Part 20 (2/2)

”Very well,” he agreed, drowsily happy.

”Mrs. Sneath tells me the Duffys' baby is well again, Lyon. She's going to be just fine. They were able to get a doctor in to see her and pay for better food, it was your watch was responsible, I'm certain of it, though the landlord has been all that is discreet and of course neither Mrs. Sneath or Mrs. Duffy have a clue who their anonymous benefactor might be. And Mr. Duffy vows he's going to find permanent work, Mrs. Sneath says.”

”Thank G.o.d.” He meant it. About the baby. Though he had no faith at all in Mr. Duffy.

He opened his eyes.

The angle of the sun was such that he could see the shadow of Olivia's nipples against her sheer bodice, pushed up by her stays. Just inches away from his eyes.

The blood roared into his head and into his groin and he closed his eyes again and thought of Mrs. Sneath and he didn't hear a word Olivia said after that.

”Lyon?”

She must have asked him a question. She could have said a dozen things he hadn't heard.

He opened his eyes again.

She was gazing down at him with some concern.

”Olivia. Lie down beside me.”

His voice sounded abstracted in his own ears. As if it was coming from under water.

He rolled from her lap and stretched out on his side, and she stretched out on her side next to him, and smiled softly.

For a moment that seemed suspended in time, they simply gazed into each other's eyes, untenably happy.

And then he tentatively reached out and softly trailed a finger along the tender inside of her arm, following the faint blue road of her vein. Her skin was a satiny miracle, glutting his nerve endings with pleasure. All the weeks of restraint had taught him to savor minutely. To be a connoisseur, and not a glutton. To see every part of her as infinitely desirable.

The day they made love, the earth would shake so hard new continents would form.

He skated his nails all the way along her arm and watched the gooseflesh rise. Her eyes went dark and huge and fascinated.

And then he leaned over and placed a hot kiss in the bend of her elbow.

She sighed and closed her eyes.

And then he moved his mouth to kiss the thumping pulse in that tender, satiny secret place beneath her ear.

And he watched her nipples go erect, and her hips s.h.i.+fted and she drew her knees up restlessly, hunger building.

He leaned over and covered her glorious pillow of a mouth with his, taking a slow, slow, deep, searching kiss, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, skating her nails softly over the back of his neck, which made him mad with l.u.s.t and sent little rivers of flame through him. He moved his lips to her throat, and he dragged them lower, and lower, until he touched his tongue to that alluring shadow just above where her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swelled softly.

She drew in a sharp breath and arched, and he knew what she wanted, but he couldn't. He would have literally killed a man for the privilege of pulling down her bodice and closing his mouth over her nipple.

He didn't dare. He didn't trust himself. He knew the logic of l.u.s.t, and once he saw her naked breast he would have convinced himself that mounting her was the next most reasonable step, and he knew Olivia was pa.s.sionate enough to get lost in the moment.

And she trusted him. This was the thing he cherished the most.

And while it was faintly absurd, as if they needed to treat all the most delicious parts of their bodies as if they were injured, or covered in thorns and therefore to be avoided at all costs, it was also more erotic than anything he'd ever before experienced.

He was already shaking.

”Oh G.o.d, Liv,” he whispered.

He slid his lips back up to hers, then moved them to her throat again, then traced her ear with his tongue until she whimpered softly, her body rippling. She sighed his name, beseeching. He pulled her body against his, and slid a hand down to her hip, and cupped it, pressing her hard against him, letting her feel his stiffening c.o.c.k at the join of his legs. He thrust subtly against her, and her head went back on a gasp.

The l.u.s.t was electric in the back of his throat.

She wrapped her arms around his head, and their lips met and parted, feasted and caressed, as they folded their bodies tightly together and side by side found a rhythm, a graceless, deliberate, grinding friction comprised of thrusting and circling hips that became faster, and harder, more painful, more exquisite.

Her breath was in tatters. ”Lyon . . . Lyon, I . . . Lyon, please . . . Oh G.o.d . . .”

Oh, to feel her hands on his c.o.c.k.

Or her mouth on his c.o.c.k.

Her sweet, soft mouth on his c.o.c.k.

It was this that made him thrust against her harder, more swiftly. And that was when she screamed softly, hoa.r.s.ely, her release whipping her upward with its force, her fingers digging into his arms.

He went rigid then as his own release broke over him, wave after glorious wave of it. He heard her name in his voice, a tattered groan of raw pleasure.

And then they were floating in that ether of bliss that was the aftermath.

He closed his eyes, spent. She curled into his arms and their chests rose and fell in tandem.

And when he breathed, in came the lavender and sweetness and sweat that was Olivia, and it was inconceivable that he wouldn't wake like this every morning for the rest of his life.

He opened his eyes at last. To find her eyes still dark and dazed and dreamy, a soft smile curving her mouth. She was watching him.

He gave a short pained laugh. ”Liv, my love. You may be the death of me.”

She said nothing.

She knew this wasn't actually funny.

For either of them.

The lightness between them been usurped by this fraught hunger. It would only build and build upon itself the more they were together, and would only make them eventually hate each other if they couldn't fully satisfy it, or do something reckless-even more reckless than this-and regrettable.

But oh G.o.d, the pleasure while they were doing that regrettable thing would be unforgettable.

Possibly even worth it.

And that, as Lyon had said earlier, was a very dangerous way to think.

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