Chapter Twenty-Three

The physician who came to visit Theo proclaimed that her ill health had been due to her pregnancy, and he recommended that she leave London. Nathanial made plans to do so immediately, his only concern his wife's health. The only question that remained was whether Annabelle would accompany them or move back in with her mother and Henry.

The answer to that question depended largely on Jacob. She would, of course, travel back to Havercroft, Nathanial's estate, before the baby was due. But the end of the Season was in just two months; if she could prevail upon Jacob to marry her before then, she would stay in London until that date.

If she could not . . . she would leave, and she would break their false engagement.

Her heart hurt at the thought.

Accordingly, because she did not have the time to wait for Jacob to visit her, she took a carriage to Lady Bolton's house, and from there travelled by hackney to Sunderland Place. The butler answered the door with his nose in the air.

"Good day," she said calmly, more collected than she felt. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. She was almost certain she knew his answer, and she was simultaneously dreading hearing it and waiting in breathless anticipation to see him again without the constraints of society and expectation. "I'm here to see Lord Sunderland."

"Is he expecting you?"

"No, but I wish to see him immediately."

"Without an appointment, I—"

"I am his fiancee," she said sharply. "And I insist upon seeing him."

The butler's face blanked until it might have been made from stone. Then he nodded and stepped back from the door. "Follow me, my lady."

After the last time she had been here, the house now looked familiar. But, instead of veering towards the main section of the house, the butler led her to a small parlour, knocking on the closed door.

"Well?" Jacob's voice came from inside.

"There's a lady here to see you, my lord."

Silence. Then the scraping of a chair and the door was flung open. Jacob wore nothing but a shirt and a pair of buckskins, the soft material clinging to his thighs. His hair was a little wild, as though he had been dragging his hands through it, and he frowned at the sight of her.

"I should have known it was you." He glanced at the butler. "That will be all, Smythe."

"Very good, sir."

Annabelle stepped inside the small room, which she saw now was more fashioned as though it was a study than a parlour. There was a large desk, behind which he had evidently been working, and a separate writing desk. Both were piled high with paper. The curtains were thrown open, welcoming in May sunshine, but candle stubs were visible beside the couch in front of the unlit fire.

"I chose to work here instead of my father's study," he said by way of explanation.

"Why?"

"Suffice to say, the study did not hold fond memories."

"Like the library?" she asked softly, her heart aching for him. The scared, hurt boy he must have been all those years ago.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

He gave a careless shrug and strode to the couch as though eager to put distance between them. The tightness around her chest squeezed. "I gather you're here to discuss something important."

"Will you not look at me?" she said as he sat, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Am I so repulsive to you now?"

His gaze leapt to her face and stayed there. "No," he said quietly. "No, you are not repulsive."

"Then why won't you so much as look at me?"

"Because"—he said each word deliberately, as though he were treading on shattered glass—"neither of us can afford to give in to what we want."

"Why?"

His breath left him in a hard exhale and his eyes burned, scorching through her dress. "Because we should not want it."

She stepped closer. "Why?"

His expression hardened, the burning want icing over. "Because you are going to marry someone else, and that should not change." His voice was a lashing whip, but she merely stepped closer again. There had always been something about him that had failed to intimidate her—because he too was an outsider, perhaps?

Dark, dark, dark.

He saw the darkness inside himself as a warning, but for her it was a draw. She'd never wondered what lay behind the light; she had never marvelled at the beauty of the sun. Always, always it was the night sky that held her attention—and she knew that the night had to be dark in order for the stars to shine.

She would be his stars if he would let her.

"And if I don't want to marry another?"

His eyes were tar, sucking her under. "We had a deal."

"The deal was if you cannot find me another husband before the summer is out, you will marry me yourself."

He rose suddenly, crossing to her in two steps and taking her wrist in his hands. He looked down at the contact, his strong fingers against her slim bones. "Look at you. Look at me. I agreed to help you, but I cannot marry you." He exerted pressure and she gasped at the almost-pain of it. Any more and— "Do you see?" he said, his voice too low, throbbing with intensity, his eyes tortured and fiercely angry. "I could snap you like a twig. I could break you, and you would throw yourself on my mercy anyway?"

"You would not hurt me," she said, making no move to pull away.

He was carved in marble before her; she wasn't even certain she saw him breathe. "If you think that, you do not know me at all," he said with a bitter laugh "My own family despised me. My brother wished I were someone different, and he died because of me—just like Madeline." His lip curled and she could feel the pain underneath his words. He was hers, and she felt him. She ached with him. "He always had a weak heart. I suppose I was just the thing that broke it."

"Jacob, you are not what you think you are."

"I'm exactly what I think I am. Yes, that's right, look at me with that disappointment in your eyes. Remember why you ever hated me. I'm a scoundrel, a rake. I ruin everything I touch. That has been my curse since the day I was born."

"I don't hate you." Her voice was a whisper.

"You should," he said, bending so she was drowning in the black fire of his eyes. Only the very rim of the gold-streaked brown iris remained, and she watched the faint glint of it, mesmerised. It would be all too easy to fall into him, to release the last of her inhibitions to the wind.

Maybe he would not marry her as she had hoped, but he wanted her, she was certain of that now, and that would be enough. She would take all she could, even if it was just for tonight.

Even if she would leave London with Nathanial and Theo and never see him again.

The thought was freeing, absolving her of guilt. If she was to leave here and have no one else, at least she would have this. It was not a sin if she loved him.

"I hurt everyone I'm close to," he said, and it sounded like a plea. "I am ruination."

She placed her hand on his chest. "You are Jacob. I see you. And I want you."

His eyes searched hers, and she twisted her other hand in his grip—it was loose enough to do so now—so she could link her fingers through his.

"Forget our deal," she said forcefully. "Forget about tomorrow. I want you now."

His fingers were feather-soft as they brushed her cheek. "I can't marry you." His voice cracked on the last word.

"Then don't," she said even as her heart cracked. "Just want me. Just for now."

Still he hesitated, and she thought he would never give in.

Then, with a curse, he tugged her face to his, claiming her mouth with his own. There was nothing tender about this kiss—it was bruising in its intensity, his need a feral thing that fought against her own. His other hand found her waist, sliding along to the small of her back, then down to her backside. He squeezed, pressing her against him, his arousal evident even though her skirts. She was dizzy with want.

So this was what it felt like to fall. When contemplated in isolation, it had seemed somewhat terrifying, but now she knew better: it was spectacular. Because he was falling too, and to be united in this was a delightful thing, like holding hands before taking the jump and knowing the same wind that exhilarated her also stole his breath.

He picked her up, carrying her to the couch before the fire, and deposited her on his lap. Her legs fell on either side of his hips and he dragged her skirts up and away as he continued to kiss her.

Time was suspended.

The only thing that existed in Annabelle's world was Jacob's mouth, his hands, the ridge between her legs that she did her best to rock against. His breath was hot against her neck, and the emptiness inside her grew and grew until she knew nothing but Jacob. He became her world, and she knew with barely honed instinct that only he could sate her. Even if she did marry someone else, no other man would make her feel just as she felt now.

"Annabelle," Jacob said, breaking the kiss and groaning. His eyes were half crazed, dark as the clouded night sky. "We should stop."

"I don't want to." She had never been more certain of anything in her life.

"You deserve better than this. God. There isn't even a bed."

"This is perfectly satisfactory."

"We should—"

If he said they should stop one more time, she would throw something. "Right here is perfectly fine," she said firmly. She wasn't about to have him change his mind on the way upstairs.

Seduction was a step further than mere flirtation, but she put the tips he'd given her to use, biting her lip and looking at him through her lashes. "Please," she said, her voice unintentionally breathy.

His hips shifted underneath her as though he couldn't quite keep them still, and his hands fisted in the back of her dress. "Annabelle—"

"Just say yes."

"This is what you want?"

"Yes." She stroked the rough line of his jaw. It looked as though he had not shaved today, and she liked the feel of it against her lips as she brushed them against his chin. "Just you, just me, together in this room."

He groaned. "I can deny you nothing when you ask."

"Please," she said again, kissing down his neck. "Please, Jacob. Show me. I want to know everything."

His palm flattened against her back. "If you change your mind, tell me. We can stop at any time."

"I won't want to stop."

"I mean it, Annabelle. I can't—" He closed his eyes briefly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I can't let history repeat itself."

"It won't," she murmured against his pulsepoint at the hollow of his throat. "My eyes are open. I choose this."

"Then we will do it my way." He took her hands, which had been straying down his torso, and put them firmly on his chest again. "Slowly."

She gave an impatient wiggle. "How slowly?"

He rasped a chuckle and kissed her again, fingers nimble against the laces of her dress, only drawing back to tug it over her head. Her stays and chemise went the same way, and then she was sitting on him wearing nothing but her stockings.

"Keep those on," he said hoarsely, tugging them up over her knees. His eyes were filled with such open admiration, she forgot to be shy even as the cool air caressed her bare skin. "There is one thing I need from you, love."

She held onto his shoulders, digging her fingers in. "Yes?"

"Whatever else you choose, do not regret this." With one thumb, he smoothed the reddened pink of her nipple, coaxing it to stand firm and hard. She sucked in a quiet, helpless breath and he smiled in satisfaction. "Promise me, Annabelle."

"I promise."

"Because I do not think I will ever be able to regret this." His touch turned primal, possessive, as though he knew he was the first to lay hands on her skin. The first to claim her.

That thought, too, sent a rush of wild heat through her. She was aflame, burning in his lap, and he was stoking her higher with every sensual stroke. His mouth followed his hands, worshipping every inch of skin until she was rosy with it.

"Beautiful," he muttered, before sucking her nipple into his mouth. Her head tipped back. "So beautiful."

Annabelle smiled helplessly, because to be considered beautiful by a man who offered compliments so sparingly, was a pleasure so exquisite it almost hurt.

"What about you?" she asked between breaths. "We are not equal."

He looked up at her questioningly. "How so?"

"You are still wearing all your clothes."

"Ah." A smug, altogether too-male smile crossed his face. "So you want to see me naked, do you, little bird?"

"Half of London already has, so you may as well show me."

He gave a bark of surprised laughter and leant back, arms behind his head. His eyes were hooded and lazy as they watched her. "Undress me yourself."

She focused on the task at hand. He was not wearing a coat, so there was just his waistcoat and shirt to remove. As for below . . .

Well. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.

His waistcoat buttons were large and mother-of-pearl, gleaming in the sunlight. It took her shaking fingers an inordinately long time to undo them, and when she came to remove his waistcoat, she had to wrap her arms around him to do so. Her sensitive nipples brushed against the smooth material of his shirt, and she let out a tiny squeak. His breath caught and his hands went to her bottom again, kneading and squeezing as though he needed to be touching her.

Urgency heightened, she tugged at his shirt, up and over his head, and then finally.

Finally.

Smooth skin, bronzed, contoured and toned. She had seen him half naked once before, but she had never dreamt she would be at liberty to touch him. She did so now hesitantly, tracing the ridges of muscle, the dichotomy of soft atop hard. The male body was made up of edges and lines, she discovered. And so hot, burning under her fingers like the heat of his smouldering gaze.

Exploring him the way he had explored her, she slid her hands around to his back. He stiffened as her fingers encountered a roughness she hadn't expected: a crisscross of lines across the broadest part of his back.

"Not there, little bird," he said, kissing the corner of her mouth and taking hold of her wrists, retrieving her hands.

"Why not there?"

His smile didn't touch his eyes. "Let us focus on you."

"No, wait." Her mission to undress him forgotten, she freed her hands from his grasp and explored with her fingers again. Every muscle in his body tensed, his thighs turning rigid underneath her, his breath expelling from him in a sharp rush. And finally, she understood what it was she was feeling.

Scars.

Lots of them, layered and ridged across his back.

She climbed off him and tugged at his arm, half turning him so she could see evidence of the damage for herself. The lines were faded now, white and wrinkled, some ropy. More of them than she could ever have comprehended.

"Jacob," she whispered.

"Don't. Don't pity me."

"Who did this to you?"

He turned, concealing himself again, and she wanted to cry. "Who do you think, sweetheart?"

"No." Not his father.

He had mentioned hating his family before. Lady Bolton had mentioned that his childhood had not been a happy one. But this—

For him to have been flogged so excessively that the evidence of it was imprinted onto his body. He must have bled.

"Many fathers do it," he said. "It encourages obedience. And, as I'm sure you can imagine, I was not an obedient child."

"This is not a mere punishment, Jacob. You were beaten. Viciously." Mere words weren't enough. "How old were you?"

"That hardly matters now."

"I beg to differ." Before she knew what she was doing, she was on her feet in front of him, mindless of her state of dress, the only thing in her mind a scared boy summoned into the library, into the study, and beaten into a bloody pulp.

Tears stung her eyes as she looked at him. "Did he beat you when you were merely a child?"

Jacob's eyes were riveted on her, but after a moment he gave a humourless smile. "My defender. Beautiful and debauched. I like seeing you like this, but you should find more worthy things to defend." He reached for her then, pulling her back onto his lap and smoothing his hand down her back. The answering thrill of desire almost made her forget what had made her so angry that even now she still shook with it.

"Annabelle," he said, cupping her bottom. "Endeavour to forget. I do."

"And do you? Endeavour or forget?"

His hand stilled, just for a moment, before tracing a path up along her side. "You can prevail upon me to forget, love," he murmured. "And I shall endeavour to do other things entirely." He flashed her a wicked smile and leant forward to press his mouth against her breast. His tongue, absurdly hot against her skin, flicked out across her nipple.

So many things one could do with a mouth. Her legs brushed against his buckskins and she realised she had only half completed her task.

"Wait," she said as he kissed his way to her other breast. "I was not done."

He spared her a guarded glance. "In what manner?"

She pushed at his shoulders and, reluctantly, he obeyed, sprawling back against the couch and giving her access to his chest and stomach once more. Straddled like this, her knees on either side of his waist and her core pressed against him, she felt a surge of power. Control. She closed her eyes, savouring the moment, needing to press it into her memory like a flower between the pages of a book.

When she opened her eyes, he filled her vision. Opaque eyes, unreadable expression, looking for all the world like a fallen angel. His chest rose and fell.

When this was over, she would leave and never return.

A log slumped in the hearth, scattering sparks, and agony squeezed her chest. A similar emotion split the opaqueness in his eyes—a response to her pain, perhaps, or a similar reckoning of his own.

His hand came up to touch her face with such tenderness, she thought her heart would break. "Annabelle."

She laid her palms against his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart. Then she slid down, down. Past the rigid muscles of his stomach, which tensed under her touch. Down to the buttons on his buckskins, and the hardness that lay underneath.

"Show me how to touch you," she said.

Briefly, he closed his eyes, his breath harsh. Then he took her hand and placed it against his erection. She shifted back to give herself room, and let herself feel.

He was hot, even through the material. When she experimented, stroking her hand up and down, he made a noise in the back of his throat almost as though she had hurt him. There was no more of that lazy amusement in his eyes now; they were intent, hot, fixed on her with an intensity that brought an ache to the place between her legs.

"What now?" she asked, her fingers stilling.

"When you're comfortable, we can remove these." He tapped at his buckskins.

"I'm comfortable now. I want to remove them."

He twitched under her hand and she shifted back again, this time sinking onto the floor in front of him as he stood and rid himself of his trousers.

She gazed hungrily at his body. Yards of bare skin. Bronzed where the sun had kissed him, paler across his chest, his legs. His muscles tensed as her gaze moved across them, as though she were trailing her hands not her eyes over him, and she pressed her legs together, need burning inside her. A torch, flaring bright, compelling in the darkness.

He bent and drew her up so she was standing too, their bodies flush, the warmth of the sunlight gilding them. "We don't have to do everything," he said, brushing his mouth against the line of her jaw. The places their bodies touched blazed with awareness. "We can do as we did before."

Before, he had focused his attention purely on her.

Today, she wanted more.

"I want to please you," she said.

"Have you not been listening?" He looked at her with pleasure-drunk eyes. "You already do."

"I want to please you the way you pleased me."

His eyes were the dark sea and she drowned in them. Slowly, he sank back down onto the couch, guiding her to kneel before him. The carpet was soft against her knees.

"Your hand," he said gruffly, holding out his palm. She put her fingers in it, and he guided her to his length. His skin was velvet smooth as she wrapped her hand around it. He stifled a groan.

"Like this?" she asked.

"Yes. Just like that, sweetheart." His eyes fluttered shut and his mouth fell half open. The sight of it—her hand working him, his short sharp breaths and the slack, helpless pleasure on his face—was the single most erotic thing she had ever seen. His hips rocked into her hand, and every part of him was drawn tight, pleasure coiling and uncoiling. She had a sense of how it felt, because it had been how he had made her feel.

Only this time, she was in control. It was a wild, heady feeling, to have this much power over another person; to know that he was compelled by the single, simple movement of her hand.

Remembering what he had done with his mouth, she bent. He smelt salty, musky, but not unpleasant. It was all unequivocally male, and the ache between her thighs only intensified.

Jacob stilled. "Annabelle, what are you—"

She flicked her tongue across him. At the fleeting touch, he groaned, swore, rocked towards her mouth. His hand found her hair, tangling in the silken tresses, fisting. Holding her away from him.

"This isn't something—you don't have to—"

"I want to," she told him, and the pressure that held her back loosened. She took the moment to lick him again and brought him into her mouth.

The sensation of it was overwhelming. He was too large for her mouth and her teeth threatened to pose a problem, but she worked her tongue across him, concentrating on breathing through her nose. Uncertain of whether she was doing it right, she glanced up at him. His hand was gentle in her hair, but his other hand was tight around the arm of the chair and his jaw was clenched like he was in pain.

"Is this good for you?" she asked, withdrawing briefly,

"Yes." The word came out husky and deep. "Good girl. Take me in deep. Just like that. That's right."

Heady from the praise, she increased her pace, and he groaned, every muscle in his body clenched. She explored the hardness of his thighs with her nails as she licked and slaved, and with every eager twitch, every muted gasp, pleasure sank to the gathering heat between her thighs.

She was doing this to him. She was the one making him lose control. His voice was ragged as he whispered praises—how beautiful she was, how much he had wanted this, how incredible the feel of her mouth was—and she placed her hand around the base of his shaft to hold him steady.

With a curse, he used the hand in her hair to pull her off. Half dazed, she stared at him, and he reached down to wipe saliva from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. His mouth twitched. "Your enthusiasm is commendable, sweetheart, but any more and this will be over before it has even started," he said with a flicker of self-deprecating amusement. He beckoned her closer. "Come here."

Annabelle did as he requested, allowing him to turn her around so her back was to his chest and his arms wrapped around her. Her legs fell on either side of his and she was bared to the empty room. There was something so frighteningly erotic about the position that she squirmed in restless anticipation.

"That's my girl," he murmured into her ear, and it was as though his voice had stroked all down her sensitive skin. Her nipples peaked in the cool air, her breasts heavy. He cupped them, making a satisfied sound, and she let her head loll against his shoulder as his other hand slid down her stomach. Down, down, past the soft curls that protected her womanhood, to her slick centre. There, right where she needed him. She let out a low moan.

"That's right, sweetheart. Tell me what you like."

"I don't know, I don't know." She tossed her head restlessly as he made small circles. "I liked what you did before."

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "I know."

"I just want to feel like that again."

"You will." He stroked her again. Slow, languorous strokes as though he had all the time in the world, seemingly oblivious to the needs of his own body, which had seemed so urgent just minutes ago. And Annabelle lost herself to the pleasure he provoked. It broke over her in hot waves. Gradually at first, then as his fingers became more insistent, it gained intensity, something tightening in her lower regions like pulling on a string.

This was just as it was last time, except it was so much more than it had been then. Then, he hadn't teased her with such deliberate, provocative slowness. Then, she hadn't been pressed against his naked body, filled with that strange intimacy that made her heart ache almost as much as her core.

If this was love, then it was unendurable. So sweet it became sharp, panging pain. So much, her body was breaking apart trying to contain it.

"Annabelle," he said against her ear, his voice a low growl. "You're holding back."

She found his arm, gripping so hard her nails dug in. "No I'm not."

"I can feel it, sweetheart." He licked up her throat then bit, the sharp slice of pain only bringing her closer to that edge. "But never fear. We have all day."

"I just—" She closed her eyes, humiliation burning her cheeks. "I just don't want it to end."

His fingers stilled for a heartbeat. Then he continued, nose nuzzling at the base of her ear. "Annabelle," he said, such unbearable tenderness in his voice that it made her nose sting. "Annabelle."

"Make it last, Jacob. Please."

"There's a delightful fact about women you should know," he said, an attempt at his usual levity back in his voice. He splayed one hand against her stomach, holding her still. "Unlike men, they can do this more than once."

"You mean—"

"Believe me when I say I am not done with you." He slid a finger inside her and she gasped at the intrusion, the sense of fulfilment she'd been craving all this time. But not enough. "So hold back if you wish, Annabelle, but this won't be ending for a long time yet."

It would have been in vain to resist any longer. His low, seductive voice, paired with the innate skill of his hands, was too much. She broke, feeling as though she truly did shatter with the force of her climax. Into shards, tossed by the stormy waves of pleasure that rocked her. Only Jacob held her together again. Jacob, with his strong arms and his reassuring murmurs. Jacob, whose patience in this knew no bounds, because he waited for every piece of her soul to be stitched back together as he eked out every last drop of pleasure.

Only when she sagged limp against him did he remove his hand and just hold her again. This was deeper than a mere joining of their bodies. A sensation that was difficult to put to words, but that made her feel as though the space between them had shrunk.

Before, they had been two people. Now, as he turned her and set her atop him, it felt as though they were one. And it was the rendering them back into two that would cause the pain.

Raising her up a little, he took hold of himself and rubbed against her entrance. His eyes lost focus, and he released a shuddering breath. "This is your first time?"

"Yes."

"I should not like that as much as I do," he muttered, more to himself than her. His hand on her hip flexed and he looked up into her face. "This position puts you in control. If it hurts, and it may, you can stop."

"I don't want to stop," she said, watching the effect it had on him. The way his throat bobbed as he swallowed and he looked at her with such greedy, desperate admiration. She revelled in it, the feeling of power it gave her, that someone could want her this much. Beyond reason.

There was very little reason left between them.

She didn't know her body particularly well, but he did, placing himself right where he needed to be. It was pure instinct to press down, pushing down and down, attempting to take him in despite the tightness and the friction. Delicious, glorious friction that somehow eased the way and sent fire licking up her body. He gripped her hips, muttering obscenities that somehow made the moment sweeter, not forcing her down but guiding her to an angle that had him so deep inside her, she saw stars.

"That's right, sweetheart," he said, voice gravelly when he was fully inside her. She shifted experimentally, and his fingers squeezed her in chastisement. "Just stay still for a moment. Get used to the feel of me."

There had been, briefly, a moment of too-tightness, but that had faded now. The sensation of being filled was almost too much to bear, and yet she could bear it, wanted to bear it, never wanted it to stop.

She raised her gaze to his face and he pulled her in for a kiss as she rolled her hips, experimenting with how best to move. He moaned, gripping her hip almost to the point of pain. Despite the emotion binding her chest, she smiled.

"I've dreamt of this," he said as he pushed into her, smiling at the helpless sound she made. "Not just here—everywhere."

Words were nigh impossible, but she managed, "Tell me."

"Here." His lips brushed her jaw. "Upstairs in my bed. You've done things there that would make you blush."

Annabelle gripped his shoulders as she tried to find her rhythm. His hands on her hips guided, the pressure gentle yet firm. "How long have you wanted to do this?"

"Longer than I should."

That wasn't an answer, but he placed his thumb against her folds and began to rub, and the questions fell away. Her movements became jerky. He smoothed his other hand down her back. "Slowly," he murmured into her hair. "I'm not finished with you yet."

"Jacob."

"When you fall apart, I want my name on your lips."

Such a possessive thing to say, and yet she revelled in it; the gruff note in his voice made her climax closer, closer, closer.

Everything was too bright, too much. And yet not enough. Though it was impossible, she wanted to be closer. She increased her pace, feeling as though fireworks were bursting inside her, bright colour against deep dark.

"Jacob," she gasped. "It's happening."

"I know. Let it happen, love."

Her nails dug into his shoulder and she bent her head, biting down on the muscle between his shoulder and neck. Jacob rasped a laugh as his hand flattened on the small of her back, holding her where he needed her.

"That's right," he said. "I'm yours. Do as you please."

There was nothing that pleased her more than this. She wanted to sink in this moment forever, to submerge and never again break the surface. If drowning meant she could stay here with Jacob, feeling him everywhere, then she would.

Her heart contracted, but before she could recognise the feeling, pleasure swept across her. His thumb grew more urgent, pressing where she needed him, and she cried his name as she fell apart.

His arms were gentle as they cradled her until she shuddered, boneless, against him. Then he shifted her until she was lying on the sofa and he was poised above her.

When he entered her again, it felt like a reckoning. She could summon no laughter as she looked at him now, drinking in the grim beauty of his face. His eyes were dark and lovely. She would never forget them as long as she lived.

Time unravelled. Jacob's thrusts started gentle, little sinuous rolls of his hips that drove her partway insane, and she urged him on with her hands, her nails, her mouth. She kissed and licked every part of him she had access to, kissing his collarbone, licking up the column of his throat. One hand sank into her hair again, holding it just tightly enough; the other came to her throat, and she remembered the way he had wrapped his fingers around her neck in the closet, and the wild rush of heat through her made her skin prickle.

"Annabelle." Jacob's voice was urgent, and she felt it, the way something changed. His movements grew harder, pushing inside her deeper until the pleasure was scalding, blinding, the pressure growing and growing even without his hand between them to urge her on.

This time, when she climaxed, she kept her eyes open, looking at him as she cried out, and he kissed her with a clumsy mouth, not slowing his pace, his body tightening around her.

Too soon, this was happening too soon. She wasn't ready for it to be over.

As though he read her mind, he abruptly slowed, sweat gleaming on his skin and his breathing elevated.

"As long as you need," he said, cupping her jaw.

Forever.

But that was too much. He only meant now; he could give her a few more minutes of bliss now if she needed it.

Conversely, if they'd had more time together in London, she might have asked him to give her a little longer now, but knowing this was to end made every second bittersweet, and there was only so much she could take.

"Now," she whispered.

A shudder rolled through him and his eyes became unfocused. As though her voice alone had undone him, a moan slipped from his lips, and he withdrew from her in a sharp motion, taking himself in hand. Annabelle watched in fascinated amazement as he emptied himself across her stomach.

"So you don't get with child," he explained when he saw her confusion. "At least, the best way I know how without a French letter."

Annabelle was too depleted to ask what that was. He rose and found a rag, coming back to clean her off with tender, gentle movements. She tucked herself against his body and, just for a few more precious moments, let herself just be.