by Erica Monroe
She had become Beauty, but she was still very much Abigail. Now she saw she could become both.
18
Michael watched Abigail sleep, marveling at the calm settled across her sprite features. Her beauty struck him as it always did, but more so now when she was tucked away in his embrace. She slept peacefully, free of the ravages of nightmares. He wondered if he'd had something to do with that, if she truly did feel at ease with him.
He saw her in his mind's eye as she'd been in the throes of passion, her eyes closed, and her freshly kissed lips moaning out his name. He replayed this memory again and again, convincing himself that this had happened, and the woman next to him was not a phantom he'd conjured up in feverish need.
Her fair curls splayed across his pillow. Her lavender scent clung to everything in the room, soft and delicate like her body, mixing with the smoke from the fire he'd rebuilt before crawling back into bed with her. She'd smiled at him, patting the spot next to her. When he'd joined her, she'd laid her head down on his shoulder.
“Do you have any regrets?” He'd asked her, praying to God that she'd lie to him if she did, so he could have this one night with her without the hard truths crashing in upon them.
But she'd shaken her head. “I was with you.”
She’d stated it so simply, as if that one sentiment summed up her existence. I was with you. She’d turned in his arms, propping herself up on her elbows and planting a kiss on his lips. That small kiss had escalated into a torrent of passion, as he’d come to expect with her. One kiss was never enough. One touch wouldn’t satisfy him. He must have her again. Even as she rested in his arms, he wanted her, wanted to brand her body with his love, wanted to be the only one in her mind for the rest of eternity.
He couldn't change positions without fearing he'd wake her. With any other woman, he would have felt trapped, but with Abigail, he held her tight. He'd lie here with her forever, if it meant she wouldn't leave. If he could continue to hear her laughter at one of Smithers's bad puns, see her merry smile when she'd found another objectionable book in his library.
Her steady breaths lulled him into a sense of repose he hadn't felt in years. He let his fingers trail up her arm, barely brushing her skin, until he came to the lacerations on her left hand. His stomach lurched.
She’d expected that the wounds would disgust him. Feared it. But he could not look at her crushed hand and be reviled. How could he, when it was partially his fault she was disfigured?
If he’d only listened to Knight—if he’d been willing to put his arse on the line and go against Whiting before the evidence became staggeringly clear—maybe Abigail would still be at the factory. Maybe she’d have met a nice boy and fallen in love with him. His head filled up with maybes until his chest was tight. He hugged Abigail tighter to him, his eyes never leaving her scars.
She was the combination of her past and her present, and whatever future they’d have together would include these moments. He loved her, loved her so much that it seized his breath and staggered his mind, for he’d never been a man who gave credence to deep emotions. His feelings for Abigail were vast in a way he could not quite comprehend yet. He only understood that she was his, and he hers.
Damn him to the fieriest depths of hell, for he couldn’t bring himself to wish he could undo the past events. Abigail had come to him because of her wretched past. Now as he breathed in the scent of her hair and traced the curve of her knees with his foot, he knew he wouldn’t part with her for anything.
And he knew, with the same soul-searing truth as when he'd figured out his mother had tumbled so deeply into madness sanity was impossible, that he'd die for Abigail. When she was in his arms, he understood for the first time in his life what it meant to have someone to shield above all else.
He'd been her first.
This bond between them was irreversible. Even if she realized she could do so much better than him, he'd still be linked to her. He pressed a kiss to her brow and watched as her eyelids quivered.
She shifted slightly in his arms. Her fingers peeked out, curling around the covers, just as she’d held his hand before. Can’t you see I love you? she’d asked him, and he heard her voice in his ears all over again.
He did see. He saw her, as she was presently, her bare body tangled up in his. He saw her in the gaming hell, her lower lip trembling but her chin rising fiercely. He saw her, as she’d been in London Hospital, frail and weak. And he saw her as she’d been in the parlor before, proposing to be his mistress.
It was not enough. The furthest thing from his mind when she’d arrived on his doorstep had been taking a wife, but now he found himself desperate for her acceptance.
He'd only encountered a few circumstances in life where he hadn’t sailed through with ease: when his mother had been committed to Bedlam, when Knight had quit the Met, and that night he'd found Abigail waiting for him naked. He'd hurt her then with his thoughtlessness, and though she'd forgiven him, as he lay beside her his sins still stung.
As the fire crackled in the grate, it occurred to him that the struggles in his life had always been with the people who mattered most to him. His mother had slipped from his life without so much as a cry for him, so gone was she to the plague in her mind, and the loss of her had broken something inside of him. Something he hadn't been willing to recognize, until Abigail had sauntered into his life with her sassy quips and her equally broken heart.
He didn’t know how this union between them would turn out. A part of him still firmly believed it would end in sadness.
But he had to proceed. For years, he’d been a scoundrel. He was through with that, through with the dissipation, the hubris. He was no longer the most important person in his own life.
That role belonged to Abigail, and devil take him, he’d spend every damn moment of his ne’er-do-well life making her happy. He’d taken her virginity, effectively ruining her. Honor dictated that he ask for her hand, whether or not she’d accept simply being his mistress.
He’d never given a damn about honor before, but now it seemed crucial to his very existence.
The scraps of a plan came to him, like wisps of a dream. How she’d mentioned she’d never been to a dance. The gown Frances had given him—before she’d realized who Abigail was—because she found it amusing that a less fortunate would show up to a society event in her cast-offs. This would be the last time Abigail would wear clothes picked out by someone else. As with everything else under the sun she’d managed to espouse views upon, he assumed she had a definite opinion on fashion.
He stretched, careful not to wake her. Listening to her breathing again, he let the sound steady him. This was how it was supposed to be between them: this easy state of being, her in his bed, her leg draped over his, and her arm slung over his shoulder. If his luck held, he’d have many more years just like this.
“Good morning.”
Abigail awoke to the rub of Michael’s whiskers against her cheek, his dulcet whisper in her ear. They were naked in bed, her back nestled to his front. His arm draped over her, one hand linked in hers and the other cupping her bare breast. Somehow, she’d managed to sleep with her legs in between his.
For a moment, confusion flashed in her mind, until she awoke enough to put the pieces together. He hadn’t left. She didn’t know what to think of a man who stayed. Most of her old friends in the BRLLS claimed their respective partners scurried off after taking their pleasure, leaving empty arms and cold beds.
But not Michael.
“You stayed,” she murmured, tilting her head so that she could look up at him. “Thank you for that.”
“It is my house,” he said with a grin.
“Oh.” She fought the urge to pull the sheet up tighter around, hiding her body from his hungry eyes. He’d loved how she looked the night before, but that had been in the dim light of the fire. In the morning sun, when he could see her scars without the damper of darkness, would he still feel the same toward her?
�
��I’m quizzing you.” He placed a kiss onto her cheek and her pulse quickened in response. “Where would I be if not with you? You didn’t honestly think I’d leave, did you?”
She squeezed his hand, the pressure reassuring her. “I don’t know.”
He palmed her breast with his other hand. “If you’d think I’d leave this delectable view, you’re mad, my love.”
My love. He’d never called her that before. Love, dear, chit, yes. All those were terms of endearment men used interchangeably with women. But to be his love was something different entirely. He’d branded her—not just her body, but her mind too.
“Forgive me for ever thinking you’d be typical.” She relaxed into his touch, letting out a moan of approval as he pinched her nipple.
“Ah, my wench enjoys that.” He didn’t wait for a response. Releasing her hand, he propped himself up on one elbow, giving her an appreciative once-over. Any desire she’d had to cover up disappeared as he dragged his fingers across her chest, the slight touch sending thrills through her body. “I love you, Abigail. Never doubt that.”
She stretched, winding an arm around his midsection so that she could bring him down on top of her. He obliged eagerly, greeting her with a long kiss. When he finally pulled back, he made a move as if to get out of bed, but she draped her arms around him, holding him close to her.
“Not so fast.” She darted a quick kiss on his lips. “Did you really think I’d let you leave so soon? After a night like last night, you must know I’d want to do it again.”
He chuckled at her enthusiasm, tweaking her nose. “As much as I’d like that, I don’t think it’d be wise. You’ll be sore today.”
Shifting, she felt the answering ache between her legs. She wrinkled her nose. “You may be right. How unpleasant.”
Concern crossed his face. “But well worth it?”
“Of course,” she smiled, kissing him again to assuage his worries. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about last night.”
“Good.” He caressed her cheek, the rough pads of his fingers against her skin drawing forth the most exquisite sensations. But all too quickly, he was out of bed and reaching her for nightrail, hung on the bedpost. He passed it to her and set about collecting his own scattered clothes.
She watched him, her core tightening at his tanned, brawny frame and that firm, bare ass. As he pulled on his breeches, she sat up straight, not bothering to hold the sheet up to her breasts. “Why don’t you come back over here?”
He turned around, pausing in buttoning his shirt. His mouth fell slightly open at her appearance. He swallowed, readjusting his breeches to accommodate the evident stirrings of an erection.
“Abigail,” he ground out, his voice strangled. “I am trying very hard not to make it public knowledge that I compromised you last night. But if you continue to look like that—”
She leaned back in the bed, her arm propped up behind her head, while her other hand had disappeared suggestively beneath the covers. “I don’t know what you mean. How do I look, exactly?”
His head snapped up. He prowled to the side of the bed and leaned in. “You look so damnably beddable it’s killing me not to throw you over my shoulder and fuck you against your bedroom wall until the entire household knows exactly who’s cock is buried in your cunny.”
Sliding her hand slowly up his arm, she ran her tongue over her mouth, tasting him on her lips. His reaction made her feel bold.
She seized upon that wantonness, a devious smile twisting her lips. “So do it. Make me come, you big, bad rogue.”
“Woman, you’ll drive me mad,” he growled, grabbing for her. With his arm around her middle, he hoisted her into his arms as though she weighed next to nothing.
She had no time to think. In a moment he’d crossed the width of the room. Backing her up against the wall—no, it was her bedroom window, for those were curtains behind her back—he spread her legs.
She followed his direction, hooking her knees around him, so that she balanced with her spine against the cloth curtains, the coldness of the winter morning permeating her skin. Michael’s neighbors, if they stared at this window for any length of time, might conclude he was fucking a new mistress.
Her window overlooked the main drag. If by some chance they happened to put together that the woman in the window was the factory worker who’d been staying with the Inspector, she’d be rightly and truly ruined.
Even if she weren’t identified, if the curtains moved the slightest bit, anyone in the street below would see her arse cheeks smashed up against the wood frames. They’d see as Michael bit at her breasts and nipped her neck. They’d see as he came hard and fast, his body ramming into hers. Oh, God, everyone would know.
That thought should have been enough to make her beg him to put her down. Instead, she held tighter to him, her fingernails raking his back. He held her up with one hand, while the other opened his breeches and slid the fabric down his legs. Heat surged through her body until she was certain she was on fire from the inside out.
Everyone would know. They’d see her dirty little secret and there’d be no denying what she’d done here.
She couldn’t hold back. The silk of the curtains decadently glided along her backside. Wetness slicked her center, and her stomach tightened with every pulse of desire. Throwing her head back against the window, she let out a long moan, the sound of her own desire only heightening her pleasure.
She wanted society to watch.
“That’s it, darling,” he coaxed, his kisses to her neck like assaults to her sanity.
While the night before had been about softness, sweetness, this time between them was hard and fast. He pushed himself inside her with no apology for her soreness, no wait for her to grow accustomed to his girth. He drove into her, one long stroke after another. Slammed into her with a pace that bordered on frenzied.
It was devastatingly wonderful. “Oh, Michael,” she whimpered, as his fingers dug into her arse to steady her.
“That’s right,” he praised, biting down on the pressure point of her neck. “Say my name. Tell everyone who’s making you come.”
She cried again as he plowed into her, his wicked rod hitting that exact point she needed. How could he make her feel this way? Last night had been good, so good, but this, this was everything. She grabbed hold of the curtains, bracing herself against him. Until he stopped.
Her eyes sprang open. “What? Why are you…” She couldn’t put together a coherent sentence.
“Say my name,” he ground out. “Or I won’t let you come.”
Later, she’d make him pay for that demanding tone, but now she only knew that it made her hotter and wetter. “Michael.”
He smacked her ass, resuming his earlier tempo. With each pound into her, he brought her higher, faster than she’d ever come before.
“I’m going to—I’m going to—” She couldn’t crest until he did. She ought to wait for him, she ought to slow…
But as she thought this, there was a bang in the hallway. A serving plate, perhaps. Everyone knew. She couldn’t hold back any longer. She came crashing, milking every last drop of her release from him.
“Nightrail, now.” His voice ragged, Michael gave a final pop to her rear, and then carried Abigail over to the bed.
As she pulled the cloth over her head, he grabbed the washcloth left by the basin of water on her nightstand. He kept his back turned as Abigail redressed, focusing on cleaning up the mess they’d made. He’d barely been able to pull from her in time, spilling on the damn floor.
This couldn’t continue. He’d meant to leave before the servants figured out he was here. He had an entire plan laid out. He’d change the sheets, erasing any trace of his having been there. In the eyes of his servants, she’d still be pure.
When he asked to marry her, it would appear that her virtue was intact. Why he bothered with the illusion when at every turn Abigail had defied his expectations of what a traditional miss would do, he didn’t know.
But it seemed important to give her this dignity, and to avoid any uncomfortable questions from his overly delighted staff, who all wanted her as their new mistress.
Mistress.
There was that damned word again. He made the mistake of turning around just as her nightrail slid slowly down her body. His cock twitched in response, already anticipating their next go-around. Already, the dirtiest words for what he’d like to do to her were forming in his mouth. He bit down on his tongue to keep from spewing a filthy sonnet to her body.
Christ, was he to have a permanent erection around her? No woman had affected him like this before. No one—not even the most adventurous of courtesans—had made him so hard, so fast.
“That was fun,” Abigail said, tossing him his breeches. “While I loved last night, this…this was better, I think.”
For a second, he simply stared at her. His jaw had fallen open again. This kept happening around her. She liked it more this time around? When he’d plowed into her so fiercely the entire bloody room had shaken from the force of their coupling? When he’d not tampered down on his basest desires, but given in entirely to the unbridled passion she stirred within him?
“You—ah—you liked that.” He carded his hand through his hair, blinking at her. “You like my hard cock in your wet cunny?”
Damn it to hell. He couldn’t help himself around her.
She tilted her head. “Should I not have? I thought it was particularly erotic. I was under the impression I am allowed to enjoy what we do. Sex is what a mistress does, after all.”
Her words were the slap he needed to get control of his randiness. He’d intended to propose to her, not have sex with her against the window with nothing settled between them.
He pulled his breeches on, and then set to buttoning his shirt, not responding to her until he was fully dressed again. Once she was his, properly his, they could tup against any window in this damn house, and he’d see to it that their next times were as rough as she wanted.
