Page 87 of Ordered Home for the Holidays
She laughed then, full-throated and reckless. “You are a fool. But I’m no better.” She drew him close, her lips brushing his temple. “I want to be with you, to be your wife. I want—” Her voice faltered, then found its footing. “I want to love you as I realize I always have.”
He closed the gap between them in a single, desperate motion, his mouth finding hers with a hunger that was almost savage. The first kiss was awkward, a collision of teeth and breathlessness, but the second was deliberate, a slow claiming, the careful unwinding of years of restraint. His hands cupped her jaw, thumbs stroking the delicate hinge beneath her ears. She leaned into him, fingers twisting in the wool of his coat.
He deepened the kiss, and she answered with a growl that vibrated through both of them, a resonance that made the air around them shimmer.
When at last they broke apart, both were panting, faces inches apart. The fire threw their shadows across the paneled walls, two figures locked together, indistinguishable, caught in the act of becoming one.
Pearl touched her lips, eyes wide in wonder. “So that’s what it’s meant to feel like,” she whispered.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “It’s only the beginning.”
A log collapsed in the grate, sending a brief flurry of sparks up the flue. Neither spoke. There was nothing left to say.
Victor reached for her again, this time with both arms, and held her until the trembling ceased.
In that moment, Pearl realized she wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. She met his gaze, unwavering, and saw in it all the years they’d lost and all the years still waiting. She smiled, fierce and true. “Let’s not waste another moment.”
He nodded, lips finding hers again, and together they let the night have them, all the old ghosts banished, all the darkness outshone by the simple fact of their shared, impossible happiness.
He kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, until the world shrank to the span of his arms and the thrum of her pulse in her ears. When he drew back at last, it was only to press his forehead to hers, eyes shut tight as if willing himself to hold the moment, to never let it break.
Victor’s hands, always so steady, trembled at her waist. “Come with me,” he whispered.
She nodded, unable to trust her voice. His hand found hers, broad and warm, and together they left the drawing room, the hush of the Abbey pressing close around them. Pearl walked beside him, heart racing, conscious of every point of contact, histhumb grazing the web of her fingers, the brush of his sleeve at her elbow, the weight of his gaze in the corners of her vision.
They climbed the main stair, their footfalls muffled, ghosts. His room was at the far end of the hallway, the door already ajar. Inside, the fire glowed. The space was spare, purposeful, the trappings of comfort secondary to the demands of function. The bed dominated the far wall, four-poster, draped in dark blue damask, the hangings gathered back in heavy knots.
Victor closed the door, and for a moment, he stood with his back to it, as if to block any possibility of interruption or escape. He looked at her then—really looked—and she felt the last of her defenses fall away.
He crossed to her in two strides and lifted her face to his. The kiss was slower this time, exploratory, his lips tracing the contour of her mouth, her jaw, the hollow just below her ear. She gasped, surprised by the strength of her own desire, by the hunger that had lain dormant all these years.
He began to undo the fastenings of her gown, fingers deft but unhurried. With each one, she felt herself coming undone at the seams. Her own hands found his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the pulse beneath his collarbone. She slipped his coat off his frame. It landed on the rug without a sound.
He broke the kiss, eyes searching her face. She answered with a touch, her palm at his cheek, her thumb at the corner of his mouth, tracing the half-smile that had haunted her for so long.
He smiled, but there was nothing mocking in it now. He kissed her again, deeper, and with each pass his hands grew bolder, finding the curve of her ribs, the hollow at the base of her spine, the rise of her hips through the thin fabric of her shift.
The gown slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood in her chemise, the air sharp on her skin, but she didn’tthink to cover herself. He stepped back, gaze reverent, letting her see the wanting plain on his face.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, as if it were the simplest fact in the world.
She laughed, a little wild, a little unsteady. “You’re a liar.” Even as she said it, she knew he believed it.
He shook his head, one hand cupping the side of her neck, the other spanning the small of her back. “You are. Always have been.”
She let herself believe it, just this once.
She undid his waistcoat, her fingers clumsy now, breath coming short and shallow. He helped her, his own hands moving with a gentle urgency, undoing his cravat, his shirt, his trousers, until at last there was nothing between them but bare skin and the warmth of the fire.
He gathered her to him, and she was stunned by the feel of him—so solid, so alive, every inch of him burning with the same impossible longing that blazed in her own chest. He kissed her again, and this time she opened to him, letting him taste all the things she had never dared to give anyone, not even Percy.
He lifted her as easily as one might a child or a prize and carried her to the bed. The hangings shivered with their passage. He set her on the coverlet, his hands never leaving her, his eyes never straying from her face.
He took his time. Every touch was a question, every caress a promise. He kissed the inside of her wrist, the slope of her shoulder, the thin blue vein at the base of her throat. He traced the line of her clavicle with his tongue, then moved lower, lower, until her whole body arched to meet him.
She wasn’t shy. She wanted this—wanted him—and when she reached for his cock, he shuddered at the contact. He pressed his mouth to her breast, teasing her until she gasped, then groaned, her hands fisting in his hair.
Victor helped her shimmy out of the chemise, and suddenly she was naked before him. She waited for the old terror, the shame of the lines marring her belly after giving birth. It didn’t come.
