Daniel gasped softly, reaching for her, but she put one hand out, stopping him.
His mouth looked crushed, he breathed past slightly parted lips, and when she met his gaze there was such longing in those dark eyes. Longing, lust, and . . . surrender.
As she stared, Daniel sank to his knees. He tilted his head, watching her the whole time, until his face angled up toward her, his wide hands splayed on his thighs. So put together, perfect in his tux but for a slight rumple where she’d dislodged the bowtie and the press of his cock ruining the crease of slacks.
Elspeth swallowed a moan. Her knees trembled and she managed to whisper, “Take it out for me.”
“Elspeth,” he answered hoarsely, a hand going automatically to his zipper.
She glanced out into the long hallway of reliefs. “I can see all the way to the exit. I’ll see if anyone . . .” Elspeth looked back at him. “I want to see you. I want . . .” She licked her lips.
He nodded. Light from the hallway highlighted half his face, his shoulder and ruffled black hair; the other side was shadowed, fading into the other room. Daniel knelt in the threshold, where hall became room, stone became tile.
Elspeth felt her heart crashing in her chest. She could still hear the distant music from the gala.
Daniel flicked open his pants, slowly unzipped, and his fingers disappeared into the silky-looking waistband of his knickers. Elspeth held her breath as he touched himself, drawing his cock free for her.
She bit her lip, hard, and crossed her arms, holding her own elbows to keep herself together.
Air hissed through Daniel’s teeth as he gave himself a stroke, then another, tentative and gentle, it seemed to her. He toyed with his tip, eyelashes fluttering but he held her gaze even as his cheeks reddened, as his teeth gleamed in the half-light.
Elspeth leaned back against the wide wall of the doorway, the only part of the wall free of ancient art. She kept her attention on him, holding herself, aware of the empty hall, aware of being alone but oh-so-close to other people, to dancers, to the gala, to her mum. Sweat broke out along her spine; she wanted to fall forward and suck him off herself, taste his cock on her tongue, swallow him up. She whispered, “I want to swallow you up, Daniel Kelly.”
His hips lurched, and he worked faster. “I wish I had some of your heat on me, slicking me.”
“There’s so much for you,” she said, panting a little. Her pussy ached, all her desire dripping to her core to gather in a hard knot. She didn’t give in, didn’t press a hand there over her jumpsuit, just watched him, aching and longing. It felt so good.
“Elspeth,” he said breathlessly, both hands around himself, one deeper than the other, hidden in his pants, the other working the shaft and crown almost frantically.
“Daniel,” she answered, letting her suffering through in a soft moan.
“What do you—want—me to do?”
“Come, darling, right now,” she whispered, leaning eagerly forward, ass propped on the wall so she didn’t collapse.
His jaw clenched and his eyes widened before squeezing closed and he hissed again, his entire body wracked with orgasm. He caught some of the cum, but it smeared along his waistcoat, along the inner jacket, and Daniel sagged back opposite her, sinking onto his heels, his back and head leaning on the wall. His shoulders heaved and shuddered, the lashes of his closed eyes flickered; he took a deep breath and his lips relaxed. He looked relaxed. Peaceful. Both hands covering himself but for just the slightest hint of the crown of his cock.
Elspeth shook with desire, and power, and love. She stared down at him and felt so alive. Like she’d just performed the greatest show of her life, the kind that echoed forever, forwards and backwards, changing who she’d been every day before, and who she’d become every day in the future.
“I love you, too,” she said.
Daniel sucked in a breath, his entire person suddenly alert. He stood, awkwardly wiping his hands in his pockets, and putting himself away. He reached for her but stopped.
Elspeth nodded. She meant it. “Let’s get you to the washroom.”
He stepped into her path, using his body, not his hands, not touching her. “Will you . . . take off your necklace?”
Lifting her eyebrows, she did, fumbling slightly as the heavy ropes of glass slid down her collar and she caught it.
Daniel moved closer, and Elspeth caught her breath again, aching everywhere. She was so hot and wet she couldn’t believe herself, and her eyes drifted closed as he pressed nearer, bending his head to touch his lips to her neck.
Elspeth sighed long and hard, so very pleased at the soft heat of his mouth, and his tongue as he pressed it to her throat, kissing along the ring where the necklace had been. “I love you,” he said against her skin.
Together they looked for the washrooms. Elspeth walked as quickly as she could; each step was friction on her thighs, tightening and loosening her desire. She leaned against him, and he kissed her temple.
They had to move through the gala again, but didn’t stop, didn’t sway or accept another drink. When Daniel paused at the entrance to the men’s room, he leaned in and said quietly in her ear, “Come in with me. You haven’t gotten off.”
Elspeth shivered with pleasure. “I like it,” she said.
His laugh was low, his breath hot.
“I do.” She turned her face and kissed his jaw. She licked his bottom lip. “It feels unfinished. Full of potential.”
For a moment Daniel said nothing, then he ducked his head and caught her gaze. “You don’t want to be finished.”
“Not with you,” she confessed.
His mouth found hers and he swallowed her words, lips pulling into too much of a smile for the kiss to be good—instead it was perfect. She felt his teeth and remembered his broad wolf grin.
Elspeth rubbed her cheek along his, and said, “Go clean up. I want to dance again.”
“And again and again?”
“As long as we like.”
“I’d like to have forever,” Daniel said softly.
She leaned back and touched his lips as they curved into that smile. “Keep saying that, and I think you might just get it. Now go—come back fast.”
Daniel broadened his wolfish smile and obeyed.
Also by Tessa Gratton
NIGHT SHINE
* * *
STRANGE GRACE
* * *
Novels of Innis Lear:
THE QUEENS OF INNIS LEAR
LADY HOTSPUR
* * *
The Blood Journals:
BLOOD MAGIC
THE BLOOD KEEPER
* * *
The Gods of New Asgard:
Book One: THE LOST SUN
Book Two: THE STRANGE MAID
Book Three: THE APPLE THRONE
Novellas:
GOLD RUNNER
LADY BERSERK
GLORY'S TEETH
collected as THE WEIGHT OF STARS
About the Author
Tessa Gratton is the author of adult and young adult fantasy novels including The Queens of Innis Lear and Lady Hotspur from Tor Books, and the YA original fairy tales Strange Grace and Night Shine from McElderry Books. Tessa’s critically acclaimed novels and short stories have been translated into twenty-two languages. Though she has lived all over the world, she currently resides at the edge of the Kansas prairie with her wife. Naughty Brits is her inaugural foray into writing romance, and she is thrilled to be here.
Visit her at tessagratton.com.
You can sign up for Tessa’s newsletter here: https://tinyletter.com/TessaGratton
Supplicant
Sierra Simone
Prologue
Four Years Ago
He’s late.
(James Church Cason is never late.)
He’s stuck in traffic. He’s lost. Something happened.
(Nothing keeps Church from what he wants. Ever.)
He loves me. He wouldn’t do this to me.
(
But do I know that? Beyond a shadow of a doubt? Do I really know him well enough to say?)
He’s not coming.
And on that point, I’m forced to finally face the truth.
He’s not coming.
“Would you like to try him again?” the woman next to me asks kindly, nodding down at the phone in my hand. She’s a stranger—someone employed by the church to facilitate wedding ceremonies—and her warmth and concern are blistering. I’m blistered with it. My face is hot, my eyes are seared with unshed tears, my voice is burnt and dry when I speak.
“No, thank you,” I rasp. “I think—I think it won’t do much good. I’m so sorry, but do you have any water?”
I hate the tenderness in her eyes when she nods, because it brings me that much closer to breaking, and I can’t break. I won’t. Not yet and not here. I look over at my little brother, twelve and fidgeting in his tuxedo, his blue eyes wide with worry. I offer him a wobbly smile.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “At least no boring ceremony to sit through, hey?”
He looks like he’s about to cry, and that also brings me closer to the brink, so I look away. Through the cracked door that separates the narthex from the nave.
There’s only a smattering of people inside—fifteen, maybe, in a church that could seat five hundred. They’re all here for me—fellow volunteers at the museum and friends from college. No family other than Jax, because our mother died a few years back and our father is a piece of shit who’d rather get stoned than do anything else.
No one is here for Church. No one. There’s no sight of his parents, his brother, the niece who was supposed to be the flower girl, the sister who was supposed to do a reading. No friends. No other sharply dressed professors or sun-drenched archaeologist types.
Stupid, Charley. You’ve been stupid.
The vicar clears his throat and begins making his way down the aisle to me, to the great interest of the worried guests, and when he slips in through the door, he takes my hand.
“My dear,” he starts, and he doesn’t have to finish. He’s been waiting up by the altar for almost an hour. I know what he’s going to say.
“Yes,” I say. “I should—I need to go.”
“Of course,” he says, just as kindly as the event planner had. “I’ll tell the guests. Something vague, naturally.”
Well, he could hardly be specific, could he? Since even I don’t know why my wedding is missing its groom.
“Thank you,” I say. My eyes are burning something fierce, and I know I only have minutes before I disintegrate. “Is there a side door I can—”
The event planner returns with a cup of water and an expression of supreme discomfort. “Ms. Tenpenny,” she starts, using the water as an excuse not to meet my gaze, “there is a driver out front—your fiancé’s driver.”
There’s a collective wince as we all think the same thing. Is someone still your fiancé after they leave you at the altar?
“Er, Mr. Cason’s driver, I mean,” she hurriedly revises. “He says Mr. Cason sent him to give you a ride to your home.”
Church sent his driver.
On our wedding day.
To take me back to my place.
“Oh, did he?” I say. Softly.
A blunt, iron ball of anger sinks through all the hurt, through all the embarrassment and vulnerability, sinks right into the pit of my stomach. My anger will anchor me to the earth, it will keep me from floating away, and so I hold on to it with eager hands. Because Church doesn’t get to have this. He doesn’t get to have helping me, he doesn’t get to have a gesture, no matter how pitifully small it is. He doesn’t get to feel good about a single damn part of today, he doesn’t get the satisfaction of looking back on the day he left a bride alone to be humiliated and heartbroken and think but at least I took care of her.
No.
He doesn’t get that. Especially when it’s coupled with waving his family’s obscene wealth in my face at the same time.
I take a drink of the water the planner brought and then hand it back to her. I take Jax’s hand in mine and meet the vicar’s concerned stare. “So is there a side door?”
It turns out that I used the last of my pride on turning down the driver. I gathered my things into a holdall and left the church without bothering to change, which meant shoving my fluffy white skirt and petticoats through the narrow turnstiles at the Tube station, and having my little brother hold the train of my gown on the escalator so it wouldn’t catch at the bottom. And then we rode the Tube home in silence, me trying not to cry and Jax practically vibrating with confused adolescent worry.
He was going to walk me down the aisle.
Now he’s helping me jam my wedding dress in and out of Tube-car doors and turnstiles.
Of course he’s worried.
What comes next? I have no idea. All my plans for the last few months started and ended with Church, with the dark-haired god in suits so crisp they made the rest of the world seem soft. Compared to those sapphire eyes and that hungry mouth, nothing else seemed to matter: not my terrible, barely there dad, not my little brother growing increasingly lost and uninterested in school, not the bills piling up on our kitchen table. With Church, I’d been able to pretend that everything would be okay, because how wouldn’t it be okay in the arms of a man like him?
Jesus. What a fool I’ve been.
Not for the first time, I wish I had friends. Real friends, not just a handful of people who know my name and vaguely wish me well.
I’d ask them if I’d been oblivious. Naïve .
After all, in what world did Charley Tenpenny—a destitute college student with an American accent—have to offer a man like him? Other than hours and hours of dark, delicious sex?
I blow out a long breath as Jax and I climb the stairs to our dank, tiny flat.
I won’t think of the sex. I won’t think of the way Church’s fingers felt wrapped around my hips or curling inside me. I won’t think of how wild those blue eyes would look when they lit on me, as if the mere sight of me turned him into an animal. My angry god, I’d whisper in his ear, leaning in close so he could feel my lips brush against his skin. My temple. My Church. And then I’d be seized and dragged to the nearest appropriate place for fucking. Sometimes even not that appropriate, because he could never wait.
You are my church, he’d growl in response as he pinned me against the first convenient surface and took me. His voice would be smoky and carnal. You are all I see. All I pray.
Unholy obsession. Hard sex. When he proposed, it felt like a fairy tale.
How could I have been so stupid? Men like him don’t marry the girls they fuck in corners.
But then why did he buy me a ring? A dress? Why did he call me Charlotte Cason, as if I were already his wife?
The flat’s door is hanging open when we reach it, and I’m jerked out of my thoughts so fast I nearly lose my breath. Dust swirls in the weak light coming in through the kitchen window, and from here I can detect the stale beer-and-cigarettes smell that suffuses our home. Our life. Our nasty, tattered life.
How did I ever think I could be Mrs. Cason?
“Charley?” Jax asks uncertainly.
Jax. You have to focus for your brother.
“Wait here, buddy,” I tell him, handing him my phone. “Call 999 if I’m not back out in just a minute, okay?”
He nods, scared, and it’s for his sake, all for him, that I muster up a wobbly smile and then push through the opened door, my wedding dress brushing against the old, stained carpet as I do.
“Dad?” I call out, expecting to see him asleep on the sofa or perhaps stumbling out of the back bedroom, stoned and bleary.
There’s only silence.
I check the kitchen and the bathroom, then mine and Jax’s room, and then his room. There’s no one here. “It’s okay, kiddo,” I call out, and then turn back to look at Dad’s room again, noticing for the first time what’s missing.
His clothes. His phone charger.
The keys to the only car we have.
Dread claws its way up to my spine—dread just as terrible and carnivorous as standing in a church waiting for a groom who will never come—and I go back into my room and lift up my mattress.
My meager savings—scraped together from working at a café near my school and stuffed into a worn envelope—are gone. I don’t need to look at my banking app to know that my account—shared with my dad—is cleaned out too. The shared account was the very reason I’d needed to stuff money under the bed, in case there came a month when we needed extra to cover rent or food because Dad had spent everything else on booze or bets or worse. It happened regularly enough that I never could build up a healthy reserve, but still, I’d managed to put enough under the mattress to supplement my tuition fees for next semester.
And now there won’t be enough. Not for school, and maybe not for rent either, and oh God. I haven’t just lost Church today, I think maybe . . .
Maybe I’ve lost everything.
Not just a future with him, but a future at all.
What am I going to do?
Focus. Focus for Jax.
“Is Dad gone?” Jax asks, his voice too solemn for such a sweet boy. “He . . . left?”
It’s too much. I nod, my chin quavering and my throat aching, and then I sink onto my bed. The white skirts of my wedding dress rustle and fluff around me.
“Do you want a hug?” Jax asks, looking like he needs it more than me.
Openly crying now, I open my arms and draw my little brother into the world’s longest, teariest hug, no longer able to stop the sobs from tearing through my body.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I will be brave. Tomorrow, I will focus.
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 47