Page 19 of The Butterfly
“Goddamn it,” he growled, fumbling to button himself as he moved, his long strides helping him catch up to her before she could blow past the stables.
This time of day, the place would be empty, all the grooms having gone off to have dinner. Someone typically returned to sleep in the hayloft just in case the earl happened to need a horse or carriage prepared late in the night—but that person was almost always Niall. Anything to keep from having to encounter his father at home. With the death of his maw last year, he could hardly abide being in Conall’s presence. The man was soused more often than not, leaving Niall to fulfill not only his own duties as the head groom, but also his father’s job as Stablemaster.
Catching Olivia up, he took hold of her arm, his hold just firm enough to keep from bruising her pale skin. She gasped, stumbling as he pulled her into the wooden shelter, determined to get her alone and explain himself.
What he ought to say escaped him. He only knew that the guilt would eat him alive, even though he had nothing to feel contrite for. He was a man sating his needs with a woman. That was all. Yet, the look in her eyes when she’d realized it was him preparing to rut in a closet with a maid … it would forever haunt him.
“Let me go,” she hissed, attempting to pull out of his hold.
White steam wafted from between her lips, dissipating in the air between them.
He grasped her other arm and lifted her clear off the ground, carrying her toward an empty stall. She kicked and flailed, her little feet striking his knees and shins, but he held fast until he’d gotten her where he wanted her. Her hat fell off, rolling away and out of sight, disheveled strands of hair slipping free of her chignon to hang around her face.
Once he’d set her back on her feet, she could not get past the stall without going through him.
“Livvie, I—”
His words broke off on a grunt when her palm cracked against his face, hard and swift. The blow smarted something awful, reminding him that she was stronger than she looked, his cheek and jaw blossoming with her hand print. He had stopped recoiling from his father’s fists years ago, and was now so big, he’d outgrown Conall. He’d become accustomed to being hit, kicked, treated like a dog. But none of his father’s beatings had ever hurt as much as this, feeling the evidence of her anger at him and seeing it written all over her face. Her eyes brimmed with tears, her chest heaving as she balled her hands up at her sides.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured feebly, uncertain what else to say.
“For what?” she spat, her voice breaking off on a choked sob. “For giving me my first kiss and then ignoring me for three years? For making me want you, and tossing me aside? For fucking maids in closets inmy homeas if you have no care for my feelings in the matter?”
Each of her accusations fell on him like a physical blow, and he nearly buckled under them, going to his knees to beg his princess for forgiveness. He’d hurt her, and had known very well what he was doing. Nevertheless, he’d done it for her own good. Could she not see that?
“For all of it,” he admitted. “But, ye had to ken it was for the best. Us wantin’ each other cannae lead to anythin’ good. Yer da would kill me, and ship ye off to some convent. Don’t ye get that?”
She parted her lips as if to berate him, but clamped them shut again, her eyes going wide. Seeming to struggle with herself for a moment, she eyed him as if he’d gone mad, the tight clench of her fists easing, the tension in her shoulders melting away.
“You … you want me?”
Now, it was his turn to give her an incredulous look. Had she gone mad?
“Of course I want ye,” he declared, despite his better judgment. “Why do ye think I avoided ye all these years? I kissed ye and damn near lost my mind! I knew if we didnae put a stop to it, we’d do somethin’ we couldnae take back!”
Her chin trembled, her breath quickening into harsh pants as she took a step toward him. “I don’t want to take it back.”
She was on him then, hurling herself into his arms so fast, all he could do was catch her up and crush her against his body. Her legs came around him, coat and skirts hitching up, heels digging into his lower back. Thrusting her hands into his hair, she held fast and angled her head so that her lips were aimed right at his.
Fool that he was, he could not put a stop to it. He could only cup her hips, hold her up, and accept the kiss. He could only stand there and realize that he didn’t want to take it back, either, any of it. Not the kiss, not his endless hours daydreaming about her.
He groaned against her mouth, registering the feel of her against him, familiar, yet so different. She had a woman’s body now, soft and pliant, opening to him as their lips met and parted over and over, desperate breaths of longing and desire passing between them, turning to mist on the winter air. Her hands tightened in his hair until her grasp grew painful, but he reveled in the sting as much as he did the plush press of her mouth against his and the velvety rasp of her tongue.
“Livvie,” he mumbled, backing farther into the stall and pressing her against the wall. “I’ve wanted ye since that kiss by the pond. I never stopped, not for a moment.”
She whimpered and deepened their kiss, boldly plunging her tongue into his mouth, engaging him with none of the tentative shyness she’d displayed three years ago. Had someone else been kissing her, tutoring her? Just the thought enraged him, jealousy and possessiveness bristling his spine. With a growl, he pressed her harder against the wall, forcing her legs wider, his hips falling perfectly into the cradle of her pelvis. Then, he was attacking the buttons down the front of her coat, parting it to allow him better access. He kissed her like a man possessed, his hands roaming every inch of her body he could find—cupping her breasts, skimming her waist, kneading and squeezing hips that filled his hands so perfectly, he did not think he could ever get enough of them. Between them, his cock grew and swelled, pressing with primal insistence against her quim. He shuddered at the feel of her, warm and inviting even through the layers of her clothes.
“I thought … I thought you were … disgusted with me,” she whispered once he released her mouth.
“Never,” he declared, kissing her chin, her jaw, her throat. “Ye were so young … ye still are.”
“I’m not a child,” she huffed, even as she tipped her head back to let him go on kissing her neck. “I will be eight-and-ten soon.”
“Still too young,” he argued between kisses, palming one breast and giving it a little squeeze. “Still my master’s daughter.”
“How old was Jane when you started fuckingher?”
The mention of the maid doused his ardor like a frigid splash of water, and he abruptly set her on her feet, rearing away from her. Her skirts fell back around her legs, though her open coat showed how wrinkled the garment was now. Her pale neck had reddened from the abrasion of his stubble and suction of his lips.
