And what she needed, he would give her.
Chapter Twenty
They didn’t speak when they exited the carriage, nor when they entered the house—Abraham knew enough about Mayfair and the way the neighbors gawked and gossiped to bring them to the rear, where they could enter past the mews and into the kitchens.
They cut through the room, empty of staff despite the lovely smell of freshly baked bread filling the room, and a pot happily bubbling on the stove. Good luck—the best of the day to be sure—as Sesily feared disrupting the quiet agreement she and Caleb had made in the carriage.
Still, he did not touch her. Not in the kitchens and not when they slipped through the narrow doorway leading to the dimly lit servants’ passage. Not as they climbed the stairs to the first floor, and then the second. And not when they made their way through the hallways, no longer bright with the day’s light, but not yet lit for the evening.
With every step, the absence of his touch and his voice made Sesily more and more desperate for both.
In the carriage, he’d resisted her. She’d sensed the way he pulled back from her desire, from her openness. She hadn’t missed the moment he’d kissed her . . . just as she was about to tell him she loved him.
Perhaps he didn’t want her love, but he wanted her. That much was clear in the way he touched her and kissed her . . . the way he explored her body and held her tight and said her name, like it meant something.
The way he’d unraveled.
The way his words had unraveled her.
And he’d followed her inside, had he not?
But it wasn’t forever.
She’d sensed it in the carriage—the shift in him. The certainty in him, as though he’d been on the edge of a decision that would impact them all and then . . . he’d made it. And that’s when he’d changed, touching her and kissing her and telling her the things she’d always dreamed he’d say.
I cannot stay away.
And somehow, it had all felt like the end.
But he was here now and he was hers for the moment . . . and she didn’t want to think about how long that moment would be or how short it would feel when it was over.
She only wanted to live it.
And dammit, she wanted him to touch her. With every step, the desire grew headier and more consuming, until she could think of nothing else but the way he would set her aflame.
He didn’t touch her until they reached her bedchamber, and she set her hand to the door handle. Before she turned it, his enormous warm hand came over hers, staying the movement for a heartbeat. Just long enough for him to draw impossibly close and whisper, “Are you certain?”
If she hadn’t wanted him so much, she might have laughed at the question. Did this man not know that she belonged to him? That whatever he wished, whatever he dreamed, she wanted to give it to him?
She turned, and his lips brushed over her temple, leaving fire in their wake. “I am certain.”
He turned the knob and opened the door, and she stepped in, turning back to face him as he pulled the door closed. “Will we be disturbed?”
“No,” she said, marveling at the size of him. His broad shoulders and the sharp angles of his jaw.
“How do you know?”
She smiled. “Because my driver is a terrible gossip. And my staff knows how the world works.”
One dark brow rose. “And how is that?”
“Is your memory failing you?” she teased. “Do you not recall what happened the last time we were alone together?”
He turned the key in the lock and set it on the small table next to the door. “I might require a reminder.”
“It can be arranged.” The end of the word lost its sound as he stalked toward her. He was big and broad and the handsomest thing she’d ever seen, and he came at her with purpose, like he’d spent his whole life waiting for this moment. For this room. For her.
She was breathless from it, backing away, loving his watchful gaze and the quirk of his lips. He liked this. He liked it and after the carriage ride . . . the day . . . a lifetime . . . she wanted to give him what he liked. “You enjoy the chase.”
“I enjoy the catch,” he replied, low and sinful, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her tight to him.
She laughed. This was perfect. He was perfect. “Oh,” she said, softly, wrapping her arms about his neck. “Look at me . . . caught.”
His chest rumbled against hers, and she delighted in the feel of it. In the way he tilted her chin up to bare the column of her neck. The way his lips pressed to the soft skin just beneath her ear. “I think, my lady . . .” he said there, soft and sinful, the honorific doing impossible, wonderful things to her, “. . . that I am the one who is caught.”
It wasn’t true, she knew. If he were caught, she wouldn’t be so terrified of what was to come when they left this quiet, dark room and returned to the world. But she put it out of her mind, and came up on her toes to kiss him.
He met her caress with his own, stroking over her slow and languid and lush, tasting of wickedness. She pressed herself against him, wanting him closer. Wanting their clothes gone.
As though he’d read her mind, he broke the kiss and turned her around, his fingers finding the buttons at the back of her bodice like an expert ladies’ maid, working them deftly until the dress loosened into her hands.
She held it tight to her while he stroked over her bared skin with warm fingertips and warmer kisses, sending shivers of pleasure through her. They’d only just begun and she already ached with need.
And then he was working at the laces of her corset, releasing her from silk and bone and she caught that, too, as he painted soothing patterns over her bare skin. “You’re so warm,” he whispered at her ear, the words more breath than sound. “So warm, and so soft, and so fucking beautiful.”
The curse sent a thrill through her and, desire pooling, she turned to face him, teasing, “What language.”
His eyes flashed, dark and delicious. “I’m a simple man. No poetry to be found.”
“Mmm,” she said. “I’ve never had much use for poets.”
She let go of the dress and the corset, letting them fall to her feet.
His gaze tracked down her body, bare, except for stockings, lingering at her breasts, at the curve of her hips, her full thighs, the dark curls between them.
In her lifetime, Sesily had been thoroughly admired by men and women both, but never like this. Never with this kind of intensity. Never with this kind of . . . hunger. Caleb lifted a hand to his lips, rubbing over his mouth like he didn’t know where to begin, and Sesily’s knees went weak at the picture—a man absolutely consumed with desire.
The man she loved, consumed with desire for her.
And when he dragged his attention back to her face, she wanted to throw herself into his arms. “Earlier, you said that if you had known me when we were young . . .” She paused. “You said, one look at me and you would have been done for.”
He nodded. “Aye.”
The word was rough, like broken glass, and Sesily had never loved a sound more. She lifted her chin and met his eyes, emboldened. “And now? What if you look at me now?”
The look he gave her was hot as the sun. “Now, I’ve got plans.”
“Show me.”
He moved even as she spoke the words, coming for her, lifting her up and carrying her across the room to the bed, setting her down at the edge as he came to his knees before her, his great height putting him level with her body.
His hands slid down her thighs to her knees and pressed her open, leaning forward to take the tip of one breast between his lips as he stroked the other, the softness of his tongue combined with the rough callus of his thumb—evidence of a lifetime of work—making her sigh with pleasure.
Her hands came to his hair as he worked her over, sending desire curling through her as he licked and sucked and worked her into a frenzy, his name on her lips. When he finally released her and looked up into her ey
es and said, “You’re aching for it, aren’t you?” she thought she might dissolve into pleasure.
“I am,” she whispered. “I want you. All of you. Everything you’ll give me.”
Forever.
She didn’t say it. That wasn’t the game they played. Even though it was the truth.
“Then I shall give you everything,” he said, leaning up to steal a wicked kiss before lifting one of her thighs over his broad shoulder. “Lean back.”
Yes.
Except, “No.”
He stilled, his eyes on hers, the muscle in his jaw ticking with effort. Sesily threaded her fingers through his soft curls, tilting his face up to her. “I want to give you pleasure.”
He closed his eyes at the words, and she felt their impact in the shudder of his muscles at her thigh. Another delicious curse. “This gives me pleasure,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the swell of her stomach. “The feel of you.” He turned and licked along the length of her thigh. “The sight of you.” He gently spread her core open. “The taste of you.” He leaned forward and licked up the seam of her, long and slow and lingering, and she thought she might scream.
“God,” he groaned. “The taste of you. I could stay here forever.”
She could let him, she realized as he came up over her to pin her to the mattress with his caress. Working her over with his tongue, licking and sucking as though there was no need to ever stop. His thumb found her opening and stroked in slow, languid circles, until she was out of her mind with the pleasure and she fell apart in his arms, fingers so tight in his hair that it must have hurt—not that he stopped.
He didn’t stop—not when she rode out the climax against his lips and tongue, not when she rocked against him and claimed every bit of pleasure he offered, not when she collapsed to the bed, boneless. Instead, he pressed soft kisses to her thighs and praised her. “Fucking perfect,” he whispered, his breath coming as harshly as hers. “Gorgeous girl.”
When she stopped trembling, he said, soft and sinful, “Do you think you can do it again?” She gasped at the question, and then sighed when he growled against her, “I think you can do it again,” and then he pressed his mouth to the center and proved himself right, making love to her with his beautiful mouth and his wicked tongue, in slow, sinful strokes until she was arching against the bed, serving herself up to him.
He took her offering, and Sesily realized that she’d never felt more treasured, more worshipped, more pleasured than she did now, coming hard against him—this man who’d somehow become the center of her world.
And she wondered, even as she slipped into pleasure, turning thoughts over to feeling, if she’d ever survive the way she loved him.
She didn’t know how long they stayed that way, her hands tangled in his hair, his stroking over her too-sensitive skin, his lips soft and reverent against the swell of her belly as he whispered his praise, but when she returned to the present, she knew she could not wait any longer to touch him. To learn him. To reciprocate.
He stayed silent as she guided him to his feet, as she came to her knees on the bed and undressed him in smooth, methodical movements, reveling in the hard planes of him, in the ridges of his muscles and the dusting of hair across his chest and finally, in the length of his cock, like steel, aching for her touch.
She touched, loving the ragged breaths he took as she worked him, exploring his pleasure. Loving the way his eyes went dark and hooded as she learned how he liked it. “Yes,” he whispered as she stroked him, “like that.”
She kissed him, her lips sliding over his chest, her tongue painting little circles along the magnificent ridges of his torso. And, as she teased him, inching closer to the place he wanted her—the place she wanted to be—he whispered her name and slid his hand into her hair, so gently.
God, she loved how he held himself in check, not wanting to push her.
Which meant she could do the pushing. She could push him right over the edge.
She pulled away when she reached him, leaning back to consider the size and strength of him. He was there. He was there and he was hers to do with as she wished.
“Sesily.” Her name was ragged on his lips, and then lost to a groan as she licked up the hard, straining length of him. He reached for the bedpost, holding himself steady even as she could feel the tremor in his hand at her hair. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You like it.”
She did. She loved the way he turned himself over to her. The way he relinquished himself to her. Ceding power even as he oozed strength.
“I love it,” she whispered at the tip of him before she opened for him, taking him in, the salty musk of him making her mouth water.
He groaned her name at the confession, his fingers flexing against her as she parted her lips and took him slow and deep, loving the sounds of his desire and the way they matched to hers—not only what he’d given her earlier, but what he gave her now.
She gave herself up to Caleb’s pleasure, licking and sucking and drawing him as deep as she could, playing with speed and sensation, finding the places that seemed to drive him wild and trying—desperately—to send him over the edge.
And when he reached the edge, he cursed again. God, she loved his filthy mouth. “Sesily . . . If you don’t . . . I won’t be able to hold back.”
“Don’t hold back,” she whispered, releasing him for a heartbeat. “Don’t you dare keep this from me. I want it. I want this.”
He gave it to her, his hands impossibly gentle in her hair, the muscles of his thighs hard and straining beneath her touch, the thrusts of his hips short and careful even as he could not resist them. And Sesily, sucking deeper, finding a rhythm that made him curse and groan and urge her on, until he couldn’t resist any longer, and he came, strong and beautiful, against her.
As he had worshipped her with lingering kisses and stroking touches, Sesily did the same for him even as he leaned over and kissed her, stroking deep as he hefted her up into the bed, leaning over her, spreading her legs and settling between them, turning the tables, stroking over her body, worshipping her curves, whispering her name and praising her with soft, lingering kisses, until she was writhing against him and he was once again hard.
When he entered her, it was in a long, smooth stroke, deep and devastating, filling her beautifully, perfectly, as though they were made for this moment. For each other. They moved in unison for minutes . . . hours . . . losing track of time and place . . . lost to everything but each other until she was begging for release and he was driving her toward it, and they tumbled into pleasure like it was their purpose.
Together.
It was like nothing she’d ever experienced. Perfect. And terrifying.
Because she didn’t think she’d ever recover from it.
She would never recover from him.
He turned to his back, pulling her over him, stroking along her skin, sending licks of pleasure through her as she set her ear to his chest and listened to the hammer of his heart, heavy and quick—matched to her own.
“I love you.”
The words were out before she could stop them. Before she could predict that he would go stiff beneath her. That his touch would stutter over her skin.
She closed her eyes, her throat full, her eyes suddenly hot with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know that you don’t want it. I know it’s not why you’re here. But I love you, and I cannot keep quiet any longer.” She kept her head on his chest, refusing to look at him. Not wanting to see the rejection in his eyes. Knowing she couldn’t bear it, and still, knowing she couldn’t bear the other. The not ever having said it. “I cannot hold it in any longer. I don’t wish to wait to love you. To tell you.”
And once she began to speak, it was suddenly impossible to stop. So she spoke to her hand, playing at the soft hair on this chest even as she felt that she was stealing the touch—what might be the last. “You said you can’t stay away from me and . . . I hate how I love that, even as I hate that you wish to stay away fr
om me.”
His caught her hand in his then, tight and firm, holding her still. “Sesily.”
Her name rumbled in his chest and she ached at the feel of it, wishing she could commit it to the ordinary—that it was just the way Caleb said her name at night. When they were together.
But she could not take it for granted.
She held her breath, desperate for him to say more. And then he did.
“No one has ever loved me out loud.”
It couldn’t be true. This magnificent noble man, who had spent a lifetime fiercely standing with the people he loved . . . he deserved a company of people who loved him back. A battalion of them.
She lifted her head. How could she not? Met his beautiful gaze, and saw the truth in it. “Let me do it. Let me love you. Please.”
The last came out honest and ragged and Sesily might have been horrified by it if she didn’t know this was her last chance. Because whatever came next, when they left this room, she knew it would change everything.
He tightened his grip on her, pulling her impossibly closer, sliding his hand into her hair and holding her still as he kissed her, deep and thorough and with such longing that she lost track of herself. Of him.
It was them. And it was perfect.
And then he ended the kiss and met her eyes, and whispered her name. “Say it again. Please.”
She’d never refuse him the request, but she couldn’t look at him. Not when she knew that tomorrow the sun would rise and he would return to the role of noble protector, and he would convince himself that this had all been a mistake.
She couldn’t look at him. But she could put her ear to his chest and memorize the steady beat of his heart and say, “I love you.”
And then she could revel in the heavy heat of his arm at her back, and the breath of her name, barely-there in the even rise and fall of his chest, and imagine that tonight was forever.
“Stay with me,” she whispered.
A deep breath. Her name again, the ache in the sound an echo of the one in her heart. “I cannot. If I stay, he’ll come for you.”
“He will come for me anyway!” she said, pushing up to look at him. “He will come for me, just as he will come for you.”
Bombshell Page 27
