He was flat where she was curved, the hard planes of his chest bulging slightly before giving in to a flat, ridged abdomen. She rested her hands against his chest, finding him hot to the touch, burning as if with some internal fire. The crisp hairs sprinkling his skin tickled her fingertips, the beat of his heart hammering swiftly against his breastbone. He closed his eyes and sighed as she explored him, skimming her touch over his shoulders and across his chest, running her fingers lightly over his nipples and watching as they reacted just as hers did, shrinking and hardening.
“Yes, touch me, Josephine,” he groaned. “I haven’t been touched like this in so long, and it feels … God, it feels so perfect.”
His words emboldened him, and she added her kiss to the touch of her hands, tasting his throat and shoulder as she smoothed her hands over his ribs and around to his back, dragging her nails lightly down the supple muscles. He looked as if he might be thinner than he had been, the breadth of his shoulders and chest the framework for the body of a warrior. As she explored him further, she found the evidence of his time at war, tiny raised scars caused by the slash of blades—one along his ribs on the right side, one hidden by the hairs on his chest, another just below his navel. She traced them all, pressing a soothing kiss over the scar slashing his chest.
“My Maxwell,” she murmured. “They hurt you so badly.”
He clutched the back of her head, holding her against his chest as she nuzzled into it. “It doesn’t matter. Not when I’m with you.”
She found the statement to be true for her as well. Just now, none of the neglect and scorn she’d been subjected to mattered. None of it could hurt her here with him, and she found such freedom—however temporary—to be the most liberating thing she’d ever experienced.
Josephine traced a finger down the line of soft hairs guiding the way to his groin, hesitating only for a moment when she reached the placket of his trousers. Her breath quickened as she worked to free him, the shaking of her hands doing nothing to stop her in her quest. Once the garment was open, he brushed her hand aside, pushing both the trousers and his drawers down and allowing his erection to spring free.
She caught a glimpse of the intimidating organ jutting out from a swirling nest of dark curls just before he took it into his hand. Experiencing a swift surge of fear and uncertainty as she wondered how it could possibly fit inside of her, her breath caught. Regardless, Maxwell moved with confidence, poising himself at her slick entrance and nudging against her with a flex of his hips.
He slid one hand beneath her, cupping one of her buttocks and angling her to take him in. She braced her hands on his chest, holding her breath as she waited for the invasion.
Shaking his head, he made another tentative movement, the nudge of his flared head sending a ripple of pleasure and longing through her.
“Try to relax,” he whispered, kissing her forehead, then the bridge of her nose, then her lips. “Breathe. Don’t fight it … let me in.”
With a shaky nod, she forced her tensed limbs to ease, spreading her legs wider and opening herself to him. The stretch and burn of his tip penetrating her had Josephine gritting her teeth and fighting to breathe. It grew worse the deeper he surged, the unrelenting hardness of him seeming to tear her in two. She had thought she’d felt full with two of his fingers taking up space within her body, but this was nothing like that. It proved far more poignant and soul-stirring, as if a part of her had been destroyed and torn away to make room for something else. To make room for him.
Hooking one arm beneath her knee, he bent her leg back toward her chest—which seemed to open her even more and allow him to tread the rest of the path straight to her center. His pelvis came against hers, a harsh sigh escaping him as he lodged his entire length inside of her. He paused for a long moment, chest heaving as he fought for breath, his entire body trembling as if he stood on the precipice of the same explosive ending she’d just experienced. Beads of sweat began to form across his brow, his jaw clenching tight.
Her sheath throbbed around him, the pain and fullness making tears spring to her eyes. He withdrew with excruciating slowness, the pull of him against her inner walls creating another burst of searing heat. They cried out as one when he plunged back in—Josephine shrill and sharp, Maxwell hoarse and deep.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he growled, steadily moving within her in short, shallow thrusts. “But I can’t stop, Josephine. It feels … you feel too bloody good.”
“Don’t stop,” she urged, wrapping both legs around his waist. “I don’t care if it hurts, I just need you. Please, don’t stop.”
His chest and arms flexed and drew taut as he pulled back and thrust again … deeper, harder. Biting her lip until she tasted blood, she clung to him for dear life as he did it again and again, seeming to reach farther into her with each snap of his hips. Maxwell was lost now, his head thrown back as he took her with an entire year’s worth of pent-up desire, anguish, and longing. She accepted it all, each powerful thrust easing her channel more and more to accept him, pleasure mounting to entangle with the pain. The tears in her eyes fell, but she let them, wanting everything this moment would give her—the pain, the ecstasy, the spiritual entanglement of his soul with hers.
He cupped her breasts, squeezing and kneading them, the light pinch of his fingers on her nipples sending shocks of pleasure through her in time with the movements of him inside her. The mounting pressure of another release began building in her again, this time with several times the urgency of her first. Her channel clenched around him, her held breath burning in her throat as she waited for the moment it would wash over her. Maxwell shuddered atop her, the tendons in his neck stretched taut as he seemed to fight against the inevitable end while she ached for it, strained toward it.
“I can’t hold back anymore,” he groaned, pressing deep into her and rotating his hips in a way that heightened her coming climax. “You have to come with me, Josephine. Come with me …”
He slid a hand between them, his fingers finding her swollen, pulsing nub and pressing down on it with stunning accuracy. She moaned as he stroked it at the same rhythm of his thrusts, sending her soaring toward release with breathtaking speed. A shocked cry flew from her, her hips raising to press against him as her sheath gripped him tight at the same moment his seed began flooding into her in a warm rush. He groaned, still steadily pumping while she convulsed around him, filling her with every drop of his spend. He went still just as she unwound with a rushing breath of relief and finality. The urgency within her was quieted in that instant, leaving behind a slight soreness and the wet warmth of his seed when he gingerly pulled away from her.
Her vision began to grow hazy as exhaustion set in, her body going limp in Maxwell’s arms as he rolled onto his side and took her with him, cradling her in the shelter of his body. A blanket came over them, Maxwell arranging it to ensure it covered her feet before drawing it up over her shoulder.
Lying there in the silence, she wrapped an arm around his waist and snuggled as close to him as could be. He tightened his hold on her, his lips brushing featherlight kisses along her brow.
“Sweet Josephine,” he murmured just before she drifted off into oblivion. “I cannot explain how this has happened. But, I do believe you’ve made me love you.”
Chapter 11
When Maxwell and Josephine awakened from slumber, it was to the sound of their stomachs rumbling. Josephine giggled at the noise emanating from her middle, while Maxwell inwardly chastised himself for forgetting to see to her needs before pouncing on her like some mindless animal.
As he yawned and stretched, registering the aches and pains from sleeping on the floor, he also noticed the sense of peace that had settled within him. He hardly ever slept, tossing and turning most nights in the throes of his hellish memories of Balaclava. But, with Josephine’s lush body nestled against him, and her sweet scent wafting up his nostrils, he slept like the dead.
Coming to his feet and glancing through the
window as he fastened his trousers, he found nothing but darkness beyond the pane. He couldn’t tell how late it was, but they’d obviously slept at least a few hours. It was the longest he’d slept without coming awake in some time.
His hungry gaze fell on Josephine as she stood, the blankets falling away to reveal the perfection of her nude body. Lush, soft curves were on full display, the warm glow of the fire casting an amber hue over her tawny golden skin. Her dark nipples puckered as if he’d touched them, her breasts rising and falling with quickened breath as she registered the desire that must be written all over his face. He looked lower, over the slope of her belly, to the dark curls cradled by rounded hips giving way to supple thighs.
Stooping to pick up her chemise, he thrust it at her with a grin. “You’ll want to cover up immediately unless you want to find yourself under me again.”
With a laugh, she began pulling the undergarment on over her head. “What if that’s exactly where I want to be?”
He gave her bottom a playful swat as she bent to retrieve the dressing gown, causing her to come upright with a gasp. He chuckled when she turned to face him, giving him a mock glare of reproach.
“I ought to feed you first, so you do not expire before I’ve had my fill of you.”
What on earth was he doing? He hadn’t played or laughed with a woman in ages, and even as a young rake everything had revolved around the physical act. None of it had given him this heartwarming feeling that now resided in his chest as he watched her put on his dressing gown and attempt to tame her wild hair. It had lost all semblance of order, but he found the dark tangle of curls to be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and she made him smile and laugh again. She’d opened her body to him with such passion and joy, giving him back a part of himself he’d thought lost, and then some. The missing pieces of him didn’t seem to matter, not with her standing here to fill them in.
God, I’m going out of my mind. First, I ruin this woman knowing I shouldn’t, then I confess my mad love for her like some kind of idiot.
She gave no indication that she’d heard him, and perhaps she hadn’t. Soon after the words fell from his lips, she had fallen asleep, emitting soft, adorable snores. It was for the best. He had no reason to expect her to feel the same way when they barely knew each other. But, he didn’t need to know her to love her. All the things he did know only proved that she was perfect for him in every way, that no other woman could ever compare. But, with her family departing in a few days and him leaving for Cornwall shortly after, where did that leave them? He was loathe to ruin the serenity of the moment, so Maxwell said nothing as he pulled his shirt on, then shoveled more coal into the hearth. There would be time enough for talk later. They had at least until sunrise before they could try to venture back to the house, and that was only if the snow had let up.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s see what we can find in the kitchen.”
As it turned out, the kitchen proved to be a wealth of supplies for them to pull a meal together. In it, they found bread and cheese gone stale, but there were tins of tea and a kettle along with wood for the stove. While Josephine worked to make them tea, Maxwell went through the larder, filling his arms with salt, jars of sweetmeats, and cubes of dried gelatin which would melt into broth for soup when added to hot water. Depositing these items on the table, he went back in, finding a makeshift storage for root vegetables. Digging through piles of straw and sawdust used for the preservation, he turned up a few apples, carrots, and potatoes. From his bounty, Josephine managed to fashion a stew of sorts, melting down the gelatin cubes and adding the salt pork and vegetables. Maxwell found a knife and used it to slice one of the apples, crunching on bits of it and feeding her slices as she cooked.
Finding a tray once used to bring him soup and tea in his sickroom, he loaded it with their bowls of soup and tea, carrying the jar of sweetmeats under his arm for dessert, and led her back into the fire-warmed front room. Seated before the fire, they shared their meal in companionable silence. He could imagine that the Christmas Eve dinner being served in the house just now was the finest Hazelwood’s kitchen had ever turned out—replete with rich foods presented in course after course. But, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on this night. The improvised stew tasted better to him than anything had in ages, helped along by the company.
As they sat on the sofa before the fire, finishing off their tea and sharing the sugared sweetmeats from the jar, he broke through the silence with a question that had been burning in his mind all night.
“What are your plans for the future?” he asked, turning to arrange his leg more comfortably. It still ached, and he probably hadn’t helped matters by sleeping in his boots and wearing his false leg. He rubbed absently at his thigh while waiting for her to reply.
“Well,” she began, setting her tea aside and arranging a blanket more comfortably over her legs, “in a few months I will be twenty-one. That is when I am set to receive the inheritance from my father, since I haven’t married. Not that I ever expected to. I’ve only ever been encouraged to remain silent and hidden away. I’ve striven to be as bland as possible to keep the attention of others off me, and in that way keep Adelaide from being angry that I dared to steal attention from Violet. So, no man of our acquaintance has ever shown any interest in me except in a physical sense. And why would they be interested? I’ve never been allowed to be myself around any of them. They don’t know me, and what they know of my mother makes them see me as …”
She trailed off with a frown, as if putting into words the truth of her mother’s profession were too difficult. He reached out to touch her chin, lifting it so she looked at him.
“There is nothing bland about you, and you don’t hide yourself as well as you think,” he said. “When your family came up the front drive a few days ago, my eyes were drawn to you and I could see nothing else. That is why your stepmother hates you. Do you know that? She sees the same things in you that I do, and she is afraid others will see it, too. She cannot stand the thought of people flocking to you in droves when she wants her daughter to receive all the admiration. The men who could not see it are fools, Josephine. They are the sorts of men who could never be good husbands to you, anyway.”
She nodded, breaking his gaze to stare down into her empty teacup. “That is why I never expected to marry. When I receive my inheritance, I think I should like to make my way to London. I’ve never been … honestly, I’ve never truly been anywhere. So, perhaps I may travel a bit first. I’d love to see places like Rome, Paris, and Venice. Once I’ve done that, I’d consider using part of the money to open a shop of some kind. Books, perhaps. I do not like the idea of remaining idle for the rest of my life. I want to do something with my money and my time. I only know that I’ll be happy to have the rest of my life free from Adelaide, and the time to puzzle that out for myself.”
He felt equal parts disappointment and excitement at the picture she painted. Excitement because he could imagine her having a grand time in Europe, and he would want that for her. Disappointment because her travels and a new life in London would leave no room for him.
“What of you?” she asked, breaking him out of those morose thoughts. “Now that you are recovered from your ordeal, what will you do?”
He thought of his plans for a quiet, solitary life, and suddenly they weren’t as appealing as they once had been. “I’ve purchased a home in Cornwall, and intend to travel there following the New Year. After spending a year cloistered in this house and being made to feel as if I’ll never fit with my family like I used to, I’ve wanted nothing more than to have my own place in the world. If I am away from the people who once knew me, then I never have to try to fit. I can simply … exist as I am now.”
She edged closer to him on the sofa, her brow knit as she braced a hand on his knee. “Won’t you be lonely? You asked me about marriage, but what of you? Haven’t you ever wanted to wed and have a
family of your own?”
He slouched a bit on the sofa, stretching his leg out with a pained groan. It had become uncomfortable for him to go on wearing his prosthetic, but he inwardly recoiled at the thought of removing it in front of Josephine. After the constant stream of doctors and nurses had ended, he only ever allowed his valet to see, and that was purely out of necessity as the man attached the prosthetic while dressing him every morning.
“Are you all right?” she asked, glancing down to where he rubbed at the sore stump just above where his knee used to be.
“Fine,” he said before steering the conversation back to her question and away from his leg. “As far as marriage … I haven’t thought of it in a while. Before my commission, I avoided it like the plague, being the sort of lecher I was at the time. During my time at war, I did not think I would live long enough to wed. Now, I don’t know that it would be wise for me to place the burden of my injury and my … my social ineptitude upon the shoulders of some unwitting woman. I am not like other men, not anymore. There are parts of me that died in Balaclava, and they may never come back to life. I do not sleep well at night, and have had moments where being startled or feeling threatened have caused me to lash out and nearly hurt someone. No woman deserves to be saddled with someone like me for the rest of her life.”
She moved even closer now, until her knee rested against his hip, her scent wreaking havoc on his senses. “What about what you deserve, Maxwell? What if there were a woman who could soothe you to sleep at night, and hold you when you are frightened and overwrought? What if she wasn’t afraid to give herself to you, because she loved you and knew you would never hurt her? Could you bring yourself to marry such a woman?”
Are you telling me you love me, sweet? His heart seized tight in his chest at the thought.
And what if she did love him? Could he ask her to marry him knowing he was coming to her broken and hollow?
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