Page 42 of The Damsel
“That you were meek, reserved. But, you are none of those things. You are strong, Cass. You are fierce and vibrant, and you’ve been hiding all these years. But, you cannot hide from me anymore. I see you.”
For a long moment, she stared at him in silence, seeming taken aback. He had surprised himself. The words had simply come spilling out of him before he could think to stifle them. But, he did not regret letting her hear the truth. Saying what was in his heart had been liberating in a way, allowing him to be himself without restraint. It would seem being tossed over by Daphne hadn’t killed the romantic living deep inside him.
“Why does it matter to you if I attend?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “I take it this is an annual event?”
“It is.”
“Then he will have another.”
“No, he won’t.”
At her confused expression, he swallowed the grief welling in his throat and pressed on.
“He is ill and has been for some time. The physicians say it is only a matter of time. We expect this to be his last.”
Her expression softened a bit, and her expression grew mournful. “Oh, I … I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t tell you to gain your sympathy. It is simply the truth. While I’m telling you such things, I should also make it clear there isn’t a single person invited who I care to spend so much time with.”
She smirked at that, amusement putting a twinkle in her eyes. “And here I thought you would have many neighbors to call friend. I remember you being quite popular in London.”
He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Being popular and actually liking the people around you are two different things. Very few of them bother to try to know me. This party will be full of people who barely know me and who I hardly like.”
Her gaze darted away and she bit her lip, seeming to think on his words.
“I will beg if I must,” he teased, giving her a little squeeze and pulling her closer.
Her nearness had begun having the predictable effect, his senses overwhelmed by the soft press of her body and that delicious scent of oranges and clove.
She grinned, the familiar, predatory light appearing in her eyes. He trembled as she stared at him without blinking, her breasts rising as she took a deep, slow breath as if taking in his scent.
“I’d much rather you beg while you're beneath me.”
Her words conjured up memories of their night at the White Cock, him arching and groaning under her, Cassandra riding him with wild abandon. His cock swelled between them, pressing against her mons through the thin layers of her gown and undergarments.
“I’ll beg all you want,” he whispered. “I’ll beg until you’ve grown sick of hearing it.”
Slipping a hand between them, she palmed his cock, drawing a hiss from between his teeth. “Come with me.”
AN HOUR LATER,Robert lay naked in Cassandra’s bed, sated, sore in places, and thoroughly satisfied. She’d led him straight to her bedchamber, where she’d begun tearing at his clothes. He’d been shocked when she turned her back so he could unbutton her gown, then faced him so he could loosen her stays. He tried not to think too much about what that could mean, how she seemed to be softening toward him. There was hardly any time for thought once she’d pushed him onto the bed and crawled over him, taking command of him as easily as she ever had.
The mark on his chest was purple again, her lips and teeth having found the exact same spot. His chest had been marred by the rake of her fingernails, the red streaks still stinging a bit. His scalp ached from her fingers pulling at his hair, his lower lip swollen from her nibbling bites.
He’d never felt better. There was something about the moments following the finish with her—a lingering calm following the storm, a sense of peace and rightness.
Of course, he couldn’t tell her that, so he simply lay at her side and stared at the ceiling, eyelids drooping as drowsiness overwhelmed him.
Since it was the middle of the day and he’d be expected back at Briarwell soon, he couldn’t allow himself to fall asleep. So, he turned onto his side to face her, searching for something to say so she would talk to him. He was not ready to leave yet, and she did not seem in a hurry to push him out the door.
He found her lying on her back, hands folded across her bare abdomen, gaze affixed to the same ceiling he’d been staring at a moment ago. With the curtains drawn and a fire going in the hearth, shadows danced along her profile and made her eyes look darker. Her expression remained stoic, giving away nothing. He could stare at her for hours and still never discern what she might be thinking.
Instead of talking, he buried his fingers in her hair and caressed the long coils. He’d expected her to pull away, but she shocked him by remaining still, though her eyes did shift in his direction.
“What are you doing?”
She did not sound angry or annoyed, just curious. He smiled, twining one of her curls around his first finger.
“It is called affection,” he teased, tweaking the tip of her nose before going back to her hair. “Some people engage in it after intercourse. Often before, too.”
