Chapter Eighteen

Myfanwy’s ears perked up at the crash. She knew a cricket ball breaking a flowerpot when she heard one.

She closed the book, not bothering to mark her place. She wasn’t really reading it anyway. She was biding time. Treading water to see how the night would proceed.

Myfanwy ventured out to the garden, hiding in the shadows slanted across the brick wall, and noted the familiar voices.

“Good on you, lad,” Samuel said, patting a beaming Aaron on the shoulder. “Just like that. People like to think that speed is a bowler’s greatest tool, but that’s utter shite. It’s all about control. Control the ball and you can control the game.”

Side by side they ambled to the far side of the garden, locating the ball that Aaron had bowled. Samuel picked it up next to a new pile of rose petals and tossed it to the boy. “Are you certain you’ve never played before?”

Aaron shook his head in a rush, like he was drying his hair. “Never, sir. I preferred football, myself. Always thought cricket was for nobs and tossers. No offense, sir.”

Samuel chuckled, leading him back to the start. “No offense taken. Unfortunately, the game is full of nobs and tossers, but also some pretty swell lads as well.”

“Like Benny and Joe?”

“Like Benny and Joe.”

Samuel positioned the boy toward the bushes once more, kicking at his feet until Aaron’s stance was to his liking. “All right now, try it again. Aim for that big, fat red on the right. Let’s see if you can take the whole head off.”

Aaron heaved a giant breath, squinting at the poor plump flower. He cradled the ball in his hand like it was a baby bunny, twirling it around as he considered his next action.

Myfanwy watched with wonder as he took off down the lane, launching the ball with all his might. The rose had no chance.

Samuel had asked. Aaron had delivered. It was that easy.

Samuel whistled in appreciation. “Damn, that’s mighty fine. You’ve got a gift, lad. A real gift.”

Aaron stared at the older man as if he’d come down from heaven to relay the words. It didn’t matter what Samuel did or said for the rest of his life—he was officially a god to the boy.

It struck Myfanwy that she’d seen that look before. She’d been a young girl but couldn’t have forgotten that blatant adoration. It was the same way Samuel used to look at her father—with love and yearning and a little bit of fear. Fear that the boy would ever disappoint the man he respected so much.

“Do you really think I could make a go of it?” Aaron asked shyly. “Can men really make a living from cricket? Obviously, I’m not one of those Eton types.”

Samuel grunted. “Neither am I.”

“But you have all this.”

“I earned all this. From cricket. You can too, if you work hard enough.”

“I can work, sir,” Aaron said.

“I know you can, lad. I know you can.”

Myfanwy had had enough. She was afraid if she listened any more that she might start crying at the beauty of it all. She shoved off from the wall, clearing her throat of all the emotion that threatened to overtake her. “Now, don’t think you can go off and join a club anytime soon,” she said, smiling at the way the two jumped when they noticed her. “My team still needs your help. It was absolute paradise not having to go running after all our balls today in practice. Having you there is a godsend.”

Aaron happily smiled. “I wouldn’t think of leaving,” he replied. “I got too much to learn.”

“Good answer,” Samuel said, mussing the boy’s black hair. “That’s enough for tonight. I’ve got a full day for you tomorrow. Why don’t you go inside now and get ready for bed? Your sister was incredibly upset when Sarah forced her to retire earlier than you.”

“Yes, sir,” Aaron said right away. No wonder Samuel liked him so much. The boy was the only one in the house who didn’t talk back to him. Aaron wished Myfanwy a good night and, after an awkward bow, rushed inside to do his master’s bidding.

Samuel stared after him for a long while, an amused expression on his face.

“Something’s different about you,” Myfanwy said, breaking his tranquil moment. “You’re smiling. Dare I say it, you seem almost happy. And you’re not even drinking.”

Immediately, Samuel’s expression veered back to its usual scowl. “I don’t need to be drinking to smile.” He launched down the path toward the ball. He located it quickly and tossed it up in the air, catching it with a flourish. “Just a little moonlight and cricket, I guess.”

Myfanwy gawked at the carefree display. Moonlight and cricket? “Now you’re almost poetic.”

“I’m not poetic,” he muttered. “I’m just…” He searched for the words.

Myfanwy leaned over comically, as if she were physically pulling the word from him. “Happy? Go ahead; it won’t kill you to say it.”

“I’m not happy,” he griped over her giggles. “I’m just… I don’t know.” He swiped a hand over his face. “Did you come out here for a reason? Do you need something?”

Oh.Well, that was putting her on the spot. How did one say: I was wondering if you wanted me to massage your naked body again tonight. And maybe do…other things?

It turned out that Myfanwy didn’t need to say anything. Her awkward body language apparently said it all, because Samuel coughed into his hand and shifted his weight from one foot to the other…without much difficulty.

Samuel caught her interest in his leg. “I used your tincture again today,” he said, placing too much emphasis on each word for it to sound remotely casual. “I…ah…feel much better…thanks to you.”

Why was this so difficult? The garden was charged with so much electricity, and yet Myfanwy felt sluggish, like her brain was only partly working. The man’s tongue had been between her legs last night, and today she couldn’t even manage a halfway decent sentence. “Yes, I…ah didn’t know if you would need me again tonight.”

Samuel’s gaze shot up to hers. “Do you…want to help me again tonight? I wasn’t sure…”

Myfanwy ambled over to the bench, sticking her nose up in the air. “Well, not if you’ve already applied it yourself.”

“Well, I didn’t know!”

“Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

“Because I didn’t…” Samuel dropped his gaze to the ground sheepishly. Finally, he shrugged. “I didn’t want to expect anything from you. We didn’t talk about it—”

“Because you left early this morning before I woke up. You didn’t even leave a note, and then you barely looked at me during practice.” Was she honestly still angry about waking up alone this morning? Yes. Yes, she was.

Samuel took a step toward her and then stopped, rethinking that dangerous decision. “I didn’t know what to say. Last night was…”

Find a word, Samuel. Find a good word.

“Wonderful,” he finished.

Myfanwy’s body relaxed and sang like a victorious nightingale.

He went on, “But I still don’t…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean to say, I know what I want…but I didn’t want to assume…and I want to be careful of not…of not…”

The silly man. He’d worked himself into quite a state; his complexion was almost green. Was that what thinking about their time together did to him? Myfanwy almost felt bad for him, the way his need for her seemed to be at direct odds with his devotion to her father. Well, her father wasn’t here anymore. And she was.

“Calm yourself, Samuel. There’s no need to get so upset.” She rose from the bench and sauntered over to him. Myfanwy would never consider herself adept at flirting, but years on the pitch had made her adept at using her body. She moved her hips languidly, like a shark’s tail in the water. “You don’t need to be scared of us.” She reached out and took the ball from his hand. “There is no us, anyway,” she said with enough conviction to make him swallow audibly. “I already told you. I’m not the marrying kind.”

His laughter was weak and thin as his hungry eyes followed her every movement. “And I’m not the marrying type.”

A chuckle burst from her chest. “Oh, don’t I know it.”

Samuel frowned, but she only smiled sweeter. She rubbed the back of her teeth with her tongue, and they felt pointier than usual. “We’re both players at heart, right?” She nudged him out of the way, filling up the space. Without another word, she launched into a run and bowled the ball right at a rose, taking everything down in one triumphant whoosh! Myfanwy turned back to him with another shrug. “So, let’s play.”

Desire had completely eclipsed his features. Everything was sharper under the moonlight. There was no hiding. Samuel held out a hand and nodded his head to the windows above them on the second floor of the townhouse. “Should we begin, then?”

Myfanwy let out a mirthless laugh, refusing the hand. “I had something different in mind tonight. A little friendly competition.”

“There’s no such thing.”

My God, they were so similar. “An unfriendly competition, then.” When he nodded, Myfanwy continued, “Let’s bowl. Whoever kills the most roses wins.”

Samuel tsked. “Those poor roses.”

“It’s a symbol of our relationship. Don’t you see? Roses are for love. What we have is…”

“Lust.”

The word was deliciously wicked on his lips, and it made her shudder all the way down to her toes. “Quite.”

Samuel cocked his head. “Fine. But it won’t be much of a competition. I’ll have this thing won in five deliveries.”

“Not so fast,” Myfanwy said, pulling her hand away when he tried to take the ball from her. “There’s more. When I kill a rose, you have to take off a piece of your clothing.”

“And if I kill a rose?”

Myfanwy grinned. “I’ll obviously do the same for you.”

“And the man or woman left standing with the most clothes wins?”

She nodded.

Samuel contemplated her for a long moment. “And people think male cricketers are bad influences on the opposite sex.”

Myfanwy laughed. “Maybe this will make men think twice about not allowing women to play with them. Think about how much more fun it would be.”

*

The ball whistledthrough the air, clipping—but not chopping—another crimson rose.

Samuel’s crestfallen look was priceless. Myfanwy clicked her tongue. “Ooh, so sorry. You just missed that one—again. Looks like I can win it all with this last bowl.”

Samuel rolled his eyes, but dutifully trudged out of the way. He’d had every right to go into the game confident. As he’d remarked to Aaron, control was everything in cricket and he had expert control—when Myfanwy had all her clothing on.

His first three deliveries had been masterful, brilliant really, clipping off full heads as easily as one might pluck off a dandelion top with one’s thumb. But then his concentration started to mysteriously waver. He blamed Myfanwy.

Just like a man,she thought. How was his lack of concentration her fault? Yes, she could have removed smaller, less conspicuous articles of clothing. And yes, maybe she was pushing matters when she argued that all three of her petticoats counted as one item. But she was the woman and therefore the expert in female attire. Did she try to manage Samuel when he took off his coat, waistcoat, and trousers? It wasn’t her fault that his undergarments were just another layer of trousers!

As Myfanwy was just down to her chemise, it was quite evident that she wasn’t wearing undergarments other than her stockings. It made life easier that way—especially in matters of seduction.

“How can you expect me to focus when you’re flittering around like that?” Samuel complained as Myfanwy was preparing for her wind-up.

She cast him a noxious look over her shoulder. “I’m hardly flittering.”

“You know I can see right through that gown…slip…whatever it is?”

Myfanwy was positively giddy, though she brushed him off. “It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.” She squinted at her target rose, raising her arm, and—

“I haven’t.”

Her arm fell to her side, and she turned to face him. “What do you mean? You got quite the eyeful last night.” Myfanwy went back to her rose. She locked in on the flower, twirling the ball around in her hand until she got just the right grip on the seam.

“It was dark in my room, and you were fully clothed, if you remember.”

Why was he talking so much? Was he trying to distract her? Ha! Nice try! “My memory is perfect,” she remarked matter-of-factly. “I distinctly recall your being able to push fabric to the side when it was in your way.”

“Ahh, yes,” Samuel said as if he’d just indulged in a succulent piece of pie, “but under all that fabric, in the dead of night, I still couldn’t appreciate the scene as fully as I would have liked.”

Myfanwy’s breath was unsteady. She began to twirl the ball again, feeling that something wasn’t right. “How…” She chewed on her bottom lip, annoyed that she was too weak not to ask the question. “How would you have liked to…appreciate it…me?”

She could practically hear the damned man grinning. “Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “You came so fast. I wanted to admire that pussy of yours more. I can’t wait to see if it’s the same color as your nipples, all soft and petal-like, virginal pink. Did you know your pussy mimics a rose? Most women don’t, but it’s plain as day with all its lovely, silky folds and the way it blossoms when a man touches it right.”

Myfanwy’s legs almost went out from under her. She was perfectly aware of what he was doing, and now she couldn’t even follow her target without seeing an entire bush of puss—ladies’ private areas—winking back at her. Damnation!

“That’s all very well and good,” she seethed, “but it’s time for you to be quiet now so I can win.”

“What?” he asked innocently. “I was merely answering your question. I thought you might find it interesting.”

“Quite.”

“Yes. Quite.”

Myfanwy lowered her chin and attempted to block the infuriatingly alluring man from her mind. But it was easier said than done. Even though her consciousness was directed toward her aim, even though her focus and mind were single in their want, her body cried for something different. All her senses were seizing on the man behind her. The hairs on her arms were raised, her stomach was in knots, and a buzzing was in between her ears.

Nevertheless, Myfanwy was determined to win. How could she look him in the face otherwise? She’d started this game to prove a point—she couldn’t quite remember what that point was at the moment, but it didn’t matter. She had to finish as the victor.

Myfanwy started slow, but once her feet picked up speed, the rest of her fell into place. It was harmonious, so simple, the way her body could just remember when everything else felt cloudy and discombobulated. The wind hit her face and her arm wound up behind her, swinging viciously from her side, releasing the ball at the exact right time, at the exact right angle. Nothing matched it, this exquisite mixture of pace and accuracy, this earth-shattering blast of preparedness and opportunity. When hard work paid off and one could finally rest on the laurels of achievement.

As the ball barreled down the lane, skipping in the battered grass, Myfanwy wanted to turn away. She knew where it was headed. Watching it smack the rose seemed extravagant. But, try as she might, she couldn’t tear her eyes from the bushes. Which was a good thing.

Because if she hadn’t seen that damn ball sail left of the rose and bounce off the brick wall, she wouldn’t have believed it.

Myfanwy’s vision blurred. She’d missed? She’d missed. The bastard made her miss.

Her arm fell. Her knees wobbled. Her ego shattered.

Samuel didn’t laugh, which made everything even more frustrating. There was nothing worse than bragging about oneself and not being able to deliver on those promises. Humble pie had never tasted so disappointing.

“I missed—”

Samuel grabbed her arm and twirled her around to face him. “Who the fuck cares?” he asked before slamming his mouth against hers.

For a few seconds, Myfanwy struggled. Her mind and her body, again, were not in concert. Who cares? she railed as his tongue plundered her mouth. Who bloody cares? I care!

But then Samuel ran his hand up her torso, resting it on the side of her face. Gently, so very gently, he held her cheek in his palm as if she was a priceless work of art. And all reservations about the game—the silly game—fled her mind.

There was only this. There was only him.

Thishad been the point of it all. Finding her way back into his arms.

Myfanwy’s body clicked and everything began to take shape.

Samuel walked her back to the bench. Without unlocking their lips, he rearranged their bodies, taking a seat and swiftly bringing her down on top of him. Through her thin chemise, Myfanwy’s knees skimmed against the stone as she straddled his legs, but she felt no pain. She only felt his arousal, large and engorged, snug in the home of her inner thighs.

Myfanwy squeezed them, and just that action was enough to create a zap of energy she could savor. It tasted like moonlight and honey, the first winter snow, and freshly whipped cream.

For a time, they were just content to drink from one another, sharing breaths and tongues, their hands roving free and unhindered. Myfanwy’s hands seemed to have a mind of their own whenever Samuel’s chest was near. Strong and so well shaped, his form was not popular among the men of the ton. In Society, men were applauded for their grace and slender limbs, their appearance showcasing the ease of their lives and their matching temperaments.

But Samuel was stone underneath her. A piece of armor with all the chinks and scrapes to show that he’d been in battle. He was not made to show. He was made to serve.

“Is this what you wanted?” he panted, finally tearing his mouth away. It took Myfanwy a beat to comprehend his words. He palmed her breast and massaged her with a force that made her arch into him for more.

Her brain was awash with sensations. There were too many and yet not enough. And sitting on Samuel, cuddling his manhood, feeling his lips sear into her skin terrified her…because she couldn’t understand what was missing. Myfanwy always knew what she wanted and, more importantly, how to attain it. Here she was lost to her baser self, relying on instincts that weren’t as nimble in this new field.

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “I think so.”

Samuel chuckled, leaning her away from him. He pulled down the neck of her chemise, exposing her breast to the chilly air. When his mouth swallowed her nipple, she gasped at the explosion of heat. Myfanwy wrapped her arms around his neck and stared at the night sky, clouded black and dull from the smokestacks over London. And yet with his mouth on her, with his tongue lapping her sensitive skin, it seemed like all the stars in the sky had come out to light his way.

Samuel let the nipple drop from his mouth and blew on it gently as if it was an ember needing to be fed. “I know so. This, is, is what you want. And it fucking scares you.”

Myfanwy opened her mouth to protest, but he caught her too readily, kissing the words and her protestation away.

“It scares me too,” Samuel said into her mouth. “It’s terrifying, this thing that we bring out in each other.”

Samuel directed his attention to her other breast, providing the same exquisite torture. “Then why do you do it?” Myfanwy asked.

He bit her nipple and glanced up at her impishly. “Because it’s the best, most thrilling thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.”

Myfanwy didn’t know if he’d planned it, if he was managing her now as he had during their game, but his words imbued her with much-needed assurance. Her, Myfanwy Wright, was the source of this otherworldly pleasure? She didn’t know much about the sexual act but was pretty certain she hadn’t even skimmed the surface yet.

She unwound her arm from his neck and worked a hand down his body. Samuel’s small bursts of breath egged her on as she toyed with his chest through his shirt, circling her fingers around his nipples, tracing the lines of his pronounced ribs that reminded her so much of a birdcage. His muscles ebbed and flowed with her movements, hiding at times, while demanding to be touched at others.

When she found her way to the buttons of his undergarments, his breath stopped completely. He didn’t move. He was waiting for her.

Myfanwy unlatched the buttons slowly, working up the nerve. Control—she wanted control back in her own hands, and this was her way of attaining it.

“Show me,” she said softly, pointedly, allowing his hand to cover hers and escort her under the wool. Samuel positioned her fingers around his shaft, and he took his time, running her hand up and down his length. Her mind desperately tried to bring up another experience that was similar to reassure her nervous self, but nothing came to the forefront. Because nothing in her life had prepared her for this. He was at once soft and hard, smooth and rough, wanting her to go faster and then pulling back, cherishing her slowness. But he was also at her mercy. And Myfanwy liked that.

Getting a feel for the act, she picked up speed, reading his breaths, translating the tension in his body. Samuel was always so staid, so calm, so collected, but here in her arms, in her capable hands, he let himself go. He bucked his pelvis into her, goading her on to grip him harder, stronger.

“Ah, fuck, that’s it. Just like that,” he gritted out, one hand at the top of her spine. He rested his head on hers, and she watched a rainbow of emotions play across his face. Pain. Excitement. Desire. And then fear.

“I want you to come with me, sweetheart,” he panted, sliding a hand between them. He flicked up her chemise and petted across her seam, almost making Myfanwy jump out of her skin.

“No,” she said, trying to nudge him away with her hips. She frowned at his rod in her hand. “I can’t think when you do that.”

His laughter was thin, on edge. “I don’t want you to think, wench. I want you to feel my finger in you. I want you to come as I burst in your fucking hand. Now.”

Myfanwy’s stomach flopped. She didn’t think she’d be able to. Not like this. Not when he’d ordered it. And yet the moment his thumb found that special place at the top of her core, she was filled with the telltale signs that it was only a matter of time. His rod grew even thicker in her hand. Something was primed to happen. Their slick bodies bobbed and weaved around each other like tree limbs fighting for the sun’s rays. The end seemed as far as the horizon, but it came on them in an instant. The second he pressed his finger inside her, Myfanwy’s spirit cried out in relief. She keened in fulfillment and was followed seconds later by Samuel, who muffled his scream in her hair, burrowing his face into her neck.

It was thrilling and, as Samuel had said, equally terrifying.

As he picked her up and brought her inside to his room, Myfanwy couldn’t even remember who’d won the game. She fell asleep as her head hit the pillow, concluding it must have been a tie.