Was he under obligation to tell her something she had not asked?
He’d heard enough about the amorous act to understand what went where and when and how. If he followed her lead, he was certain the dance would proceed as it should, apart from an awkward misstep or two.
He was a quick learner, after all.
She trailed her mouth down the flesh exposed beneath his open collar and his half-lucid thoughts ceased altogether. She took small tastes of him with the tip of her tongue—tiny pin-pricks that landed directly in his groin. Pleasure surged through his veins, trailing concentrated desire so caustic, his cock thrummed in pure agony.
“Amelia,” he murmured again.
Thank heaven she hadn’t corrected him when he’d taken the liberty before. He liked her name. He liked the way the consonants and vowels filled his mouth.
“Bellamy,” she replied.
Bellamy. He frowned. Always Bellamy. “Call me Matthew. Please.”
She breathed deeply. In…out.
Silence wound his tendons into straw bails. If she refused this small recognition, he’d scatter just like yellowed flax. He worked his hand from her hair to her neck, tracing her spine down to her waist.
Please.
“Matthew.” She tested his name. “Matthew.” She repeated with conviction. “I want to feel your skin against mine.”
“Which part?”
“All your parts.”
Choice parts jerked eagerly in response. “I am going to take you upstairs.”
She smiled. “Do.”
Bending, he placed an arm beneath her legs while cradling her back. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted. With a sigh, she laid her head against his shoulder.
The power between them shifted, balancing. With her head resting trustingly against him, anything seemed possible.
Swinging sideways, he ascended the narrow stairwell. At the top, moonlight cascaded through the skylight, bathing his bed in silvery light. Magic, indeed. Potent and beautiful.
“Matthew?”
“Yes?”
“You can put me down, now.”
“Of course.” He lowered her to her feet.
She glanced doubtfully at the small bed—a simple mattress hardly big enough for one.
“Skin against skin,” he reminded. He removed his waistcoat, cast aside his cravat, and then pulled his shirt over his head.
She turned back. Resting her gaze on his chest, she sighed again—a sigh like none he’d ever heard.
What came next?
Damned question. He moved to her side, and then ran the fabric of her fichu through his fingers, smooth and pliant.
“May I?” he asked roughly.
She nodded.
He untucked the white silk, carefully releasing the fabric from her bodice. She tilted her head to one side, allowing him greater access. He kissed her neck from hairline to shoulder, delighting as her skin warmed against his lips.
“My dress laces beneath my arms,” she murmured. “I can’t reach the—”
“Say no more.”
Blindly searching, he found tiny, knotted strings hidden under her voluminous sleeves and set to work. Her dress was not a dress at all, but a separate bodice and skirt. Men’s clothing could be complicated, but nothing like this.
When the bodice finally gave way, he suppressed a cheer of triumph.
She helped him, impatiently working a tie at her waist. Heavy fabric fell to the floor in a whoosh, revealing a tantalizing hint of ankle and calf. Still, a high waisted, stiff garment crossing over her breasts kept her confined. He loosened the laces, revealing a near-transparent shift embroidered with small flowers.
Unexpected. Fanciful.
He would have sworn he knew her like the back of his own hands, yet she could still surprise. Watching him, she pulled her arms through her open stays and tossed them aside.
“You’re beautiful, Matthew.”
Odd choice. “Beautiful?”
She splayed her small, cool hands against his fiery chest. “Beautifully made.”
She moved her hands over his muscles down to his stomach. Tension coalesced in his groin. In another moment she’d undo his falls. But he needed that barrier. Without it, he wouldn’t last. And there was so much he had yet to learn, to know. So, he walked her backwards toward his bed, her thighs brushing his as they moved. At the last moment, she twirled him around and shoved him down.
Unexpected again.
If nothing else, he would always remember the moonlight glowing against her pretty shift, and the shadowy hint of reward beneath.
He situated her between his thighs. Then, he cupped her legs, lifting her shift as his caress climbed her thighs. Up, up, over her rounded bottom and then—
She stopped him.
“I’m not,” her breath hitched, “what I once was.”
“You are lovely.” So lovely his taught muscles trembled. He met her dubious gaze. “Trust me.”
She nodded, lifting her arms.
An earthy, musk joined her usual citrus. Shaking, he freed her from her last bit of clothing as he rose from the bed.
He had no prior experience with a naked woman, but he deemed all he could see natural perfection. Besides, the primal drive between them did not care to identify flaws. Her curves were full and feminine; he was pleased. His cock was practically weeping.
If he did not sit back down, he would soon fall to his knees.
Tenderly, he took her into his arms. She’d wanted skin against skin. Unusual, but now he understood why. The sensation was more indulgent than he could have imagined—a melding of silken heat.
“What next?” This time, he asked the question aloud.
“My breasts. Touch my breasts.”
He lowered them both back onto the bed and gazed in near-tearful awe as she situated herself against his pillows. Bracing the lion’s share of his weight on his knee, he passed the calloused base of his palm over the roughened peak of her nipple, delighting as she arched into his hand and moaned.
Ah. That sound.
He drew the back of his hand beneath the curve of her breast and circled around, repeating his prior motion. He learned what she liked, delighting as her embarrassed tension melted away, and she loosened, supple and lithe beneath his hands.
“Stop teasing me,” she whimpered.
Gripping his nape, she placed his mouth directly on the hardened, raspberry-like bud. His shock dissipated and her flesh became a feast, first to savor, and then, urged on by her breathy moans, to devour whole. The more he gave—licking, sucking, softly blowing against her skin—the more she demanded.
“Touch me.” Her panted words went husky with desire. “Touch me there.”
There proved no strain to deduce. Touch, however, formed the crux.
Light or heavy? At a single point or with a caress that knit together all her sensitive places? Most importantly—considering how she wanted him to explore her breasts—with his mouth or with his hands?
“Show me what you like.” His voice scratched in his throat as he nuzzled against her ear. Then, he settled on the less alarming option. “Guide my hand.”
She wrapped his rough hand within her dainty fingers and steered him to her mound. Soft curls gave way to wet warmth. He cupped her heat as she rocked against his hand, catching her lower lip between her teeth.
Captivating.
She moaned again. A slight shiver passed through her body—a harbinger, a warning. She abandoned his hand. Without direction, he continued to stroke. Turning her head into his body, she cupped her own breasts, squeezing her nipples.
Good heavens.
Asphyxiation brought twinkling stars before his eyes. Breathe. The sight alone was going to kill him. If not now, then later, in his dreams.
Every muscle in her body tensed. Then, she arched her back, and her mouth fell open in a silent, breathless scream. The wetness against his hand increased, seeping between his fingers.
Time stopped but
for the blood humming through his cock.
She inhaled in a rush. A sound tore from her lips—simultaneous pleasure, pain, and release. With a final shudder, she collapsed.
Beneath his trousers, his erect staff whined in pain. Not tonight.
What if there’s only tonight?
That, he refused to believe.
Instead, he wiped her tousled hair from her brow. Her skin, in light, might have been pink as dawn, but night sketched her in shades of silver-grey.
Her eyes flew open. Her sudden, intense gaze left a sheen over his own.
“Matthew,” she whispered. “You haven’t—”
“No.” He stopped her from reaching toward his tented falls.
“But you—”
“Don’t worry about me.”
She frowned.
“Yet.” He placed his lips against her dampened temple.
Closing his eyes, he rolled onto his back and clasped her against his chest, moving his thumb along her jaw and willing away the full, heavy pain in his cock.
He’d learned enough for one night. Knowledge he wanted to savor. And, far more than sweaty, needful joining, this—the quiet aftermath—was, in fact, the culmination of his dreams.
Amelia content and still in his arms.
Chapter Seven
BESIDE AMELIA, MATTHEW BELLAMY’S CHEST rose and fell. Coals in his fireplace had chalked over into grey ash, but Matthew emitted more than enough warmth. Amelia gazed into the darkness until his ghost-hued chamber came into focus.
She’d suspended reason. Now, rational propriety clamped down, breaking the beauty of what she’d just experienced into shards whispering shame.
She’d allowed—no…begged—a man in her employ to give her pleasure. Worse still, she’d taken that pleasure as her due and left him unsatisfied. For goodness sake, Constance ended liaisons when her male lovers did the same.
How embarrassing.
She’d demanded his touch, moaned like a cat in heat when he complied, and then promptly drifted off into the netherworld. She’d probably even snored.
Heavens! Please, no. Please.
Mortification beyond bearing.
How were they going to go back to working together?
She’d known better than to give into her lust. She’d known, and she hadn’t done a thing to restrain her desires.
Earlier this evening, she’d taken pride in her actions. She’d been happy to bid Markham a final farewell, with her sincere, best wishes for his courtship of Lady Clarissa. Then, she’d returned here only to accost her secretary.
What kind of woman had she become?
Her body played Judas to her thoughts—still languid, still content, still happy to be curled against his side, safe and certain as a newborn pup.
Bellamy stroked her arm, slow and reassuring.
Not asleep then.
He’d known she had awakened and needed comfort. He always knew her needs before she spoke. Then again—she self-corrected—not quite always.
Tell me what you want. Guide my hand.
She frowned into the darkness.
Bellamy—Matthew—was either a very considerate lover or a completely inexperienced one. And if he was inexperienced—though how could he be at his age—that made her even worse than a selfish lover.
That made her akin to a pleasure house procuress.
Considerate absolutely had to be the answer. Of course, Matthew was considerate. Silly to even entertain any other explanation.
Matthew was considerate, eager, and, for the moment, all hers.
She gave up her hopeless, inner fight and nestled within his embrace. Nothing good was ever decided in the wee hours of the morning, anyway.
Matthew kissed the messy line of her part. “You’re awake, I take it.”
“As are you,” she pointed out. “Did you fall asleep, too?”
“No.”
She shifted position until she could see the faint outline of his features. “Do you mean to tell me you have been watching me sleep?”
“Couldn’t help myself, I’m afraid.” Moonlight touched his smile. He traced her nose with his finger. “You’re beautiful.”
She wasn’t. Not anymore.
She sunk back against his chest, gazing up to the window in the slanted roof. “Has the sky lightened? Is that the grey of dawn?”
“No.” He stroked her face. “The nightingale, and not the lark, pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.”
That didn’t sound like Bellamy. She frowned. “Are you quoting?”
“Yes. Romeo and Juliet.” His caress stalled. “In the wee of the morning, just after they declare their love.”
“Pretty words.” Deep within, her tightly budded dreams uncurled hopeful petals. She tucked them back into the recesses of her mind. “And yet Romeo and Juliet is a tragic play.”
“Depends on your perspective.” He ran a lock of her hair through his fingers. “Their deaths ended a longstanding feud. I imagine quite a few people benefitted.”
She chuckled half-heartedly. “Heartless, Matthew. Heartless.”
He hummed. “Merely pointing out the greater good…and its limitations.” His lips touched her outer temple. “Heading off your inevitable argument, you see.”
“What argument?”
“The one where you tell me we cannot act selfishly or forget our duty.”
She held her breath, suppressing a swell of pain.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he added. “Tell me you’ve discarded caution and will follow wherever your heart leads.”
“You know that’s not me, Matthew.”
“I know.” He sighed. “Not me, either.” He resumed stroking her arm. “Earlier tonight, you asked if I needed a matchmaker.”
“Ah yes.” Her breath hitched. “Your perfect woman. I hope what we… Well, what I mean to say is, I hope I haven’t harmed your prospects.”
“You still don’t see, do you? You still don’t understand?”
You are everything. His words echoed in her mind. Good heavens—when he’d said he’d found the perfect woman, he couldn’t have meant her.
She looked up into his eyes. “Matthew—” she whispered. “Surely you must know I cannot—we cannot—”
He placed a finger to her lips.
“Hear me out?”
Bad idea. She nodded anyway.
“I don’t require a matchmaker,” he said. “However, I find myself in need of a ball.”
She frowned. “A ball?”
“Well, a ball without the people, music, or fancy clothes.”
She snorted. “Not a ball then.”
“Ah, but what is a ball but an assembly for dancing? And what is an assembly for dancing but an excuse to abandon cares and enjoy, for a time, light spirits and good company.”
“…light spirits and good company?”
He nodded. “In my case, yours.”
“But we see one another almost every day.”
“Not like this, we don’t.”
Her mouth dried again while her heart bounced in hopeful leaps. “Just what are you asking me?”
“For time. The same time the fairy godmother gave Cinderella—three nights…two, as a matter of fact, since the first is nearly spent.”
He’d been listening more closely than she’d believed.
“Oh, Matthew.” A colossally bad idea. But, for the life of her, she could not come up with a single reason why she should refuse. “Two nights?”
“Two more nights.”
She lifted a brow. “Is this a trick?”
He pointed at his chest as if astonished. “When have you known me to be deceptive?”
She flashed him a look. “Never.”
“Coercive?”
“Not once.”
“Prone to flights of fancy?”
“You know you’ve been an absolute rock,” she answered quietly.
He turned her so they faced one another, suddenly serious. “Amelia, time is about to play a terrib
le trick. One blink and I’ll be on to new endeavors and Jeremy Pritchett will have taken my place.”
“Jeremy must learn to care for his inheritance.” Her voice wobbled. “But no one could ever take your place.” No one.
His features softened. “Surely we should take advantage of the time we have left.”
How could she refuse? “Two more nights? Consecutively?”
He considered. “What would you prefer?”
She’d prefer a lifetime, if a lifetime weren’t out of the question. “The Saturday next for the first of the two.”
“Very well.” He kissed her neck, just below her ear. “Imagine. Two nights lying skin to skin, indulging all our secret desires.”
“You cast an intoxicating spell, Matthew Bellamy.”
“Do I?” He sounded pleased. “I want to intoxicate you.”
She hummed as he stroked her stomach, reigniting passion and obliterating reason.
“I want,” he continued, “to make you drunk with need.”
His lips attended her neck, while his fingers teased lower parts until they throbbed with demand. A helpless moan escaped.
“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 far too much.
And two nights would never be enough.
Matthew had suffered through the suffocating quiet of the office all week, regretting the mutual decision for Amelia to visit various warehouses with her heir—part excuse to limit the chance they’d betray themselves, and part necessary aspect of Pritchett’s education.
If the time they’d spent separated had been any indication, Matthew expected he would not enjoy life following his departure from Sartin Trading Company. Ever-merciful angels of distraction had been the only reason he pushed through to Saturday’s glorious promise.
Finally, Amelia was due back where she belonged.
With him.
Any moment.
He tapped his quill against his cheek, accidentally separating the barbs. Holding the staff, he ran his fingers up the rachis, urging the silken threads to knit themselves back together. In concert, they glimmered green.
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