Page 60 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
She rolled her hips, meeting his last thrust and gave a little cry. It felt tight. So very tight. He’d promised pain, and this was not the lovely building ache from before. Her clinging hands became bands hugging his body to hers.
“Breathe,” he said. “I think. I’ve never done this with an innocent before.”
She grunted.
“Breathe.”
She tried to. Then she did, slowly but strongly. Then she remembered the glowing and how touching him had helped, so she did that, sliding her hands over his rear. “Touch me,” she whispered, pressing her chest into his.
His hand came to her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple.
And the spike of pleasure washed her in a wave of relaxation. The tightness stayed but the discomfort did not, and she lifted her hips to tell him all was well.
He kissed her cheek, her forehead, the tip of her nose. And began to move, long thrusts at first then faster, kissing, touching, making her glow all over again until the two of them made a sun on the floor of the workroom of Frampton and Son’s, her own body the brightest diamond the walls had ever seen, fractured into sparkling multicolored rays of light. She cried out as that little earthquake she was fast coming to love shook her again and again, shook him, too, until her limbs went weak and wiggly, and she sank into the floor, and he went limp and became a lovely, heavy weight atop her.
She set her frantic breaths to the pace of his own, and he gathered her into his arms, rolled until she rested atop him, a contoured mattress only slightly softer than the floor but leagues more comforting. He’d not wanted to take her on the floor of a shop. He wanted to give her more. Silly man. Darling man. She focused on that as she drifted in a haze of satiated pleasure and not of the end of their adventures soon to come, not of the day he’d never set foot again in the shop or leave her a note or pull some bit or bob from his pocket to toss around as he thought.
But the focus provided no joy because though he said he wanted to give her more, he could not, and he had made that plain enough. She expected nothing. He’d lain with her only to— She frowned. He’d said he would protect against a child, but he had been inside her the entire time. The detail banished the fog of happy that had turned her muscles and limbs into slow, lazy rivers. She’d not even thought of it in the moment, not considered the implications. All she knew, even now, was that he must be inside her to create a child, and he had been. The entire time.
Until now. But surely now, after the act had come and gone did not matter. At least not to biology. It must be admitted it mattered rather a lot to the heart. His arms holding her tight, his heart beating beneath her ear, his lips whispering over her temples, his fingers drawing lazy shapes all over her body.Nowmattered quite a bit. But did itmatter? She suspected not. She suspected something had been forgotten. Should she speak of it?
She bit her bottom lip. No. To speak of it would be to ruin this importantnow, and that she would not do, no matter the consequences of their unplanned actions.
But was it unplanned? Or had something in him shifted during the act, his plans changed without a word. And did those new plans include a future with her? Preposterous ruminations. She’d let her fancy run away with her again, but since she liked the direction in which it ran, she gave the thought, the wish, its head and grinned into the reckless winds of dreaming sleep.
Nineteen
Zander stood on the street outside Fiona’s home and watched the black square of her bedroom window. Not even a candle flame illuminated her form, though she would have arrived by now. Perhaps she was crawling into bed in the darkness. It would be cold and narrow, softer—he hoped—than the table where he’d laid her bare and made her scream his name, than the floor before the fire where he’d taken her fully.
And forgotten in his panic of lust, the maelstrom of emotion, to pull out of her, to do as he’d promised and prevent a pregnancy.
Not a gentlemanly thing to do. Stand outside a woman’s window, watching.
Not a gentlemanly thing to do. Bring a woman not your own to climax and force on her the risk of a child. He’d promised her he would not. Promised her.
And he’d failed. Too dark a night inside himself, despite the promise of dawn at the edges of the city, for even a bitter laugh.
Of course he’d failed her.
And now he’d marry her. When she didn’t want it. Another failure, that.
His boots should march him straight home. Well, to Theo’s home. Or Maggie’s. But he stood there, watching the nothing inside her window, which was as close to her as he could get, refusing to imagine what it might be like to share a bed with her night after night, wide and warm and full of laughter. And failing not to imagine it.
When pink dawn edged the city skyline, his boots finally lost their boulder weight and let his feet carry him away. Theo’s or Maggie’s? He had a room at Maggie’s rather than a couch, so he made his way there and planned. He’d send a letter to Raph this morning, then visit Mr. Frampton this afternoon.
But hell, where would they live? A muddle, and even worse, a part of him clutched tight in the center of his heart celebrated this turn of events, beating with bursts of exultation, forgetting that Zander was a scoundrel who didn’t deserve Miss Fiona Frampton. Not only did he swindle trusting old ladies out of valuable pieces of art in order to line rich men’s walls, he’d come inside an innocent, damn the consequences.
But with Fiona, consequences seemed very much like miracles, like what he’d wish for if the bit of broken locket in his pocket granted wishes.Bah. Let that little bit of him be happy as it pleased, the rest of him knew… he’d failed Raph again. Failed him the first time when he realized he couldn’t go into the church. Then when he’d rented the paintings and had them copied. And now he’d ruined the best woman he’d ever known and would marry her and—
He stopped, backtracking several steps at the sight of an old black coach waiting outside Maggie’s townhome like a squat spider. Odd, but not odd enough to rip him from the much-needed sleep beckoning to him from inside. Sleep first. Before he wrote to Raph, before he paid Mr. Frampton a visit to tell him he’d doomed his daughter to a lifetime of need and deprivation. Hell. Hopefully a few hours sleep would help him see the matter in a less bitter light. He trudged toward the door.
“Lord Lysander.”
He stilled, hand mere inches from the handle, and turned. “I am he.”
Lord Balantine stepped down from the spider. “May I have a word with you?”
“Why?” Zander stepped forward, hunching his hands into his pockets. “I can assure you we meant your mother no harm. Both Miss Frampton and I are quite fond of her and—”
