Chapter 35

Thirty-Five

CADIEUX HOUSE, LONDON - JUNE 17, 1816

CELINE

Under threat of death, I could never explain how I ended up pressed between my bedroom door and William, his trousers shoved down and my gown rucked up. And for the life of me, I could not care. I could die, right here, in his arms, with him moving inside me and it would be worth it.

He was everywhere, everything I could see, taste, smell, feel. Oh, how he felt. Moving against me, with me, for me. Everything I gave him, he returned tenfold. Every kiss, every caress, every touch, every thrust, he was a man possessed, starving, and I was his for the taking.

Raking my nails down his back just made him groan and the onslaught between my legs harder. And his strength, so deceptive and so damn erotic.

This wasn't sweet or gentle. It was hot and hard and desperate and loud, so loud. The door rattled against the frame. Great rasping gasps broke free. The groans and grunts and whimpers, the slickness between us, it was all a symphony of lust.

The man was a prodigy, a savant, a revelation. And then he pulled his lips off my neck, cupping my cheek with one hand until I met his gaze, hips never missing a beat. There it was, his heart in his eyes.

"Love this. Love you."

I bit my lip to keep from screaming it to him, the world, the heavens. My head slammed back against the door with a painful thunk as we crashed over the peak together.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Awareness returned slowly, first the bite of copper from my bitten lip, then the pull of hair caught in the door, the plop of tears dropping from chin to breast, the racing thump of his heart beneath my ear.

The heart I was about to shatter.

With a great shuddering breath I willed back the tears, determined that he know them as nothing other than perspiration. It was certainly not an implausible excuse, here on the floor before the door where we had collapsed during our little deaths. His legs must have given out. Mine were no more functional.

That was good. As long as I couldn't move, I couldn't do this. This terrible, unbearable thing that made my chest hurt and my stomach revolt. This thing that would confirm every one of his worst fears. That would make him hate me.

And keep him alive.

He slipped the pins out of my hair, one by one. And I loved him. The row of dress hooks popped open. And I loved him. The petticoats and stays fell by the wayside. And I loved him.

I loved him. And everything I feared was coming true. Even now my lungs protested every inhale with a sharp, disgruntled stab and the knot in my throat was so thick I couldn't have swallowed if I tried.

He was going to hate me. I hated me. But if he knew, if he had the slightest idea, he wouldn't leave. He would stay and he would try to defend me, and I would be left with another grave to visit.

He guided me up, supporting me with cool hands clutching the backs of my thighs. Still kneeling at my feet, he pressed cool kisses to my stomach. Not now. Not tonight. I was wrung like a sponge; I couldn't manage it. Not tonight.

I pulled him to his feet, ducking his gaze, distracting, evading, dancing away. I led him to the bed where he shucked the wreckage of his clothing and curled up behind me.

Flipping over, I found my rouge mark still covering his heart, a bit smudged now but no less vibrant.

His arm banded about my waist, pulling me in tighter.

"Are you ready to tell me what had you so upset?" His voice was strained but warm. He didn't attempt to pull me from my hiding place either, buried next to my mark.

"It was nothing. Xander told me he intended to leave London." It wasn't even a lie, at least not entirely. I felt his muscles relax even further.

"'M sorry, love."

"Don't apologize." Please, I could not take it.

"Not sure what I did to earn the welcome I got in the carriage…" I pressed a kiss to my original print, feeling his heart give a thump beneath my lips.

"I just—you were…"

"Jus' needed me?" The tiniest hint of hope peaked through, and I knew. I knew I should crush it. Discourage it. Anything but what I wanted, which was to wrap my hands around it and breathe life into it. To tell him that I needed him, wanted him, loved him; then and always.

"Something like that." His chest rumbled beneath me in some kind of contented purr and apparently my response was sufficient.

I was a monster. Right now, right this second. I was using him. I was weak. And greedy. And I was leaching everything from him. His comfort, his vulnerability, his warmth, his love. I was taking it all and leaving him with nothing because it was the only way I could find the strength to do this.

He played with my curls, tracing one with a deceptively delicate, ink-stained fingers. It was soothing and loving and all the things I didn't deserve. The motion, combined with the steady beat of his heart was almost enough to lull me to sleep.

Almost.

Because then he plucked the same one Victoria had, and the image of him bleeding beneath me flashed before my eyes. The sick feeling rose again, and it took everything in me not to tense, not to roll off him and heave.

After a moment, he moved on to the next curl, none the wiser. Eventually, his motions slowed, the gentle tugs on my hair weakened and stopped. His hand fell to his chest with a curl still trapped underneath.

Deep, even breaths and the rhythmic thadump , thadump , thadump of his heart were the only things keeping me sane. The images of him bleeding underneath me were too real and too close to the surface for my own rest, especially once his soothing touch was abandoned to dreams.