with the scooping bodice that nearly drove him mad.
The dining room erupted in a flurry of activity. He’d wished too fervently for a distraction.
Smithers rushed in, with Mrs. O’Neal nearly stepping on his heels. Something crashed in the kitchen and Cook’s cursing resounded through the open door.
“What in God’s name?” The question was scarcely out of his mouth before the source of the disruption sailed in, brandishing her closed parasol as a weapon against Smithers’s efforts to keep her back from the dining room.
“I’m sorry, Master, but Lady Elliot insisted.” Smithers jumped out of the way of Frances’s sweeping parasol just in time.
At Smithers’s imploring glance, Michael nodded, dismissing him. Mrs. O’Neal stayed put, her feet squared, arms crossed over her midsection. She angled herself toward Abigail, as though preparing to leap over the table and protect the woman she’d adopted as her new chatelaine.
“What is it that couldn’t wait for a letter?” He asked, making no attempt to veil his irritation. He’d lost count of the number of times Frances had barged into his house and judged how he lived his own damn life. “The Post longs for your service. In fact, they may be the only organization who wants to hear what you have to say.”
Abigail’s eyes widened at his brusque tone. She looked into her cup, shrinking back in her chair. The small movement drew Frances’s attention.
“That’s why you wanted my old clothes? I thought you were going to give them to the street urchins, not bring the urchin home.” A scowl set deep into Frances’s angular face, sharpening the already hard curves of her features. “When you dress your latest mistress like she’s quality, it’s insulting to those of us who actually have class.”
The accusation stung him as the slash of a whip. He had purchased Abigail’s time. Until Frances had pointed it out so maliciously, he’d not realized how horrid it sounded.
He’d be damned if his sister shamed Abigail. Her beauty transcended sheer aesthetics. She was the best damn person he’d ever met.
No one would make Abigail feel lesser in his house. This was a battle Frances wouldn’t win.
He caught Mrs. O’Neal’s eye. The housekeeper gave him an almost imperceptible nod and left the room. He’d take care of Abigail.
“I’ll leave you to your discussion,” Abigail said, setting her serviette down on the table. She stood. Her gloved hand brushed against the fabric of her borrowed dress and she jolted back, as though burned by the touch.
“Stay, Miss Vautille,” he commanded, his fingers fisted on the edge of the table. “Lady Ellis should be the one to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Frances insisted.
Abigail sat down, glancing between Frances and him, her discomfort clear on her face. As if she believed his sister was right, for Frances had wealth and societal presti
ge.
Frances wasn’t right, nor was this the first time he’d found himself on warring sides with his sister. They’d fought over anything and everything over the years, from trivial matters like jam being better than marmalade to whether or not he should join the Met. If he was ever pleased with something, Frances made it her mission to crush that pride.
He plopped back into the chair and reached for his coffee with a bored sigh. “If you must stay, do not insult my guest, Frances. It’s unbecoming and shows what little class you truly have.”
“Your guest you feed at our father’s table,” Frances retorted. The bright red feather in her hat flapped with her every movement.
“My table,” he amended. “The Old Bastard passed it on to me entirely. Hazards of being a lady, sister dear.”
Abigail straightened in her chair, frowning at him. “Strickland, I do not think—”
Frances interrupted her. “I wish you wouldn’t continue to call Papa that. He didn’t mean to be the way he was. He was…troubled.”
Michael shook his head. “He was a royal ass. It’s not my fault you decided to believe him in his last few months. He knew he was going to Hell, Franny—he would’ve said anything to get into Heaven.”
“That’s not true,” Frances protested. “He loved us. He would’ve told you so, if you’d visited him.”
“Forgive me for not wanting to exchange pleasantries with the bastard who drove our mother into Bedlam.” He took one breath, then another, focusing on regulating his breathing. He remembered his mother behind the iron bars of her tiny cell at the sanatorium, her fingernails digging into her skull until her scalp bled. “And you let him. You did nothing to stop him.”
Frances softened her voice. “She was mad, Michael. It was the best place for her.”
“It was the most convenient place for you to shove her away, you mean,” he countered.
Frances sent a pointed look to Abigail. “Must we discuss this now?”
He didn’t care about etiquette. Abigail belonged in his home—Frances did not. “Why are you here, then?”
“I didn’t come to fight with you,” she sniffled, pulling out from her reticule a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes, though no tears glistened. “I was concerned because you hadn’t responded to any of my letters. You never write to me anymore. It’s as if you don’t care at all.”
