Chapter 37

Amelia

The door clicks shut behind Kent, and the silence of our room swallows the clamor of the outside world. I sense the weight on his shoulders before he even looks at me, and immediately, I worry the meeting with his mother didn't go well. When he finally looks over, his eyes are clouded. He wraps his arms around me, a desperate embrace that pins me to him, as though I might vanish into thin air if he loosens his grip.

"Are you okay?" I murmur, feeling his heartbeat.

"I need you." His voice is a rugged whisper, raw with emotion.

It's all he says, but it's all I need to hear.

Our lips meet tentatively at first, a gentle exploration that ignites a spark within me. The slow dance of our kisses soon turns fervent, lips parting and breaths mingling in a rhythm that sets my skin aflame. With every brush of his tongue, the heat between us builds, the world beyond these four walls fading into insignificance.

Kent finds the hem of my blouse, fingers deftly unbuttoning it before he slides the fabric over my head. It falls away, forgotten. "You're incredible," he breathes, his gaze worshipping every inch of exposed skin.

His words cloak me in warmth, yet I know this moment is not about me. It's about healing the ache in Kent's soul with our connection. Dropping to my knees, I help him shed his pants, revealing his need for me in its most primal form. His engorged cock before me, and I look up to catch his eye, wanting him to see the depth of my desire.

"You don't have to do that," he murmurs, a hint of concern threading his tone.

But I shake my head, my hands steady on him. "I know you need this," I reply. "And there's nothing I'd rather do."

Leaning in, I let my tongue tease the pre-cum from the tip of his cock, savoring his sharp intake of breath. To bring such a strong man to his knees with a simple touch. It's intoxicating. And as Kent moans softly above me, lost in the sensation, I understand the profound truth of our connection. We are each other's anchor in the tempest of life.

With gentle determination, I take him deep into my mouth. The taste of him, musky and raw, floods my senses as I work to get him wet. Each movement draws him farther in, though I can't manage his full length. My cheeks hollow with the effort, pulling, sucking him deeper with each rhythmic motion. I lift my gaze, locking eyes with him, wanting him to see the fierce devotion in my stare.

His hands weave into my hair, a tender touch that quickly turns to a firm grip. He guides me, encouraging without words, and I push myself to take him deeper. A gag rises unexpectedly, a reflex I can't suppress, and he catches the cue immediately.

"Amelia, stop," Kent gasps, voice strangled with urgency. "I want to come inside you."

The command creates both relief and a surge of anticipation. I release him from my mouth with a wet pop, my breath coming in shuddering gasps. Rising from my knees, I position myself on all fours, presenting myself to him. My heart hammers in my chest; I'm open, vulnerable, and aching for him.

Without warning, he plunges in. It's like being struck by lightning—sudden, shocking, and electrifying. He fills me completely, stealing the air from my lungs. He's stretching me in ways that send pleasure spiraling through my core. His hips pivot, thrusting in and out with a fervor that speaks of pent-up passion and desperate need. The sound of our skin slapping together echoes through the room, a carnal kaleidoscope of unbridled lust.

My fingers claw at the sheets, seeking something to anchor me as he drives into me harder, faster. The intensity is overwhelming, yet it's exactly what we both crave. What we need.

"Come inside me," I plead between breathless moans, the words torn from some primal part of me. "Fill me up with your seed."

Kent responds with a guttural groan, his rhythm unyielding, each stroke bringing us closer to the edge of oblivion. My entire being focuses on the connection between us, the raw, physical expression of our bond that transcends any spoken declaration. Here, in the throes of passion, we are truly one.

The world narrows to the sound of our breaths, the slick heat between us, and Kent's presence enveloping me. With a sudden shift, he withdraws, leaving a void where his warmth once was. Before I can protest, he flips me onto my back, pulling me against him with such tenderness that it heightens the fervor of moments ago.

"Amelia," he whispers as his fingers dance across my swollen flesh, gentle and exploratory. "You're the most beautiful woman in the world." He gazes down at me with eyes full of wonder. "Until I met you, I didn't know I was capable of love."

His words cascade over me, igniting something deep within. The coil inside me tightens, and then, under the caress of his fingertips, my orgasm breaks free. It washes over me, leaving me gasping, shuddering, lost in the depths of sensation.

As the tremors subside, Kent slides back into me, this time with a slowness that feels like communion. We move together, a rhythm born not of urgency but of adoration, slow and steady, making love in the truest sense.

Kent finds his own release, and in the afterglow, as the outside world seeps back in, I remember his mother, her coldness, her expectations. "What happened with your mother?" I ask softly, our chests still heaving in unison.

He sighs, his face shadowed. "She was cold," he admits, and the pain in his voice tugs at my heart. "She's still upset I'm not moving back to England."

"Kent," I say, tracing the line of his jaw, "if you want to be here…I'll come with you."

His eyes search mine, and there's a vulnerability in them that makes my chest ache. "Amelia," he breathes, his voice thick with emotion, "I could never love you more than I do at this very moment." He pauses. "But I don't want to be in England. I love Canada. I want to be there with you."

"Then that's where we'll stay," I whisper, sealing our promise with a kiss. We wrap our arms around each other and revel in being together.

Sometime later, the warmth of Kent's body is a continued presence as consciousness nudges me awake. My eyes flutter open to the dimming light of the room, and I'm about to sink back into slumber when Kent bolts upright beside me.

"Damn, we're going to be late for dinner with my mother," he exclaims.

The ornate clock on the nightstand confirms our tardiness. Adrenaline surges through me, and we scramble out of bed, hastily gathering our clothes. As I button my blouse, a hint of panic laces my voice. "Kent, this is the first time I'm meeting the baroness, and I'm going to reek of sex."

He smirks, pulling on his trousers. "Amelia, I wouldn't worry. She probably doesn't even remember what sex smells like."

With a nervous chuckle, I finish dressing, though the scent of our lovemaking seems to cling stubbornly to my skin. We rush down the grand staircase, but the dining room is empty. No sign of the baroness.

"Where's my mother?" Kent asks Rhonda, who's placing silverware with meticulous care.

"Her ladyship has chosen to dine in her room tonight, sir," she informs us without missing a beat.

Confusion flickers across Kent's face, but he recovers quickly. "Rhonda, Spencer—" He turns to the server who just entered the room. "Would you care to join us for dinner?"

They exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them before they agree. The table, set for an intimate family affair, now becomes a lively gathering as we sit down to a perfectly prepared rack of lamb.

"Tomorrow we should show Amelia the sights," Kent announces, slicing into his meat.

"Absolutely," agrees Spencer, pouring himself a glass of wine. "The Tower of London is a must-see. It's steeped in history."

"Then we'll climb the Tower Bridge," Rhonda adds. "The view from there is breathtaking."

"Can't miss out the London Eye," Kent tells me. "You'll see the city like never before."

"Follow that with Buckingham Palace?" I suggest, caught up in the excitement of exploration. "Every girl dreams of a royal experience."

"And don't forget Big Ben," concludes Spencer with a nod.

As plans are made and laughter fills the room, I realize this impromptu dinner is the very sort of thing that makes a place feel like home. In Canada or England, it doesn't matter. Home is where Kent is.

Time has a peculiar way of slipping through my fingers, much like the winds that whisper through the ancestral halls of the Whitstable estate. It's been a week since Kent and I arrived, yet his mother has been notably absent, —a specter of expectation rather than flesh and blood. Kent has spoken little of her this week, except to tell me she's busy with her work. I know that upsets him. Kent wears his discomfort like an ill-fitting garment, the house's draftiness mirroring our own growing unease.

As we prepare to return to London, there's a palpable shift in Kent's demeanor. He's meticulously organized a dinner with his mother at Seven Park Place, an establishment befitting her status. We dress with care, selecting attire that whispers elegance rather than shouting opulence. The reflection in the mirror shows two people trying to bridge different worlds—one of grandeur, the other of simpler joys.

When we arrive at the Michelin-starred venue, it's as if we've stepped into another era. Yet beneath this cultivated ambiance, I feel a twinge of apprehension knotting my stomach.

The baroness makes her entrance fashionably late, each second of her tardiness stretching taut between us. Her air is one of veiled inconvenience, as though dining with her son—and by extension, me—is a task to be checked off her list rather than a pleasure to be savored. The immediate coolness in her greeting sends a clear message, one that doesn't require words. I am an outsider here.

Kent greets his mother with warmth, but she offers her hand instead of an embrace, and I can see him swallow the sting of it. His effort is palpable, an attempt to bridge the gulf of expectations between them. My heart hurts for him as my wariness towards the baroness solidifies into quiet dislike.

"Mum, I'd like to introduce you to my girlfriend, Amelia McCoy."

"Good evening," I offer, my tone polite but guarded. Her nod is perfunctory, a mere acknowledgment of my existence.

A server materializes at our side, discreetly poised to take our orders. "The tasting menu this evening is a journey for the senses," he explains with a practiced smile. "May I recommend the paired wines to enhance your experience?"

"Please," Kent responds. I note the subtle clench of his jaw, the only sign of strain in his otherwise composed fa?ade.

As I glance at the menu, the words blur before me, the flavors and textures promising a culinary delight that suddenly seems far removed from the hunger gnawing within.

The baroness talks about people Kent must know, and he nods and asks questions at the appropriate time. When the server arrives, the baroness orders the tasting menu for all of us.

Finally, she turns to me. "Where is your family from?"

"I grew up in Novia Scotia. It's on the eastern side of Canada."

"I'm aware. I was referring to where you family immigrated from when they moved to Canada?"

I take a deep breath. She isn't going to like my answer. "Ireland and Scotland, but my grandmother was French Canadian, and I believe there's even some Inuit in my genes. My family is a mishmash of many origins."

She dabs the corners of her mouth. "I see."

The server arrives with our first course. The delicate Parmesan tuile shatters under my fork, the flavors mingling with a sweet tomato confit that's divine enough to steal my focus from the tension at the table. Kent's mother resumes holding court, narrating tales of her legislative endeavors and prestigious dinners. I glance at Kent, whose gaze meets mine over the candlelight; he offers me an encouraging smile.

"Working closely with the prime minister has its challenges," the baroness says as she delicately spoons a morsel of terrine to her lips. "But it's essential for the future of our landowners and international partnerships."

Kent nods, his attention politely fixed on her every word. I echo his demeanor, trying to seem equally engaged. But inside, I'm grappling with the opulent world I've stumbled into, so far removed from the simplicity of my own upbringing.

"Amelia, this must be quite different from your family's dinner conversations." The baroness suddenly turns to me, her eyes sharp as if she's read my thoughts.

I feel my throat tighten but manage a small laugh. "Quite different indeed. My father… He passed away some time ago," I begin, the words heavy on my tongue. "And my mother, well, she's recently found happiness with someone new."

The baroness raises an eyebrow, her scrutiny intensifying. "And what circles does your mother move in? Anyone we might know?"

I shake my head, feeling the weight of anonymity. "No, I come from a very humble background. No circles or society events."

Her attention shifts to Kent, her voice cool. "Did you conduct a background check on Amelia before bringing her here?"

Kent's hand finds mine under the table, his fingers squeezing. "I didn't need to," he says firmly. "I love her."

A sigh escapes the baroness as she reaches into her designer clutch and produces a checkbook with a flourish. She scrawls something onto a check and slides it across the table to me. "For your troubles, dear. Should you decide this world isn't for you."

My heart hammers, but I meet her gaze squarely, my expression composed. With a tight smile, I push the check back toward her. "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm not here for Kent's money. I'll gladly sign any release or confidentiality agreement if it eases your concerns."

Her eyes narrow just slightly, but she retracts her hand, along with the unwanted offer. I have to wonder what kind of armor one must wear to survive in her realm, where love is a transaction and people are commodities. But as Kent's thumb strokes my palm, a silent promise passes between us, a vow of something genuine that no check could ever replace.

The tension at the table has a life of its own now, writhing beneath the murmur of other conversations. Kent addresses his mother in a tone I've never heard before—sharp, edged with years of frustration.

"Mother," he begins, his words measured but seething, "I came to London to see you and introduce you to my girlfriend. I've overlooked your absence all week, hoping for some semblance of civility tonight. But this—" He gestures to the air still quivering from her offer, her attempt to buy my departure. "—is beyond rude."

His mother raises a perfectly arched eyebrow, her lips pursed in what I assume is her version of patience. "Kent," she says, her voice laced with an authoritative chill, "you belong in London, not gallivanting across the globe. And if Amelia isn't inclined to return with you, perhaps it's time you moved past this…phase and embraced your responsibilities."

Kent's hand moves to my knee. "My life is in Canada now," he replies, resolute. "I'm choosing to be there for Cordelia and Philip's children, to support my family in a way that matters. And I will love Amelia without restraint or condition, for as long as she'll have me."

A whisper of surprise ripples through the surrounding tables. The baroness leans back in her chair, studying Kent as if he's a puzzle she's determined to solve. "Is that so?" she retorts, her tone deceptively light. "Even if it means forfeiting your inheritance?"

Kent's shrug is almost nonchalant, a stark contrast to the gravity of his decision. "Unlike you, Mother, my motivations aren't tied to politics and wealth. I find fulfillment in my work, in the simplicity of a life where I can make a genuine difference. Vancouver is where I belong."

His declaration hangs between us, a line drawn in the sand. My heart swells with pride at the man beside me, choosing authenticity over opulence, compassion over convention. Whatever the future holds, I know Kent stands unwavering in his truth, and that is worth more than any inheritance.

As soon as the last course arrives, the baroness pays the bill and excuses herself.

"I'm sorry about my mother," Kent says, turning to me with a look that's half apology, half exasperation. "I should have prepared you better for…well, for her."

"We walked past a beautiful bar in the hotel lobby," I note. "I think you need a nice glass of scotch after that dinner."

He nods. "There are so many reasons to love you."

The glow of the bar in the St. James Hotel casts a soft light on Kent's face, erasing the hardness that had set over his features earlier in the evening. Spencer has driven the baroness home, her presence dissipating like a bitter fog, and Kent's shoulders are decidedly more relaxed as he orders us a drink.

I take a sip from the glass placed before me, the liquid cool and smooth as it slips down my throat. "Your mother was tough tonight," I muse aloud, "but I can't help wondering if I'd be any different in her shoes. If everything I believed in, everything I built, was just cast aside…" My voice trails off.

Kent gives a slow nod, his eyes meeting mine. "But I never asked her to make those sacrifices, to give up everything for power and status."

"True," I concede, swirling the ice in my glass. "But maybe it's not about what you asked for. It's about what she believes is right." I pause, considering my next words carefully. "Just…don't close the door on her completely, okay? People change, given the chance."

"Amelia," he says, his voice earnest, "I won't shut her out. But I also won't let her dictate our lives."

Early the next morning, dawn is barely a whisper in the London sky as we make our way back to Heathrow. The new driver, a silent figure named Charles Winthrop, maneuvers through the streets with an efficiency that speaks of years behind the wheel. Spencer sits beside Rhonda, scanning the road ahead.

Kent takes my hand. We're leaving behind the weight of old money, the chill of ancestral homes, and the sharp sting of family obligations. Ahead lies Vancouver, with its rugged coastlines and the promise of a life chosen, not inherited. "Ready?" he asks, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand.

"Ready," I affirm.

When we arrive at the airport, together we step out of the car, the hum of the airplane engines a gentle roar that will carry us, along with Rhonda and Spencer, toward a future of our own making.