32. Control is Overrated

CONTROL IS OVERRATED

O ne second, Melanie was staring into his silver eyes, darkened by some unfathomable emotion. The next, his body was hovering over hers, his presence eclipsing everything, even the stars.

And then their mouths were touching, and only their mouths.

Still holding himself up, he trailed his tongue along her lips.

She hummed—a needy, desperate sound.

This wasn’t just a kiss—it was both a battle cry and a surrender.

A war with her senses, where he fired the first shot and she raised the white flag. Her heart pounded, echoing the relentless pressure of his lips, and her thighs tightened.

Heat ignited under her skin, spreading like wildfire, as she moved her mouth against his.

She clutched his lapels, and he groaned.

Melanie pulled him closer.

It was reckless. It was maddening. And when his weight dropped, pressing her into the grass, she yielded with a sigh.

“Oh, yes.” Please.

He settled between her legs, the warmth of his chest, his belly, his muscled thighs… Heat coiled in her stomach, a slow, spreading warmth that left her so dizzy that if she wasn’t already lying down, her knees would have collapsed beneath her.

It was so much better than she imagined, but still not enough.

Her hands crept around his neck. Silken strands of his hair curled around her fingers.

She wanted… more.

Of him.

His taste was intoxicating, a heady mix of wine and something distinctly his own.

Malum pulled back, just enough for the cool air to slip between them. His breath mingled with hers, warm and uneven, as he stared into her eyes, searching for something—permission, perhaps, or maybe answers she wasn’t sure she had.

His features were achingly familiar now, yet somehow, more striking up close. The faint hollow beneath his cheekbones, the slight curve of his lips, the way his silver eyes seemed darker, deeper—like she could drown in them if he’d let her.

“What?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

His gaze lingered on hers, unguarded in a way she hadn’t seen before. “I’ve been imagining this…” His brows furrowed. “Since you fell on me in the library.”

“You have?”

He nodded. “Every damn night.”

Her fingers brushed against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. “I… I have too.”

“Have you?”

She nodded. “Yes.” She felt her cheeks burning, but then his hand came up to cup her cheek.

“You are so much more…” he murmured. “So many surprises...”

And then his mouth found hers again, stealing any words she could find.

Every thought she’d ever had about propriety or caution dissolved like mist under the sun.

“Melanie…” he whispered, the rawness in his voice reverberating through her.

His hands were everywhere at once. One skimmed the curve of her waist, tracing the line of her ribs over her gown, while the other remained tangled in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. She felt consumed, cherished, and completely undone.

And when his mouth abandoned hers again, a desperate ache surged through her, as though a vital connection had been severed.

“No! I need…” But she couldn’t say it out loud. Could she?

When he tried to remove his weight, she tightened her hold around his neck. “I want…”

She wanted to cradle him between her thighs, to keep on feeling the sensation of heavy pressure right…

There.

She rocked her hips, and then…

He drew back and rolled onto his side.

“Noooo…!” But he halted her cry by pressing a fingertip to her lips.

On his side, resting his head in one hand, he dragged that finger down her chin, oh, so slowly over her chest, around her breast, and then lower, to her belly.

Along his path, he drew very deliberate circles.

Moving lower with each one.

“What do you need, Melanie?” His touch, so light as to seem accidental, was not accidental at all. “What do you want?”

His questions turned her blood into liquid fire. Every inch of her skin screamed for his touch.

“Harry…” she whispered.

He shifted, propping himself up higher, so he could reach her more easily, his heavy-lidded gaze locked with hers.

“Tell me what you want…” More insistent this time.

“This.” She would not be coy. “You.”

She should have realized there was danger in being alone with this man, in allowing herself to be close to him. There was a natural conclusion to intimacy, and it had been building with every lingering look.

He was gathering her skirts, slowly revealing the length of her stockings. And when his gaze left hers to watch the hem edge higher and higher, Melanie should have felt exposed.

But seeing his mouth open, watching the tip of his tongue appear, hearing his breaths come just a little more rapidly, left her feeling…

Feminine. Womanly. Beautiful.

Powerful.

As though she was finding pieces of herself she hadn’t even known she’d lost.

Melanie raised one of her knees, and her skirts fell around her hips. At the same time, she sat up a little, resting on her elbows.

She could see the line where her stockings ended, exposing the naked flesh of her thigh—offering this man a view of a very private part of herself.

His fingertips began drawing feathery circles again, this time over her stockings, but also the shimmery skin peeking out of them.

“This?”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “You’re… very good at this.”

His hands were strong and sinewy, but also elegant. Melanie’s thighs were soft and smooth. Opposites. Simply, wonderfully, perfectly matched.

But he was shaking his head. “I’m not.” His voice was almost guttural. “I’m not good at all.”

She wanted to contradict him, but couldn’t seem to organize her words. Not when he was…

“Ah… Ahhhh…”

His thumb was moving more deliberately now, and the ache in her core, the sweetest ache imaginable, was throbbing now.

He paused.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, sensing a war within him.

“Please,” she said. She had never, ever been a person who would beg, and yet, in that moment, she was prepared to do just that.

But she didn’t need to, because his mouth was on hers again, and his hand was doing wicked, decadent things between her legs.

“Wet for me.” He breathed the words between breaths. His air was her air. Her body was his.

He devoured her mouth, even as she felt one of his fingers slide deeper between her legs, into her sex, and then out again. Tentative at first, and tender, but then deeper. And the feeling, mimicking his tongue, it was everything, and then—it wasn’t enough.

I was made for this man. I was made for this.

She widened her legs and he shifted closer, and while she nipped at his lip and twisted her head to feel the scraping of his whiskers, the jut of his chin, she delighted in the varying textures of his face.

Harry’s kisses became more deliberate, but also savage. His mouth was hot and demanding, moving from her lips to her ear, her jaw, the base of her throat.

His growls vibrated in the night air.

“Too good.” He breathed the words so softly she could barely make them out. “Too good.”

His mouth tasted sweet from the port, but his skin was salty and spicy—smoky and woodsy. And there was the scent of the grass.

She would never, ever think of grass again without thinking of him.

He was on top of her again. The sensation of his member between them, almost painfully hard, made her gasp, but in the best way. Not thinking, only feeling, frantically and desperately, her hands left his hair to work at the falls of his trousers.

She was clumsy but determined.

His fingers joined hers, and together, they fumbled until the fabric was loose. He removed his weight for just a second, and she helped. Together, they pushed the wool out of the way.

She caught sight of it in the moonlight. It was larger than she’d imagined, almost menacing.

She touched him… silky and warm. Her fingers curled around it. It felt smooth, polished, and hard.

After a strangled sound, Harry hissed between his teeth, lowering himself, oh, so slowly.

And then he was there— it was right there —and Harry had one hand reaching between them, sliding it around, and then re-positioning himself.

For a flash of an instant, Melanie prepared herself for what she’d always heard would be inevitable pain, but that thought was banished the instant he nudged inside.

Pain, yes, but so much promise.

Still, she couldn’t stop the raspy sound that bubbled out of her throat. He pushed in farther, and she exhaled a trembly breath, feeling herself stretching.

Filled.

And then filled even more.

Harry’s face was buried in her throat, and as he began moving deeper, a pressure was growing inside. And even though the joining had all her focus, her skin tingled everywhere. She closed her eyes, imagining, envisioning his most intimate part of him in her most intimate place, stroking her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Malum.

Harry.

He was a mystery. But he was also a man.

Inside. Claiming her in unimaginable ways.

And as those tantalizing strokes turned more meaningful, more powerful, Melanie frantically grasped at the feelings that were just out of reach. Please….

Please…

“ Please….”

“Trust me, Sweet. I’ll get you there…” His mouth was on her breast over her clothing, and his hand between them again. And then… “Let go,” he said. “You know the way…”

And just like that, she was there, tumbling into a place she hadn’t known existed. She was falling, dizzily, finding herself while losing herself, into the unknown that was her own person.

Harry was touching her, encouraging the waves of pleasure as though he felt them too. Ebbing and flowing until she was trembling.

“Sweet. My Melanie.” He murmured rusty endearments, and she felt… cherished. Worshiped. Precious.

She felt tears leaking out of her eyes, but she wasn’t crying. No, she was simply… feeling.

Harry’s arms grew rigid. His entire body grew rigid, he was deeper, so deep. Melanie thrust her hips up, grinding against his.

And then, the opposite of what she expected happened.

He withdrew. All the way. Leaving her suddenly empty.

Melanie opened her eyes to see him hovering again, but this time, away from her, to the side, and holding himself. His gaze intense as he stared down.

His hand jerked almost violently, but only for a second before a burst of pearly liquid made a streaming arch, pulsing onto the grass.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and he was wincing as though he was in pain, his teeth bared, so very white in the moonlight.

Afterwards, he collapsed, onto the ground, and partly on her. She felt his breathing slow, and they both remained silent.

On a logical level she understood… If there was no seed, there would be no child. And, yes, she was grateful. Her body was sated like it had never been sated before.

She had wanted this. She wouldn’t pretend otherwise.

If she’d had a thousand questions earlier that day, she now had… a million.

Because their betrothal was only meant to be temporary. He’d proposed, true, but only because her brother demanded it. He’d been backed into a corner.

But she couldn’t be silent. Not now.

“What… what was that?” she managed to whisper, her voice trembling, not from fear but from the emotions coursing through her.

Harry was silent, and at first, she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

As though he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching her, his thumb traced lazy circles against the side of her neck.

“…Hell if I know,” he said.